“Uncle Henry,” said Ed, as the boys were enjoying themselves in the pleasant living room of the Thompson home, “what kind of a mound is that in front of Slater’s tavern? It looks like a grave right there in front of the house. I noticed it when I was going to Lisbon after cranberry barrels last fall, and I started to ask Mr. Slater who had been buried there, but one of the teamsters stopping there for dinner with me looked scared, and hushed me up.”
“Ruth can tell you the story; it’s mighty sad,” replied Mr. Thompson.
“Yes, boys, it is indeed a sad story, but its lesson may do you good,” replied Mrs. Thompson.
And this is the story she related.
Among the pioneers of settlement in the great forest wilderness of northern Wisconsin, were Jared Slater, a middle-aged tavernkeeper, from Vermont, and his young wife. Margaret Strong had been left an orphan at an early age, and had gone into domestic service as her only available means of honest support. Of course her education was of the most meager sort, yet she combined a store of good sense, so often miscalled “common,” with a character of sterling worth.
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 Especially did she make known her abhorrence of the traffic in intoxicating liquors, common at that time to all hotels, or “taverns,” of the country. And, indeed, she had good cause to know and feel the evils of strong drink, as her father had gone by this path to the ruin of his own soul and body, and the destruction of his home.
When Margaret was wooed by Jared Slater, she told him that she would never link her life with one who was in any way bound with the chains of the demon alcohol, whether as a user or dispenser to others. Jared went away, but his love for the young woman was true, and again he sought her and proposed that he sell his tavern, and then they would marry and move to the great forests of Wisconsin, where they could begin life anew, unhampered by old surroundings. Margaret finally consented, and they moved west.
Jared spent the first year in clearing up a little field for the plow, and in erecting the necessary farm buildings; and by the time the baby boy came, things about the place were taking on a comfortable, homelike appearance. The little family were not utterly alone in this far-away land, for the “tote-road,” over which supplies from the distant railroad station, for the farther away camps of the north, were hauled, ran past their door, and their home became a stopping place for teamsters and other travelers.
It was not long before Jared’s thrifty, Yankee mind saw the opportunity for gain lying to his hand in
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 opening his place as a regular tavern, and he told his wife of his intention. But Margaret objected.
“Ye know, Jared,” said she, “I don’t mind the work. I’m able for that a-plenty; but ye well know I married ye and came here to get rid of the tavern. I will not have the rum about me.”
“But, Margaret,” replied Jared, “we’ll have no drink in the tavern; just lodging and the eating.”
Thus it was for a time; but the old habits of life were revived by the frequent demands of their guests for liquor, as they would come in from the long, cold drives, and Jared’s cupidity at length got the better of his honesty and his faith with his wife, and he began to keep and dispense liquor again.
At first he endeavored to keep his sin from the knowledge of his wife; but greed bred carelessness and indifference, and before the third year of their wilderness home, Jared had his barroom open as a feature of the roadhouse.
Faithfully Margaret pleaded and earnestly did she warn her husband that “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,” but he refused to be moved. “I don’t drink it myself, ye know, an’ if these fools want to part with good money for the stuff, it’s their............