Selections from My Scrap Book.
Many of the selections given in this chapter were written by prisoners
and given me by them. The others may not all be new to the reader, but
I have thought them of sufficient value to thus preserve, as they may
be reread with profit, and no doubt may be read here by many who have
not seen them elsewhere. Such will surely feel the time it takes to
read them well spent.
Many of the songs I have sung are not in print here, as they are
familiar or may be found in popular books; others I thought might be
copyrighted and I do not know the owner, etc. I have not meant to use
any copyright selections without procuring the right to do so, but if
through mistake any have been used I shall be glad to make due
requital.
THE AUTHOR OF FLOWER MISSION DAY.
I once visited this sister, a saint, meekly lying upon her bed, and
when I asked if she would like for Jesus to heal her, she said God
could use her better in that condition.
E. R. W.
Jennie Cassady was born in Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1840.
She came to earth through no royal line of ancestry. No booming
cannon and flying flags proclaimed the birth of a princess. No
jeweled hand beckoned her to a place of rank and title. Nothing
in babyhood or girlhood distinguished her above what is visible
in ten thousand homes to-day. But as she stepped over the
threshold into womanhood, there fell upon her a great calamity--a
cruel accident made her a cripple and an invalid for life. But in
her afflictions she arose to a sublimity and sweetness of soul
that has challenged the admiration of two continents. And out of
the awful shadows that fell upon her she has gathered up the
sunbeams of God's smiles and scattered them into the dark places
of earth. Out of that one little darkened room in Kentucky there
has gone forth an inspiration that has fired the heart of heroic
Christian womanhood. And out of the darkness that smote her
pathway leaped the lances of light that pierces the gloom of
prison walls. A gleam from that radiant life touches the poet's
fancy, and gives us these beautiful lines.
J. M. CROCKER,
Prison Chaplain.
FLOWER DAY AT THE PRISON.
Composed and read by F. L. Platt at the Iowa State Prison at Anamosa,
June 9th, 1894.
In a cottage in Kentucky,
In the years that have gone by,
Was a woman, oh, so lonely,
She'd been given up to die.
As she lay upon her sick bed,
Ere the spark of life had flown,
Neighbors called, and strangers also,
Whom before she had not known.
They had heard of her misfortune,
Day and night she lingered there;
And to make her life more cheerful
Seemed to be their every care.
Now they come, with noiseless footsteps,
As the rose is kissed with dew,
Each one bringing in some sunshine,
In "these flowers I've brought for you."
As she looked into their faces,
Realizing death had come,
"Take these flowers," she said, "I'm dying,"
They will brighten other homes.
Take them, give them to the children
Who in orphans' homes are found,
Who have parents silent sleeping
Underneath some grassy mound.
Take them, place them by the bedside
Of some one whose life is drear;
They will bring a ray of sunshine,
They will drive away a tear.
Take them, bear them to the prison,
Where the trembling convict stands;
They'll encourage and they'll cheer him,
And they'll help him be a man.
They will speak to him of Heaven,
Of a home with God above;
They'll dispel the gloom and heartache,
They'll recall a mother's love.
They'll remind him of a sister,
With youth's bloom upon her brow,
With whom he used to gather flowers
When life was bright as yours is now.
They'll recall some little sweetheart
In the early spring of life,
Who, when summer flowers were blooming,
He had asked to be his wife.
Oh, that wife! may God's own blessing
Rest upon her loyal head;
Though he's caused her many a heartache,
She would love him were he dead.
Then with all these sacred memories
Welling in these hearts of ours,
Who in all this land of sunshine
Could forbid this gift of flowers?
Bring the flowers with sweetest perfume,
This is flower mission day;
Some forlorn, discouraged prisoner,
"You may rescue, you may save."
Blest the home that knows no sorrow,
Blest that wife, whose tears are joy,
Blest that mother who in old age,
Can lean upon her darling boy.
Men, look up, the clouds have gathered,
Some of them are silver-lined;
There's a day when all creation
Will be marshalled into line.
When these prison walls are sundered;
When the grave gives up its dead,
All may march the streets of Heaven
Who by Jesus Christ are led.
LINES BY A PRISONER TO HIS WIFE.
These lines were handed me by the author. I insert them here because
of their clear testimony to the saving grace of God and the love they
manifest for wife and children:
Dearest wife, you know I love thee,
Deep as yonder sky;
Know that love can never fade,
Affection never die.
Though in prison I am cast,
And cannot now return,
Yet on thee my love reclines,
For thee my heart will burn.
God has made us one indeed,
In ways the world can never know.
One, like drops of water found
Within the pure white snow.
God has made us one indeed;
Has joined us, hand and heart;
What God has joined together, wife,
Let no man put apart.
As well might men uproot the earth
As by their scoff or scorn
Think to accomplish parting us
Because our hearts now mourn.
Nay, dear wife, I feel for thee,
As ne'er I felt before,
Prizing thee with deeper strength
For pining sad and sore.
While there you wait my glad release,
The day that sets me free,
Await my coming home to wife;
Yes, wife and children three.
And I will come. Have patience, wife,
The time will wear away,
And day by day approaches near
That glad releasing day.
With little baby in your arms,
Two others at your knee;
I know, dear wife, your heart is sad
And longs to see me free.
To help you in your daily toil;
To earn for them their bread;
To clothe and help and comfort them,
And find a shelter for each head.
But cheer up, wife, and so will I,
As mankind surely may,
Till darkness fade in morning light
That ushers in the day.
And oh, what joy will visit us,
What peace in that glad hour;
Our home shall then renew its strength
In all its silent power.
Here as I lay me down to sleep,
In my narrow little cell,
I think of the happy times we've spent
In the shady wooded dell.
How we plucked the flowers beside our path,
And strolled along the stream,
Neither feeling aught of sorrow,
For life was like a pleasant dream.
But alas, my dear one, all is changed;
And we are parted now for years;
But well we know that God will come
And wipe away our falling tears.
Sin, dear wife, hast brought the change;
Sin has caused our grief and pain;
But now that I trust in Jesus
I will never fall again.
In my very darkest moments
Would you know what comforts me?
'Tis my living faith in Jesus,
In Him who died on Calvary.
He died on the cross for you, dear wife,
His precious blood was shed for me;
All our sins on Him were laid
When they nailed Him to the tree.
And now that blessed Saviour,
Who was born at Bethlehem,
Looks down from the heights of heaven
On the sinful souls of men.
His thoughts are full of mercy,
His heart is filled with love.
He is pleading with the Father
That we might come above.
So we will trust our Saviour,
And follow where He leads;
And say, in faith believing,
He'll provide for all our needs.
So we'll walk close beside Him
And let Him take our hand;
As He points, with face all shining,
To that bright and happy land.
And oft to others round us
The story we will tell,
How Jesus Christ saves sinners,
The heavenly hosts to swell.
You will tell them, wife, how He found me,
Sinful and all cast down,
And how through love He raised me up
And promised me a crown.
And when we see still others
Caught in Satan's snare,
We'll lead them on to Jesus,
And leave them in His care.
And when He treats them gently,
As He treats both you and me,
Other sinners, looking on,
To His bosom soon will flee.
