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; 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.
You remember the kiss and the last words she uttered, The arms that embraced you are mouldering away; As you stood by her grave and dropped tears on her coffin, With a vow that you'd meet her, you walked slowly away.
My brother, my sister, get ready to meet her, The life that you now live is ebbing away, But the life that's to come lasts forever and ever, May we meet ne'er to part on that great judgment day!
My Name in Mother's Prayer.
'Twas in the days of careless youth When life seemed fair and bright, When ne'er a tear, nor scarce a fear O'er cast my day or night. 'Twas in the quiet even tide, I passed her kneeling there, When just one word I tho't I heard My name, my name in mother's prayer.
Chorus.
My name, my name in mother's prayer, My name in mother's prayer! There is just one word I tho't I heard My name, my name in mother's prayer.
I wandered on, but heeded not God's oft repeated call, To turn from sin and live for Him, And trust to Him my all in all. But when at last convinced of sin, I sank in deep despair, My soul awoke when memory spoke My name, my name in mother's prayer.
That kneeling form, those folded hands, Have vanished in the dust; But still for me for years shall be The memory of her trust. And when I cross dark Jordan's tide, I'll meet her over there; I'll praise the Lord, and bless the word, That word, my name in mother's prayer!
Over There.
Come all ye scattered race, And the Savior's love embrace; You may see His smiling face Yet with care; He is on the giving hand, Will you come at His command, Will you with the angels stand Over there?
Chorus.
Over there, over there, There's a land of pure delight Over there, We will lay our burdens down, And at Jesus' feet sit down, And we'll wear a starry crown, Over there.
Yes, He went to Calvary, And they nailed Him to the tree, That poor sinners such as we, He might spare; From the bitter pangs of death, He does with His dying breath, Seal an everlasting rest, Over there.
God has placed us on the field, To the foe we will not yield, On our tower we will stand, By His care. Wave the Christian's banner high, Hold it up until we die, And go home to live with God, Over there.
This Way.
Our life is like a stormy sea, Swept by the gales of sin and grief, While on the windward and the lee, Hangs heavy clouds of unbelief; Out o'er the deep a call we hear, Like harbor bell's inviting voice; It tells the lost that hope is near, And bids the trembling soul rejoice.
Chorus.
This way, this way, O heart oppressed, So long by storm and tempest driven, This way, this way, lo here is rest, Rings out the harbor bell of heaven.
O tempted one, look up, be strong; The promise of the Lord is sure, That they shall sing the victor's song, Who faithful to the end endure; God's Holy Spirit comes to thee, Of this abiding love to tell; To blissful port, o'er stormy sea, Calls heaven's inviting harbor bell.
More to be Pitied than Censured.
There's an old concert hall on the bowery Where were assembled together one night A crowd of young fellows carousing, To them life looked happy and bright. At the very next table was seated A girl that had fallen to shame; How the fellows they laughed at her downfall, When they heard an old woman exclaim:
Chorus.
"She's more to be pitied than censured, She is more to be loved than despised; She is only a poor girl who ventured On life's rugged path ill-advised. Don't scorn her with words fierce and bitter, Don't laugh at her shame and downfall, Just pause for a moment—consider, That sin was the cause of it all."
There's an old-fashioned church 'round the corner, Where the neighbors all gathered one day, To listen to words from the parson, For a soul that had just passed away. 'Twas the same wayward girl from the bowery, Who a life of adventure had led; Did the parson then laugh at her downfall? No, he prayed and wept as he said:
Some Mother's Child.
At home or away, in the alley or street, Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet A girl that is thoughtless or a boy that is wild, My heart echoes softly: It is some mother's child.
Chorus.
Some mother's child, Some mother's child, My heart echoes softly: It is some mother's child.
And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled, Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold; Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled, A voice whispers sadly: It is some mother's child.
No matter how far from right she hath strayed; No matter what inroad dishonor hath made; No matter what elements cankered the pearl; Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl.
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin; No matter how much he is shunned by his kin; No matter how low is his standard of joy; Though guilty and loathsome; he is some mother's boy.
That head hath been pillowed on tenderest breast; That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed; That soul hath been prayed for in tones sweet and mild; For her sake deal gently with some mother's child.
Used by permission of Charlie D. Tillman, owner of copyright.
Just Tell My Mother.
'Twas in a Gospel Mission, in a distant western town, The meeting there that night had just begun, When in came a poor lost sinner who by sin had been cast down, Thinking perhaps that he might have some fun; But as he heard of Jesus' love, of pardon full and free, He sought it and the wanderer ceased to roam. And going to his room that night, his heart all filled with joy, He wrote a letter to the folks at home.
Chorus.
Just tell my dear old mother, my wandering days are o'er, Just tell her that my sins are all forgiven, Just tell her that if on earth we chance to meet no more, Her prayers are answered and we'll meet in Heaven.
His mother got the message as she lay at death's dark door, Which told her of her boy so far away, How his sins were all forgiven and wandering days were o'er, And that his feet were on the narrow way. Her heart was filled with gladness, as it had not been for years, Her dear old face was all lit up with joy, As on her dying pillow she said amid her tears, God bless and keep my precious darling boy.
Your mothers have prayed for you, my friends, for many and many a day, Perhaps these days of life will soon be o'er, Come, give your hearts to Jesus, get on the narrow way, And meet her on that happy golden shore. Oh, come just now while still there's room, and pardon free for all. The Savior pleads, oh, do not longer roam. And then with Jesus in your heart, you will send the message To your dear mother, praying still for you at home.
Soon the Death-bell Will Toll.
When the last Gospel message has been told in your ears, And the last solemn warning has been given you in tears; When hope shall escape from its place in your breast, Oh, where will your poor weary soul find its rest?
Chorus.
Soon the death-bell will toll—look after your soul; O, sinner be ready, for the death-bell will toll.
When the darkness of death shall compass you round, When the friends you have loved are all standing around; Unable to save you now from the tomb, Unable to alter your terrible doom.
When before the white throne of His Judgment you stand, "What have you to answer?" the Judge will demand; Oh, terrible moment to be standing alone, When mercy forever and forever is gone.
The End of the Way.
The following beautiful lines were written by a girl in Nova Scotia, an invalid for many years:
My life is a wearisome journey; I'm sick of the dust and the heat; The rays of the sun beat upon me, The briars are wounding my feet. But the city to which I am journeying Will more than my trials repay; All the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
There are so many hills to climb upward, I often am longing for rest, But He who appoints me the pathway Knows what is needed and best. I know in His word He has promised That my strength shall be as my day; And the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
He loves me too well to forsake me, Or give me one trial too much; All His people have been dearly purchased, And Satan can never claim such. By and by I shall see Him and praise Him, In the city of unending day; And the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
When the last feeble steps have been taken, And the gates of the city appear, And the beautiful songs of the angels Float out on my listening ear; When all that now seems so mysterious Will be plain and clear as the day— Yes, the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
Though now I am footsore and weary, I shall rest when I'm safely at home; I know I'll receive a glad welcome, For the Savior Himself has said "Come." So, when I am weary in body, And sinking in spirit I say, All the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
Cooling fountains are there for the thirsty, There are cordials for those who are faint: There are robes that are whiter and purer Than any that fancy can paint. Then I'll try to press hopefully onward, Thinking often through each weary day, The toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.
Appendix.
The matter which I have here appended I thought of too much value to omit from this volume. The first article is explanatory in itself. The second is by a prisoner whom I have known for many years. The third (regarding Christ in Gethsemane) was written by a prisoner as a letter to myself. I hope the reader may profit by the reading of each page.
E. R. W.