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."