For thus the world around us
For Christ could soon be won;
He'll end in glorious triumph
The work He has begun.
All glory then to Jesus!
Sing praises to His name!
He saved lost sinners years gone by,
And today He'll do the same.
In language very simple
I've told to you, dear wife,
My love to you, your love to me,
And the love of Jesus Christ.
So we'll just keep on trusting
In the Saviour God has given;
And He will fill with peace
Our journey on to heaven.
And we'll not forget the Father,
But give thanks for all He's done,
In giving us our Saviour,
In His own beloved Son.
WOMAN'S LOVE.
TO MRS. WHEATON.
These lines are most respectfully presented as a prisoner's tribute of
sincere respect:
O, woman's love, past understanding!
So near to God's, so wondrous deep:
Deep as the depths of space; expanding
Till it blooms beyond death's mystic sleep
Throughout the earth, the rich and lowly
It reigns supreme within her breast.
O, woman's love! through its beauty holy
She will win eternal rest.
Born of woman, purest, dearest
Lily of fair Bethlehem,
Christ to her will be the nearest
In his bright home--Jerusalem.
A fadeless flower in beauty blooming
'Midst heaven's host of immortelles.
His peerless love her soul perfuming
She'll reign a queen mid arch angels
J. W. L.
Cole City, Ga., Sunday night, Nov. 17, 1889.
TAKE THIS MESSAGE TO MY MOTHER.
(Written by a Prisoner in Jackson, Miss.)
Take this message to my mother,
It will fill her heart with joy;
Tell her that her prayer is answered,
Christ has saved her wandering boy:
Tho' through sin from home I've wandered,
And I almost broke her heart;
Tell her to be glad and cheerful,
Never from the Lord I'll part.
CHORUS.
Take this message to my mother,
It will fill her heart with joy;
Tell her that her prayer is answered,
Christ has saved her wandering boy.
How she wept when last we parted,
How her heart did ache with pain
When she said: "Good-bye, God bless you,
We may never meet again."
O my boy, just look to Jesus,
What a friend He is to all!
Only trust Him, He will save you--
Can't you hear His sweet voice call?
In this world of sin are many
Who have wandered far from God.
Will your mother's prayers be answered?
Listen, sinner, you, her boy.
You have ofttimes heard this warning,
In your heart conviction's deep;
God is calling to the wanderer
Who asks mercy at his feet.
NOT LONELY NOW.
I am not lonely, mother, now,
Though far from me you roam.
One dried my tears and smoothed my brow,
And stilled the sob and groan.
I am not lonely, mother, dear,
For Jesus dwells with me, e'en here.
All day I feel Him by my side;
And when betimes would come
The Evil One, I quickly hide
Behind my Precious One.
Think you I'm lonely, mother, dear,
When Jesus thus is ever near?
And when at night I think of thee,
As in my cell I sit,
Bright vision of thy form I see
By His own presence lit.
Can I be lonely, mother, dear,
When thy pure spirit is so near?
Farewell, my darling mother-friend,
And if for aye, Oh! fare thee well!
Whate'er betide, unto the end,
Christ's love for me I'll gladly tell.
The following was written by a young brother who, with his wife, were
with me for a time in my work. In thanking them for a kindness done me
I used the words, "Jesus is looking on," implying that He would reward
them. Only an hour or so afterward the young brother handed me these
lines, suggested by my words:
Little did I think when I spoke the words that they would make so deep
an impression upon his mind. How little we realize what a word may
do.
JESUS IS LOOKING ON.
"The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous and his ears are
open unto their cry." Ps. 34.
[TUNE, "ARE YOU WITHIN THE FOLD TONIGHT?"]
1. While traveling as a pilgrim
Across life's desert drear,
My feet ofttimes are weary,
Mine eyes oft drop a tear;
But when I look to Jesus,
All weariness is gone,
My heart then joys within me
To know He's looking on.
CHORUS.
Yes, He is ever looking on,
With anxious ear our cry to hear.
He hears each sigh,
He sees each tear;
He knows each heart "with sorrow riven,"
He hears each word of joy or moan,
And whispers gently in our ear,
I'm looking, looking on.
2. When troubles rage around me,
And trials fiery come,
My thoughts are then directed
To my eternal home.
Though walking on the mountain,
Or on the verdant lawn,
This is the thought that cheers me,
He's always looking on.
3. When friends do turn against me,
And frown and persecute,
I'm then brought nearer Jesus,
Than when my foes are mute.
While Jesus walks beside me,
His arm I'll lean upon,
And ne'er forget the promise,
He's always looking on.
4. Take courage, brother pilgrim,
And let us journey on,
For soon life's many trials
Will all have passed and gone;
Then sweeping up to glory
We'll join the ransomed throng,
And sing God's endless praises,
While He is looking on.
HOW GOD CALLS MISSIONARIES OUT OF
PRISON CELLS.
S. H. HADLEY.
_Superintendent of the Old McAuley Mission._
Some of the best missionaries this world ever knew are men who have
been sentenced to long terms in prison. Wholly shut away from the
world and its dreadful temptations, God had a chance to speak to them.
Jerry McAuley was a wonderful example of this, and that drunken loafer
and thief was finally used so wonderfully by the Lord God that his
name has gone all over this world and has been an inspiration to
millions. He was sent to prison from the Fourth Ward of New York for
fifteen years at the age of nineteen.
One Sunday morning in the chapel the speaker was old "Awful" Gardener,
an old-time ruffian and prize-fighter in New York, but God had got
hold of him and he had been wonderfully saved. With tears streaming
down his face, he told of the love of Christ, and he said, "Boys, I
ought to be wearing the stripes the same as you are, and I feel a deep
sympathy for you."
He also quoted some verses from the Scriptures, and after the boys had
gone back to their cells Jerry found a Bible in the ventilator of his
cell, and, looking it over aimlessly, tried to find the text that
"Awful" Gardener had quoted, but instead he found that Christ came to
save sinners, and the Holy Spirit showed him his dreadful past life.
As the day grew into night, Jerry got down on his knees and began to
pray. He had never prayed before, but now he cried to God for help and
mercy. How long he was there he does not know, but some time during
the night a glorious light dispelled the deep darkness of his soul,
and he cried out, "Oh, praise God, I found Jesus, and He gives peace
to my soul." The unusual sound brought the keeper, who asked, "What is
the matter with you?"
Jerry answered, "I found Jesus, that's what's the matter with me."
He found some opportunities to breathe out the new-found hopes of his
soul and the love of Jesus to the prisoners about him. Soon a revival
broke out in the prison such as never had been seen before or since,
and Jerry was the center of it all. He was pardoned in 1864, but when
he got home he had no friends, no money, and he soon fell into bad
company, and got to be a worse scoundrel than he ever was before. It
was after this he became known as the dangerous East River pirate. He
was reclaimed in 1868, and although he fell five times after that
during the first eight or nine months, he was finally anchored to
Christ.
Do you know that every drunkard uses tobacco? Jerry was no exception.
Some faithful friends said to him. "Jerry, give up your tobacco for
Jesus' sake," and he gave it up, and then he never fell afterward.
