LOST SHEEP--THE EX-PRISONER'S HOME--HOSPITAL SCENES.
Who does not love that beautiful, most pathetic song entitled "The
Ninety and Nine"? but how many have literally helped to emulate the
Great Shepherd's example? Methinks I hear now, as I often have heard,
great throngs singing:
It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea,
It may not be at the battle front,
My Lord will have need of me,
But if by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know.
I'll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine,
"I'll go where you want me to go"
Our Lord takes every one of us at our word, whether we are singing it,
praying it, or testifying to it. He does, indeed. _He takes us at our
word._ How many of us make excuses? Because of this, how many souls are
going to be lost? Oh! the pity of it, the everlasting pity of it!...
In my possession are several photos. Most of them have been handed to
me by the weeping mothers of lost, stray lambs; some have come through
the mail; all contain the one cry: "Dear Mother Roberts, ... Won't you
please try to find my poor little girl? She may be in prison, or in the
slums, or perhaps sick and dying in some hospital." And then follows a
minute description of every feature, height, weight, peculiarities of
character, etc. Many times the parents admit their own weak traits and
failures. Poor, poor mothers! poor fathers! Not very often do we find
them for you, sometimes where we would rather not; but you said that,
no matter what their condition, I should tell them that you still loved
them and that you would gladly welcome them home. We've found them
sometimes when too far gone ever to come back to their earthly home,
and but just barely in time to be rescued from eternal ruin.
Not always is the wanderer a girl, either. Sometimes a broken-hearted
parent is looking for a lost boy, and solicits our help. I've met a few
of them in the penitentiary, who have all but sworn me to secrecy.
"I'll be out soon," they've said. "No need to grieve the old folks at
home by letting them know I've been in trouble."
"But, my boy," I've replied, "how are you going to account for your
long absence and explain where you have been?"
"I'll fix it some way. Say I've been traveling or off in the mines.
Anyhow, I'll fix it so they shan't find out."
"But don't you know, dear boy, you are going to live in constant dread
if you do that? The Bible says, 'Be sure your sins will find you out,'
and also that 'nothing that maketh a lie shall enter the kingdom of
heaven,' I can not write a lie to your parents, and they've written to
me, asking me to try to find you. Besides, you'll need money to take
you home. It is not so easy as you think to step out of here and obtain
immediate employment. Even if you do, some one will be constantly
crossing your path and demanding you to pay him 'hush money' to keep
his mouth shut."
Then I have recommended them to the care of Mr. Charles Montgomery,
president of the board of prison commissioners, who, through great
self-denial, toil, and energy, succeeded in establishing, little more
than two years ago, a beautiful home and mission for discharged
prisoners. It is located in San Francisco. To it they may go and be
well provided for until employment is procured for them. Truly this is
a most blessed work for the Master. This home is the outcome of a plan
long cherished by Brother Montgomery, who for nearly fifty years has
labored for the reformation and welfare of convicts and ex-convicts. It
is now situated at 110 Silver Street, near Third Street, and is well
worth a visit from those who have the interest of these men at heart.
It was opened June 9, 1909, and it has been doing an immense amount of
good, helping many a discharged prisoner to be once more a desirable
citizen and a man of honor. I would also add that it is a work of
faith.
* * * * *
Will you come with me to one of our county hospitals this afternoon?
Soon we are kindly greeted by the matron, and almost the next words she
utters after welcoming us are: "I'm especially glad to see you today,
Mother Roberts, because in Ward X a girl who is dying has been asking
if I knew where you were. You're none too soon. She can't last much
longer, poor thing!" and she leads us to the bedside of the dying girl.
I recognize her as Ruby ----, with whom I have more than once earnestly
pleaded to forsake the wretched life she was living, warning her of the
ultimate results of such a course. How changed she is as she lies there
scarcely breathing! She opens her dying eyes at the sound of our
footsteps. "Ruby dear, do you know me?" A barely perceptible nod. "I'm
so glad Jesus sent us to you today, dear child. Won't you take him for
your Savior right now?" In as few words as possible she is told of the
dying thief on the cross. As she can not speak, we ask her to pray with
her mind, whilst we kneel with her hand in ours, calling on Jesus for
mercy, for pardon in this the "eleventh hour." The tears which she is
too weak to wipe away are wetting her pillow, but we observe a look of
peace stealing over her countenance. Soon we leave, believing that some
day we shall meet her among that great throng of the blood-washed.
Following a mothers' meeting one day in a Northern town a
care-worn-looking woman invited me home with her. Here she related
another heartrending story of a lost girl, an only child, for whom she
had toiled day and night at the wash-tub, so as to send her to school
dressed as finely as the other girls. "I have had to work very hard as
long as I can remember," the poor mother said, "and when I married, I
made up my mind that if I ever had a daughter I would not teach her
domestic duties, for fear she also would have to be a drudge all of her
life." So she raised a lady (?). The girl grew to be very independent
and disrespectful to her breadwinner, her mother, who was a deserted
wife. At the age of sixteen Elsie, without even a note of farewell,
left her comfortable little home and heart-broken mother, never to
return. She had intimated her going, but the mother had attached no
importance to these remarks, but she recalled them after her daughter's
departure. Furthermore, Elsie carried away nearly every dollar of her
mother's meager, hard-earned savings.
After a long look at a photograph I perceived that, because of a
peculiar mark on the cheek, not removed by the retoucher, perhaps
overlooked, I could readily recognize Elsie. Therefore, when visiting
the slums, jails, and hospitals I kept a lookout for her as well as for
others, and also notified some coworkers.
One day whilst visiting the old city and county hospital (where Mary's
baby was born), I passed a cot where lay an apparently old woman; she
looked to be fifty and appeared to be in the last stages of some
dreadful form of tuberculosis. _That identical mark was on her cheek_,
but surely this could not be twenty-three-year-old Elsie. Surely not.
So I passed on to the next cot. The impression to return to the former
one was so strong that it was acted upon. Stepping over to her, I
softly said, "Don't be frightened, dear, but is your name Elsie?" The
next moment I was quickly calling the nurse, for I feared the shock had
killed the woman. The nurse came and administered some restorative and
then advised me not to excite the patient further, for she was dying;
but the girl had sufficiently recovered to be able to ask questions.
"Who told you?" she whispered.
[Illustration: POOR ELSIE]
"It won't hurt you if I tell you?" I asked.
"No; please."
"Elsie, it was your dear mother, who has never ceased to love you and
to look for you all these years, and has kept the home so pretty and
comfortable, waiting for you to come back."
"Where is mother? Don't, oh! don't tell me she is here."
"No, dear, she is at home. It is nearly a year since she asked me to
try to find you."
"Elsie do you love Jesus?" I continued. "Have you asked him to forgive
you?"
"It's too late, I've been too bad."
"We have all sinned, Elsie. 'All have come short of the glory of God.'
May I pray for you?"
"Yes, if you think he'll hear."
After my prayer she offered one--so short but oh! so contrite, so very,
very contrite.
I called again the next day. She could barely speak even in a whisper,
but she managed to let me know that she had had a beautiful dream and
that after her death I was to write her mother that Elsie's last words
to me were, "Tell mother I'll meet her in heaven," but not to let her
know when and where her daughter died. She passed away that night. The
letter to the mother was very brief, and no address given, so that
there was no opportunity of subsequent correspondence. Three months
later news came to me that the poor, loving, well-meaning, though
mistaken mother had gone to join her dearly loved, lost and found Elsie
in that "land that is fairer than day."