Prisons and Prayer; Or, a Labor of Love

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 cryingWill 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 joysTo 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 mineLinked 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 woeA 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 sunThe men had marched all day;And now beside a rippling streamUpon 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 knowAre those my mother used to singFor 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 usA mother's songs are dear."Then sweetly rose the singer's voiceAmid 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 fearWith 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 soulBy those old hymns are stirred,And up from many a bearded lip,In whispers soft and low,Rises the prayer that mother taughtHer 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 lonelyWhile 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 remainethThe 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 saddenedBy darkest scenes of woe;I should be, if I knew notThat Jesus loves me so.Helpless? Yes, so helpless,But I am leaning hardOn the mighty arm of Jesus,And He is keeping guard.Waiting? Oh, yes, waiting,He bade me watch and wait;I only wonder oftenWhat 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