He was afterward married to Maria, his faithful wife, who also was
redeemed from a drunkard's life, and in 1872 opened the world-renowned
McAuley Mission, at 316 Water Street, down on the East Side, nearly
under the Brooklyn Bridge.
He stayed here ten years, and then opened the Cremorne Mission,
Thirty-second Street and Sixth Avenue, where he died in 1884, and had
the largest funeral of any private citizen who was ever buried in New
York.
The writer succeeded Jerry McAuley down there, and the work is going
on night and day. Drunkards and thieves come in by the thousand, and,
thank God, many of them are saved unto life eternal. The writer is
also a convert of Jerry McAuley Mission.--_The Life Boat._
OUTSIDE THE PRISON WALLS.
Free, free at last he left the dreary jail,
And stepped into the dewy April night;
Once more he breathed, untainted, God's pure air,
And saw the evening star's sweet trembling light.
How strange! how strange! and yet how strangely dear
The old familiar turf beneath his feet!
How wonderful once more to be alone
Unwatched, unguarded, 'neath the sky's broad sweep.
Free! free again--but O, so old and worn--
So weary with his wasted, ruined life--
Full twenty years the cell, his only home--
Full twenty years with hopeless misery rife!
His thoughts sped backward till they reached that day
When he had entered that grim house, a boy--
Naught but a boy in stature and in years,
But with a heart all bare of hope and joy.
For in a dreadful moment, crazed with rum,
His hand had laid a fellow creature low,
And for that glass of brandy in his brain
Full twenty years of wretchedness and woe.
And now, a gray-haired man, he walked again
The very path his boyish feet had pressed
So many, many years ago;
And now he wandered lonely, seeking rest.
Where should he go? Where now his footsteps turn?
No living soul was there to welcome him!
No friend of all his youthful days he knew
Would greet again this wanderer in sin.
Unconsciously, he sought his boyhood's home,
The low, white cottage he had held so dear;
'Twas standing in its old accustomed place,
But strangers had dwelt there for many a year.
Where next? The tears stood in his mournful eyes;
His breath came thick and fast--he could not stir,
But leaned upon the old familiar gate
With thoughts of mother--O, could he find her?
Where was she now--that mother, sweet and good,
Who tried with tears and prayers to save her boy,
Who knelt alone at midnight's solemn hour
And mourned for him who should have been her joy.
His faltering steps at last he vaguely turned
Unto the silent churchyard near the sea,
And stood alone while pitying moonbeams spread
Around his form a veil of charity.
Alone with God in that still, solemn place,
Alone with hundreds of the silent dead,
The outcast stood with lowly, sin-sick heart,
The cold night dew upon his drooping head.
At last he found her in a place apart,
Where moonbeams sparkled through the willow boughs,
And shone upon her simple headstone white
That marked the limit of her narrow house.
'Twas but a snowy marble, simple, plain,
That bore her name, her age, and just below--
"Died of a broken heart"--alas! he knew
The cause of all that life and death of woe.
He flung himself face down upon the grass,
Alone between the living and the dead,
And wept and prayed beside the lonely grave
Until in sorrow's slumber sunk his head.
They found him in the morning, stiff and cold,
His hands clasped o'er his mother's lowly grave,
His head upon its turf, as though he thought
That turf the bosom his poor heart had craved.
Upon his pallid cheeks the trace of tears
Showed in the glowing ray of morning's sun,
But o'er that face there shone a wondrous peace,
A smile of joy now all his life was done.
Men marveled that he looked so young again
Despite his crown of sorrow-silvered hair,
And tender-hearted women sighed and wept
And smiled to think that they had found him there.
Ah! God is good! with loving tenderness
He saw the sad, repentant soul alone
Weep out his sin upon his mother's grave,
And gently led the weary wanderer home.
This we believe: That now in Heaven's street
The mother and her son are reconciled,
And all the pain and sin of earth below
Are blotted out, and he is God's own child.
--_Hattie F. Crocker, in Union Signal._
IF WE KNEW.
If we knew the heart's sad sighing
In the secret hour;
If we knew the bitter crying
O'er the tempter's power,
Slower would we be to censure,
Kinder in reproof;
From the erring, peradventure,
We would not stand aloof.
If we knew the hard, stern struggle
Of the one who fell,
Toiling on 'mid grief and trouble
That none but God can tell,
Our thoughts, perhaps, would be kinder,
Our help more pitiful--
Be of God's love a reminder
To the tempted soul.
If we knew the fierce temptation,
Could we feel the pain
Of the deep humiliation,
The tears shed all in vain,
We, perchance, would be more gentle,
Our tones more tender be;
O'er his fault we'd draw the mantle
Of fervent charity.
If we knew how dark and cheerless
Seem the coming years,
We might then appear more fearless
Of each other's cares.
Could our eyes pierce through the smiling
Of the face so calm,
See the bitter self-reviling,
We'd apply the balm.
Did we walk a little nearer
To Jesus in the way,
Hear His voice a little clearer
We would know how to pray.
He has words of comfort given
That we to them should speak,
Ere the hopeless soul is driven
His faith with God to break.
We shall know each other better,
The mists shall roll away;
Nevermore we'll feel the fetter
Of this toil-worn clay.
Only let us love each other,
'Tis our Lord's command,
To each fainting friend or brother
Reach a helping hand.
--_Anna L. Dreyer, of Missionary Training Home at Tabor, Iowa._
LITTLE GRAVES.
You have your little grave; I have mine. You have your sad memories; I
have mine. For,
"There is no flock, however tended,
But one dead lamb is there;
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But hath its vacant chair.
"The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And weepings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel for her children crying
Will not be comforted."
I have pleasant thoughts sometimes about these little graves. I think
what a safe place the little grave is. Temptations never come there.
Sins never pollute there. Tears, pains, disappointments, bereavements,
trials, cares, and snares, are all unknown in that silent resting
place. And then, Jesus has the keys, and he keeps our treasures
safely, and guards them securely. No mother's heart is anxious about a
child that is laid in the little grave. No prayers of anguish go up
for it as for those tossed by the storms of passion, sunk in the
whirlpool of vice, or lost in the wide wilderness of sorrow and of
sin. There is now no need of chiding, reproving, watching, and
restraining. The chief Shepherd bears the lamb on his own bosom, and
it is forever safe.
The little grave is a sacred place. The Lord of glory has passed into
the sepulchre, and from it he has opened up the path of life. Hope
blooms there, and hearts-ease and amaranth blossom amid the shadows
that linger over it, and Jesus watches his treasures and counts his
jewels in the little graves.
The little grave shall be opened by and by. The night is dark, but
there is a flush of morn upon the mountains, and a gleam of sunlight
glows along the distant hills. He who bears the keys of hell and of
death, shall come back to open the little graves, and call the
sleepers forth. Then cherub forms shall burst the silent tombs, and
these green hillocks shall bear their harvest for the garner of our
God.--Sel.
THE MOTHER'S WARNING.
Touch it not--ye do not know,
Unless you've borne a fate like mine,
How deep a curse, how wild a woe,
Is lurking in that ruby wine.
Look on my cheek--'tis withered now;
It once was round and smooth as thine;
Look on my deeply furrowed brow--
'Tis all the work of treacherous wine.
I had two sons, two princely boys,
As noble men as God e'er gave;
I saw them fall from honor's joys
To fill a common drunkard's grave.
I had a daughter, young and fair,
As pure as ever woman bore.
Where is she? Did you ask me where?
Bend low, I'll tell the tale once more.
I saw that fairy child of mine
Linked to a kingly bridegroom's side;
Her heart was proud and light as thine,
Oh, would to God she then had died!
Not many moons had filled their horn,
While she upon his bosom slept;
'Twas on a dark November morn,
She o'er a murdered husband wept;
Her drunken father dealt the blow--
Her brain grew wild, her heart grew weak;
Was ever tale of deeper woe
A mother's lips had lived to speak?
She dwells in yonder darkened halls,
No ray of reason there does shine;
She on her murdered husband calls.
'Twas done by wine, by cursed wine!
--_Temperance Banner._
HARRY'S REMORSE.
It's curious, isn't it, chaplain, what a twelve months may bring?
Last year I was in Chicago, gambling and living in sin;
Was raking in pools at the races, and feeing the waiters with ten,
Was sipping mint juleps by twilight, while today I am in the pen.
What led me to do it? What always leads a man to destruction and crime?
The prodigal son you have read of has altered somewhat in his time.
He spends his money as freely as the Biblical fellow of old,
And when it is gone he fancies the husks will turn into gold.
Champagne, a box at the opera, high steps while fortune is flush;
The passionate kisses of women whose cheeks have forgotten to blush.
The old, old story, chaplain, of pleasure that ends in tears,
The froth that foams for an hour and the dregs that are tasted
for years.
Last night as I sat here and pondered on the end of my evil ways,
There rose like a phantom before me the vision of boyhood days;
I thought of my old, old home, chaplain, of the schoolhouse that
stood on the hill,
Of the brook that ran through the meadow--I can hear its music still.
And again I thought of my mother, of the mother who taught me to pray,
Whose love was a precious treasure that I heedlessly cast away;
And again I saw in my vision the fresh-lipped, careless boy,
To whom the future was boundless and the world but a mighty toy.
I saw all this as I sat there, of my ruined and wasted life,
And the thoughts of my remorse were bitter, they pierced my heart
like a knife.
It takes some courage, chaplain, to laugh in the face of fate,
When the yearning ambition of manhood is blasted at twenty-eight.
--_Composed and written by Harry S----while taking a retrospection
of the past._
TWENTY--THIRTY-FOUR.
The line of dingy-coated men stretched along the broad granite walk
and like a great gray serpent wound in and out among the wagon shops
and planing mills that filled the prison yard.
Down beyond the foundry the beginning of the line, the head of the
serpent, was lost at the stairway leading to the second floor of a
long, narrow building in which whisk brooms were manufactured.
An hour before, on the sounding of a brass gong at the front, the same
line had wound round the same corners into the building whence now it
crawled. There, the men had seated themselves on four-legged stools
before benches that stretched across the room in rows. Before each man
was set a tin plate of boiled meat; a heavy cup of black coffee, a
knife, a fork, and a thick bowl of steaming, odorous soup.
During the meal other men, dressed like the hundreds who were sitting,
in suits of dull gray, with little round-crowned, peaked-visored caps
to match, moved in and out between the rows, distributing chunks of
fresh white bread from heavy baskets. Now and then one of the men
would shake his head and the waiter would pass him by, but usually a
dozen hands were thrust into a basket at once to clutch the regulation
"bit" of half a pound. The men ate ravenously, as if famished.
Yet a silence that appalled hovered over the long bare dining-hall
where eight hundred men were being fed. There was no clatter of
knives and forks; there were no jests; they moved about as noiselessly
as ghosts.
There were faces stamped with indelible marks of depravity and vice,
but now and then the "breadtossers" would see uplifted a pair of frank
blue eyes, in which burned the light of hope. Men were there who
dreamed of a day to come when all would be forgiven and forgotten;
when a hand would again be held out in welcome, and a kiss again be
pressed to quivering lips. Men there were of all kinds, of all
countenances, young and old; the waving, sunlit hair of youth side by
side with locks in which the snow was thickly sprinkled. All these men
were paying the penalty society imposes on proved criminals.
And now, their dinner over, they were marching back to the shops and
mills of the prison, where days and weeks were spent at labor. Those
men employed in the wagon-works dropped out of the line when they came
opposite the entrance to their building. Those behind pushed forward
as their prison-mates disappeared, and never for more than ten seconds
was there a gap in the long, gray line.
The whisk-broom factory occupied the second floor of the building at
the far end of the prison yard. On the ground floor men worked at
lathes, turning out the wooden handles to the brooms that were
finished, sorted and tied up-stairs. At the corner the line divided,
sixty-five of the men climbed the stairway to the second floor, the
other thirty entered the lathe-room below.
A dozen men in blue uniforms marched beside the line on its way from
the mess-hall, six on each side, at two yards' distance. Their caps
bore "Guard" in gold letters, and each guard carried a short, heavy,
crooked cane of polished white hickory. On entering the work-room of
the second floor, the men assembled before a railed platform, upon
which a red-faced, coatless man stood behind a big desk. In cold,
metallic tones he called the numbers of the convicts who in turn
replied "Here!" when their numbers were spoken.
"Twenty-thirty-four!" called the red-faced man. There was no response.
"Twenty-thirty-four?" The red-faced man leaned over the desk and
glared down. Then a voice from somewhere on the left answered "Here!"
"What was the matter with you the first time?" snapped the foreman.
The man thus questioned removed his cap and took three steps toward
the platform. In feature the word "hard" would describe him. His head
was long, wide at the forehead, and yet narrow between the temples.
His eyes were small and close together. His nose was flat, and mouth
hardly more than a straight cut in the lower part of his face. The
lower jaw was square and heavy, and the ears protruded abnormally. A
trifle above medium height with a pair of drooping, twitching
shoulders, the man looked criminal.
To the question he replied doggedly, "I answered the first time, sir,
but I guess you didn't hear me."
The foreman gazed steadily at the man. Their eyes met. The foreman's
did not waver, but "2034" lowered his and fumbled nervously at his
cap.
"All right," said the foreman, quickly, "but I guess you'd better
report to the warden as soon as you get through in here. Don't wait
for any piece-work. Go to him as soon as you have finished your task.
I'll tell him you're coming. He'll be waiting for you at the front
office."
"Yes, sir." The convict did not raise his eyes. He stepped back into
the line.
Then, at the clap of the foreman's hands, the men broke ranks, and
each walked away to his own bench or machine. Five minutes later, the
swish on the corn-wisps as they were separated and tied into rough
brooms, and the occasional tap of a hammer, were the only sounds in
that long room where sixty-five men toiled.
Now and then one of the men would go to the platform where the foreman
sat bent over half a dozen little books, in which it was his duty to
record the number of "tasks" completed by each of the workmen "on his
contract"--a "task" in the prison vernacular being the work each man
is compelled to accomplish within a certain space of time. On the
approach of a workman the foreman would look up and a few whispered
words would pass between the two. Then the broom-maker would dart into
the stock room, adjoining the factory, where, upon receiving a written
requisition from the foreman, the officer in charge would give him the
material he needed in his work--a ball of twine, or a strip of plush
with which the handles of the brooms were decorated.
At ten minutes past three, 2034 crossed to the platform.
"What do you want?" asked the foreman, as he eyed keenly the man in
the gray suit.
"A paper of small tacks," was the reply, quickly spoken. The order was
written, and as 2034 moved towards the door leading toward the
stock-room, the man on the platform asked in an undertone, "Anything
wrong, Bill?"
"That's what I don't know, George," the foreman replied. "That man
Riley's been acting queer of late. I've got an idea there's something
up his sleeve. There's not a harder nut on the contract than that
fellow, and by the way he's been carrying on, sullen like and all
that, I'm fearing something's going to happen. You remember, don't
you? What, no? He's that Riley from Acorn. He came in two years ago on
a burglary job in Clive, where he shot a drug clerk that offered
objections to his carrying off all there was in the shop. They made it
manslaughter and he's in for fifteen years. There's another warrant
ready for him when he gets out, for a job done four years ago in
Kentucky. He's a bad one. A fellow like that is no good around this
shop."
The guard smiled cynically at the foreman's suggestion that a convict
may be too bad even for prison surroundings.
"But I've got my eye on him," continued the foreman. "I'm sending him
up to the warden this afternoon. Say, George, when you go back, will
you tell the warden Riley's coming up to call on him?"
"Sure, Bill," was the smiling reply of the guard as he moved away.
Twenty-thirty-four had returned with a paper of tacks and gone
directly to his bench.
It was a quarter of four by the foreman's watch when the door at the
head of the stairway opened and the warden entered, accompanied by two
friends whom he was showing through the "plant," as he preferred to
call the prison.
"This is where the whisk-brooms are made," said the warden. "On the
floor below, which we just left, you will remember we saw the boys
turning out broom-handles. Well, here the brooms are tied and sewed
through by hand, over at those benches. In the room beyond, through
that door, we keep the stuff handy that is called for from time to
time. In a further room is stored the material used in the manufacture
of the brooms, the tin tips, the tacks, the twine, and about ten or
twelve tons of broom straw."
As the warden ceased speaking, the foreman leaned across the desk and
tapped him on the shoulder. "Riley's coming up to see you this
afternoon. He's been acting queer--don't answer the call and the
like."
The warden only nodded, and continued his explanation to the visitors.
"Now," he said, moving towards the door of the stock-room, "if you
will come over here I'll show you our store-room. You see we have to
keep a lot of material on hand. Beyond this second room the stuff is
stored up, and is taken into the stock-room as it is wanted. Between
the rooms we have arranged these big sliding iron doors that, in case
of a fire, could be dropped, and thus, for a few minutes at least, cut
the flames off from any room but that in which they originated. You
see," pulling an iron lever which let the heavy iron sheet slide to
the floor, "that completes the wall."
The visitor nodded. "Now, come on through the second room, and into
the third," there, ranged regularly on the floor were huge bales of
broom straw, and piled against the walls were boxes upon boxes of
tacks, velvet, ornamental bits of metal, and all the other separate
parts of the commercial whisk broom.
The visitors examined the tacks and the tins and felt of the bales of
straw.
"Very interesting," observed one of the men, as he drew his cigar case
from his pocket, and biting the tip from one of the cigars it
contained, struck a little wax match on the sole of his shoe. He held
the match in his hand till it had burned down, then threw it on the
floor, and followed the warden and the other visitor under the heavy
iron screen into the workingroom of the factory.
The foreman was busy at his books and did not observe the little party
as it passed through on the other side of the broom-bins and out at
the big door.
Two minutes later, 2034 happened to look out through the window across
his bench and he saw the warden with his friends crossing the prison
yards to the foundry. A guard just then sauntered into the room and
stopped at the first of the bins. He idly picked up one of the
finished brooms and examined it. His attention a moment later was
attracted by some one pulling at his coat from behind. He turned.
"Why, Tommy, my boy, what is it?"
The two soft brown eyes of a little boy were turned up to him. "I'm
looking for papa," replied the little fellow. "The foreman down-stairs
said he come up here. Uncle George is back in the house, and mamma
sent me out to find papa."
The guard patted the little fellow's head. "And we'll find him,
Tommy," he said. He went over to the foreman's desk. "Bill, did the
warden come up here? Tommy is looking for him; his mother sent him
out."
The foreman raised his eyes from his books. "Yes," he replied, "he
went in there, with a couple of gentlemen."
The guard looked down at the little boy. "He's in the store-room," he
said, "you'll find him in there, Tommy."
Then he turned and walked out of the shop. The child ran on into the
room beyond. His father was not there. The stock-keeper did not
observe the little boy as he tiptoed, in a childish way, past the
desk. Tommy passed on into the farther room. He knew he would find
his father in there, and he would crawl along between the tiers of
straw bales and take him by surprise.
He had hardly passed when the stock-keeper, raising his head from the
list of material he was preparing, held his face and sniffed the air.
Quietly he rose from his revolving chair and went to the straw-room
door. He merely peered inside. Turning suddenly, he pressed upon the
lever near the door and the iron screen slid down into place, cutting
off the farther room. Then, snatching a few books that lay on his
desk, he slipped out into the shop, and at that door released the
second screen. As it fell into place with a slight crunching noise,
the foreman turned in his chair. The eyes of the two met. The
stock-keeper raised his hand and touched his lip with the first
finger. He crossed rapidly to the desk.
"Get the men out! Get the men out!" he gasped. "The store-room is on
fire!"
The foreman rapped on the table twice. Every man in that room turned
and faced the desk.
"Work is over for today," said the foreman. His manner was ominously
calm, and the men looked at one another wonderingly.
"Fall in!"
At the order, the dingy gray suits formed in the same old serpent, and
the line moved rapidly through the door at the end of the room and
down the outside stairs.
There, in front of the building, they were halted, and a guard
dispatched to find the warden. He was discovered in the foundry. "Fire
in the broom-shop!" whispered the guard.
The warden's face paled. He dashed through the doorway, and one
minute later came around the corner of the building, just in time to
see the first signs of flames against the windows of the rear room
up-stairs.
Within five seconds, a troop of fifteen guards had drawn the little
hand-engine from its house and hitched the hose to the hydrant nearest
the shop. From all the other buildings the men were being marched to
their cells.
"These men!" hurriedly whispered the foreman to the warden. "What
shall I do with them?"
"Get 'em inside as soon as you can! This won't last long, the front of
the building is cut off. It'll all be over in ten minutes."
The foreman gave an order. At that instant a woman came running down
the prison yard. Reaching the warden's side, she fell against him
heavily.
"Why, Harriet," he exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
"Oh," she gasped, "Tommy! Tommy! Where is Tommy?"
A guard at the end of the engine rail turned ashy white. He raised a
hand to his head, and with the other grasped the wheel to keep from
falling. Then he cried, "Mr. Jeffries, I--I believe Tommy is up there
in the stock-room. He went to look--"
The warden clutched the man's arm. "Up there? Up there?" he cried.
The sudden approach of the woman and the words that followed had
wrought so much confusion that the men had paid no attention to the
foreman's command, and he had even failed to notice their lack of
attention, in the excitement of that moment.
"Great God!" cried the warden. "What can I do--what can I do? No one
can live up there!"
There was a crash. One of the windows fell out. "Get a ladder!" some
one cried. A guard ran back toward the prison-house. Then, in the
midst of the hubbub, a man in a dingy gray suit stepped out a yard
from the line of convicts. His prison number was 2034. He touched his
little square cap.
"If you'll give me permission, I think I can get up there," was all he
said.
"You! you!" exclaimed the warden. "No, no; I will tell no man to do
it!"
There was a second crash. Another window had fallen out, and now the
tongues of flame were lapping the outer walls above.
The convict made no reply. With a bound he was at the end of the line
and dashing up the stairway.
The warden's wife was on her knees, clinging to the hand of her
husband. In his eyes was a dead, cold look. A few men bit their lips,
and a faint shadow of a smile played about the mouths of others. They
all waited. A convict had broken a regulation--had run from the line!
He would be punished! Even as he had clambered up the stairs a guard
had cried, "shall I shoot?"
The silence was broken by a shriek from the woman kneeling at the
warden's feet. "Look!" she cried, and pointed towards the last of the
up-stairs windows.
There, surrounded by a halo of smoke, and hemmed in on all sides by
flames, stood a man in a dingy gray suit. One sleeve was on fire, but
he beat out the flames with his left hand. Those below heard him cry,
"I've got him!" Then the figure disappeared. Instantly it returned,
bearing something in its arms. It was the limp form of a child.
All saw the man wrap smoking straw round the little body and tie
round that two strands of heavy twine. Then that precious burden was
lowered out of the window. The father rushed forward and held up his
hands to receive it.
Another foot--he hugged the limp body of his boy to his breast! On the
ground a little way back lay a woman, as if dead.
"Here's the ladder!" yelled the foreman, and that moment the eyes that
were still turned upon the window above where stood a man in a dingy
gray suit, witnessed a spectacle that will reappear before them again
and again in visions of the night.
The coat the man wore was ablaze. Flames shot on either side of him
and above him. Just as the ladder was placed against the wall, a
crackling was heard--not the crackling of the fire. Then like a
thunderbolt, a crash occurred that caused even the men in their cells
to start. The roof caved in.
In the prison yard that line of convicts saw 2034 reel and fall
backwards, and heard, as he fell, his last cry, "I'm a-comin',
warden!"
He was a convicted criminal, and died in prison gray. But it would
seem not wonderful to the warden if, when that man's soul took flight,
the recording angel did write his name on the eternal Book of Record,
with a strange cabalistic sign, a ring around a cross--that stands for
"good behavior."--_The Youth's Companion._
HIS MOTHER'S SONG.
Beneath the hot midsummer sun
The men had marched all day;
And now beside a rippling stream
Upon the grass they lay.
Tiring of games and idle jest,
As swept the hours along,
They cried to one who mused apart,
"Come, friend, give us a song."
"I fear I cannot please," he said;
"The only songs I know
Are those my mother used to sing
For me, long years ago."
"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried,
"There's none but true men here;
To every mother's son of us
A mother's songs are dear."
Then sweetly rose the singer's voice
Amid unwonted calm,
"Am I a soldier of the Cross,
A follower of the Lamb?
And shall I fear to own His Cause?"
The very stream was stilled,
And hearts that never throbbed with fear
With tender thoughts were filled.
Ended the song; the singer said,
As to his feet he rose,
"Thanks to you all, my friends, good-night,
God grant us sweet repose."
"Sing us one more," the captain begged,
The soldier bent his head,
Then glancing round, with smiling lips,
"You'll join with me?" he said.
"We'll sing this old familiar air,
Sweet as the bugle call,
'All hail the power of Jesus' name,
Let angels prostrate fall;'"
Ah! wondrous was the old tune's spell,
As on the soldier sang,
Man after man fell into line,
And loud the voices rang.
The songs are done, the camp is still,
Naught but the stream is heard;
But ah! the depths of every soul
By those old hymns are stirred,
And up from many a bearded lip,
In whispers soft and low,
Rises the prayer that mother taught
Her boy long years ago.
--_Safeguard._
PERFECT PEACE.
[Lines written by a lady on the steamship "Mongolia," near Malta. She
was en route from China, where she had been a missionary for seventeen
years, to her home in England. She gave the verses to Bishop Bowman,
who was on the steamer with her, and he sent them to his wife, not
knowing she had died a few days before he wrote his letter.--_A.
Lowry._]
Lonely? No, not lonely
While Jesus stands by;
His presence always cheers me,
I know that He is nigh.
Friendless? No, not friendless,
For Jesus is my friend;
I change, but He remaineth
The same unto the end.
Tired? No, not tired,
While leaning on His breast;
My soul hath full enjoyment,
'Tis His eternal rest.
Saddened? No, not saddened
By darkest scenes of woe;
I should be, if I knew not
That Jesus loves me so.
Helpless? Yes, so helpless,
But I am leaning hard
On the mighty arm of Jesus,
And He is keeping guard.
Waiting? Oh, yes, waiting,
He bade me watch and wait;
I only wonder often
What makes my Lord so late.
Joyful? Yes, so joyful,
With joy too deep for words;
A precious, sure possession,
The joy that is my Lord's.
--_Divine Life._
SWEET REVENGE.
A few years ago while Robert Stewart was Governor of Missouri, a
steamboat man was brought in from the penitentiary for a pardon. He
was a large, powerful fellow, and when the governor looked at him he
seemed strangely affected. He scrutinized him long and closely.
Finally he signed the document that restored to the prisoner his
liberty. Before he handed it to him he said, "You will commit some
other crime and be in the penitentiary again, I fear."
The man solemnly promised that he would not. The governor looked
doubtful, mused a few minutes and said, "You will go back on the river
and be a mate again, I suppose?"
The man replied that he would.
"Well, I want you to promise me one thing," resumed the governor. "I
want you to pledge your word that when you are mate again, you will
never take a billet of wood in your hand and drive a sick boy out of a
bunk to help you load your boat on a stormy night."
The boatman said he would not, and inquired what he meant by asking
him such a question.
The governor replied, "Because some day that boy may become a
governor, and you may want him to pardon you for a crime. One dark
stormy night many years ago you stopped your boat on the Mississippi
River to take on a load of wood. There was a boy on board working his
way from New Orleans to St. Louis, but he was very sick of fever and
was lying in a bunk. You had plenty of men to do the work but you went
to that boy with a stick of wood in your hand and drove him with blows
and curses out into the wretched night and kept him toiling like a
slave until the load was completed. I was that boy. Here is your
pardon. Never again be guilty of such brutality."
The man, cowering and hiding his face, went out without a word.
What a noble revenge that was, and what a lesson for a
bully.--_Success._
NO TELEPHONE IN HEAVEN.
"Now, I can wait on baby," the smiling merchant said,
As he stooped and softly toyed with the golden, curly head.
"I want oo to tall up mamma," came the answer full and free,
"Wif yo' telephone an' ast her when she's tummin' back to me.
"Tell her I so lonesome 'at I don't know what to do,
An' papa cries so much I dess he must be lonesome, too;
Tell her to tum to baby, 'tause at night I dit so 'fraid,
Wif nobody here to tiss me, when the light bedins to fade.
"All froo de day I wants her, for my dolly dot so tored
Fum the awful punchin' Buddy gave it wif his little sword;
An' ain't nobody to fix it, since mamma went away,
An' poor 'ittle lonesome dolly's dittin' thinner ever' day."
"My child," the merchant murmured, as he stroked the anxious brow,
"There's no telephone connection where your mother lives at now."
"Ain't no telephone in Heaven?" and tears sprang to her eyes.
"I fought dat God had every'fing wif Him up in de skies."
--_Atlanta Constitution._
PERFECT THROUGH FAITH.
God would not send you the darkness
If He felt you could bear the light,
But you would not cling to His guiding hand
If the way were always bright;
And you would not care to walk by faith
Could you always walk by sight.
'Tis true He has many an anguish
For your sorrowing heart to bear,
And many a cruel thorn-crown
For your tired head to wear;
He knows how few would reach home at all
If pain did not guide them there.
If He sends you in blinding darkness,
And the furnace of seven-fold heat;
'Tis the only way, believe me,
To keep you close to His feet;
For 'tis always so easy to wander
When our lives are glad and sweet.
Then nestle your hand in our Father's
And sing if you can as you go;
Your song may cheer some one behind you
Whose courage is sinking low;
And, well if your lips do quiver,
God will love you better so.
--_Selected._
A TRUE HERO.
Two men were sinking a shaft. It was dangerous business, for it was
necessary to blast the rock. It was their custom to cut the fuse with
a sharp knife. One man then entered the bucket and made a signal to be
hauled up. When the bucket again descended, the other man entered it,
and with one hand on the signal rope and the other holding the fire,
he touched the fuse, made the signal, and was rapidly drawn up before
the explosion took place.
One day they left the knife above, and rather than ascend to procure
it, they cut the fuse with a sharp stone. It took fire. "The fuse is
on fire!" Both men leaped into the bucket, and made the signal; but
the windlass would haul up but one man at a time; only one could
escape. One of the men instantly leaped out, and said to the other,
"Up wi' ye; I'll be in heaven in a minute." With lightning speed the
bucket was drawn up, and the one man was saved. The explosion took
place. Men descended, expecting to find the mangled body of the other
miner; but the blast had loosened a mass of rock, and it lay
diagonally across him; and, with the exception of a few bruises and a
little scorching, he was unhurt. When asked why he urged his comrade
to escape, he gave a reason that sceptics would laugh at. If there is
any being on the face of the earth I pity, it is a sceptic. I would
not be called "a sceptic," today for all this world's wealth. They may
call it superstition or fanaticism, or whatever they choose. But what
did this hero say when asked, "Why did you insist on this other man's
ascending?" In his quaint dialect, he replied, "Because I knowed my
soul was safe; for I've give it in the hands of Him of whom it is
said, that 'faithfulness is the girdle of his reins,' and I knowed
that what I gied Him He'd never gie up. But t'other chap was an awful
wicked lad, and I wanted to gie him another chance." All the
infidelity in the world cannot produce such a signal act of heroism as
that.--_Selected._
THE "KID."
It was not a long procession or a pleasing one but it attracted much
attention.
There was a policeman in the lead. Beside him walked a stockey,
bullnecked young fellow in a yellowish suit of loud plaid. His face
was bloody and his right wrist encircled by the bracelet of the
"twisters" which shackled him to his captor. The face of the policeman
was also bloody and his clothes were torn. Behind these two walked
three other patrolmen, each with a handcuffed prisoner.
The "kid" and his "gang" had been caught in the act of robbing a
saloon, and the fight had been lively, although short. The prisoners
had been taken to the detectives' office, and photographed and
registered for the rogues' gallery. They were now on their way to
court, and thence, in all probability, to jail.
At Broadway there was a jam of cars and heavy trucks, and the
procession had to wait. Nobody has been able to tell just what
happened, but they all agree as to the essential points. First the
bystanders saw a streak of yellow, which was the kid; then a streak of
blue which was the policeman. The prisoner had wrenched the twisters
from his captors' hand, and made a dash across the tracks. The
policeman, thinking, of course that he was trying to escape, had
followed.
Then everybody saw a little child toddling along in the middle of the
track. A cable-car, with clanging bell, was bearing down upon it with
a speed which the gripman seemed powerless to check. The baby held up
its hands, and laughed at the sound of the gong. On the other side of
the street a woman was screaming and struggling in the arms of three
or four men who were trying to keep her from sacrificing her own life
to save that of her child.
Then the kid stood there with the child safe in his arms, the steel
twisters hanging from his wrist. He set the baby down gently at his
feet, loosened the clasp of the chubby hand on his big red fist, and
quietly held out his wrist to the policeman to be handcuffed again. He
had one chance in a million for his life when he made that desperate
leap, but he had not hesitated the fraction of a second.
CHARGED WITH MURDER.
"Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say why sentence of death
should not be passed upon you?"
A solemn hush fell over the crowded court-room, and every person
waited in almost breathless expectation for the answer to the judge's
question.
"I have, your honor! I stand here convicted of the murder of my wife.
Witnesses have testified that I was a loafer, a drunkard and a wretch;
that I returned from one of my debauches and fired the shot that
killed the wife I had sworn to love, cherish and protect. While I have
no remembrance of committing the awful deed, I have no right to
condemn the verdict of the jury, for their verdict is in accordance
with the evidence.
"But, may it please the court, I wish to show that I am not alone
responsible for the murder of my wife! The judge on this bench, the
jury in the box, the lawyers within this bar and most of the
witnesses, including the pastor of the church, are also guilty before
God and will have to stand with me before His judgment throne, where
we shall all be righteously judged.
"If it had not been for the saloons of my town, I never would have
become a drunkard; my wife would not have been murdered; I would not
be here now, soon to be hurled into eternity.
"For one year our town was without a saloon. For one year I was a
sober man. For one year my wife and children were happy and our little
home was a paradise.
"I was one of those who signed remonstrances against re-opening the
saloons of our town. One-half of this jury, the prosecuting attorney
on this case, and the judge who sits on this bench, all voted for the
saloons. By their votes and influence the saloons were opened, and
they have made me what I am.
"Think you that the Great Judge will hold me--the poor, weak, helpless
victim--alone responsible for the murder of my wife? Nay; I, in my
drunken, frenzied, irresponsible condition have murdered one; but you
have deliberately voted for the saloons which have murdered thousands,
and they are in full operation today with your consent. You legalized
the saloons that made me a drunkard and a murderer, and you are guilty
with me before God and man for the murder of my wife.
"I will close by solemnly asking God to open your blind eyes to your
own individual responsibility, so that you will cease to give your
support to this hell-born traffic."--_Sel._
MOTHER'S FACE.
There's a feeling comes across me--
Comes across me often now--
And it deepest seems when trouble
Lays her finger on my brow;
O it is a deep, deep feeling,
Neither happiness nor pain!
'Tis a mighty, soulful longing
To see mother's face again!
'Tis, I think, a natural feeling;
Worst of me, I can't control
Myself no more! It seems to stir
And thrill my very soul!
Try to laugh it off--but useless!
Oh! my tears will fall like rain
When I get this soulful longing
Just to see her face again!
You won't know how much you love her
(Your old mother) till you roam
'Way off where her voice can't reach you,
And with strangers make your home;
Then you'll know how big your heart is,
Think you never loved before,
When you get this mighty longing
Just to see her face once more.
Mother! tender, loving soul!
Heaven bless her dear old face!
I'd give half my years remaining
Just to give her one embrace;
Or to shower love-warm kisses
On her lips, and cheeks, and brow,
And appease this mighty longing
That I get so often now!
--_Sel._
ONLY SIXTEEN.
Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story we hear every day.
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent and pride,
Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died.
Did not the angels weep o'er the scene?
For he died a drunkard and only sixteen.
Only sixteen.
Oh! it were sad he must die all alone,
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come."--
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him--only sixteen.
Only sixteen.
Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends; they loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What if 't were your son instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother?
And he only sixteen.
Ye freeholders who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in the last great day
When heaven and earth shall have passed away,
When the elements melting with fervent heat
Shall proclaim the triumph of right complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hands
When before the great throne you each shall stand?
And he only sixteen.
Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light.
Come with your banners inscribed: "Death to rum."
Let your conscience speak, listen, then come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license; you would do it I ween
If that were your son and he only sixteen,
Only sixteen.
THE DRESS QUESTION.
One day, at Louisville, riding with Mrs. Wheaton to visit the sick
prisoners, she said, "Do you think it your duty to rebuke Christians
who wear jewelry?" I saw her question was a kindly reproof to me, and
said, "If the Lord wants me to give up the jewelry I have, He will
show me." "Yes, He will," she answered; "for I am praying for you."
The next morning the friend who was entertaining me told me her little
eleven-year-old daughter, Emma, just converted, said, "Mamma, I wish
you would read to me in the Bible where it says not to wear jewelry."
The mother read the verses. Then the child said, "Mamma, if the Lord
does not want me to wear jewelry, I don't want to;" and she brought
her little pin and ring to her mother. I took my Bible and read,
"Whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the
hair and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it
be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even
the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God
of great price" (1 Peter ii, 3, 4); and, "In like manner also, that
women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and
sobriety, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or costly array, but
(which becometh women professing godliness) with good works." (1 Tim.
ii, 9, 10.) Then I thought: "The child is right. The Bible means just
what it says." Then I recalled that Mrs. Wheaton had told me how she
went one day to visit a poor, sick girl, to whom she had talked of the
love of Christ until she was almost won. She went again with a wealthy
woman, who was decked with diamonds. As they entered the room, the
girl pointed to the jewels, and said: "O mother, mother! I have wanted
them all my life!" The rich woman tried to hide her diamonds, and Mrs.
Wheaton tried to turn the girl's attention again to the Savior, but in
vain. Her last thought was of the diamonds, and her last words, "I
have wanted them all my life!"
Sitting there, with this incident fresh in my mind, I quietly slipped
off ring, watch, chain, cuff-buttons, and collar-stud; and gold, as an
adornment, was put away forever.--_Abbie C. Morrow, in Revival
Advocate, March 7, 1901._
SONGS USED IN MY WORK.
ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER.
"Backward, turn backward, oh time in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight.
Mother, come back from that echoless shore,
Take me again to your arms as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep."
LIFE'S RAILWAY TO HEAVEN.
Life is like a mountain railroad,
With an engineer that's brave;
We must make the run successful,
From the cradle to the grave;
Watch the curves, the fills, the tunnels;
Never falter, never quail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
And your eye upon the rail.
CHORUS:
Blessed Savior, Thou wilt guide us
Till we reach that blissful shore;
Where the angels wait to join us
In Thy praise forevermore.
You will roll up grades of trials;
You will cross the bridge of strife;
See that Christ is your conductor
On this lightning train of life;
Always mindful of obstructions;
Do your duty, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
And your eye upon the rail.
You will often find obstructions;
Look for storms of wind and rain;
On a fill, or curve, or trestle,
They will almost ditch your train;
Put your trust alone in Jesus;
Never falter, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
And your eye upon the rail.
As you roll across the trestle,
Spanning Jordan's swelling tide,
You behold the Union Depot
Into which your train will glide;
There you'll meet the Superintendent,
God the Father, God the Son
With the hearty, joyous plaudit,
Weary pilgrim, welcome home.
_By permission of Charlie D Tillman, owner of copyright._
MEET ME THERE.
1. On the happy golden shore,
Where the faithful part no more,
When the storms of life are o'er,
Meet me there.
Where the night dissolves away,
Into pure and perfect day,
I am going home to stay,
Meet me there.
CHORUS:
Meet me there,
Meet me there,
Where the tree of life is blooming
Meet me there.
When the storms of life are o'er,
On the happy golden shore,
Where the faithful part no more,
Meet me there.
2. Here our fondest hopes are vain,
Dearest links are rent in twain,
But in heav'n no throbs of pain,
Meet me there.
By the river sparkling bright,
In the city of delight
Where our faith is lost in sight,
Meet me there.
3. Where the harps of angels ring,
And the blest forever sing,
In the palace of the king,
Meet me there.
Where in sweet communion blend,
Heart with heart and friend with friend;
In a world that ne'er shall end,
Meet me there.
_Words and music copyrighted by W. J. Kirkpatrick, Philadelphia._
GOD BLESS MY BOY
1. When shining stars their vigils keep,
And all the world is hushed in sleep,
'Tis then I breathe this pray'r so deep--
God bless my boy tonight.
CHORUS:
God bless my boy, my wandering boy,
And keep his honor bright;
May he come home--no longer roam--
God save my boy tonight.
2. I know not where his head may lie,
Perchance beneath the open sky;
But this I ween, God's watchful eye
Can see my boy tonight.
3. As pass the days, the months and years,
With all the change, the hopes and fears,
God make each step of duty clear,
And keep his honor bright.
4. And when at last his work is o'er,
And earthly toil shall be no more,
May angels guide him to the shore
Where there shall be no night.
THE GREAT JUDGMENT MORNING.
Tune--"Kathleen Mavourneen."
One cold Winter eve when the snow was fast falling
In a small, humble cottage a poor mother laid;
Although racked with pain she lay there contented
With Christ as her Friend and her peace with Him made.
CHORUS:
We shall all meet again on the great judgment morning,
The books will be opened, the roll will be called;
How sad it will be if forever we're parted,
And shut out of heaven for not loving God!
That mother of yours has gone over death's river.
You promised you'd meet her as you knelt by her bed,
While the death sweat rolled from her and fell on the pillow;
Her memory still speaketh, although she is dead.