Prisons and Prayer; Or, a Labor of Love

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 toredFum 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 darknessIf He felt you could bear the light,But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not care to walk by faithCould you always walk by sight.'Tis true He has many an anguishFor your sorrowing heart to bear,And many a cruel thorn-crownFor your tired head to wear;He knows how few would reach home at allIf 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 wanderWhen our lives are glad and sweet.Then nestle your hand in our Father'sAnd sing if you can as you go;Your song may cheer some one behind youWhose 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 troubleLays her finger on my brow;O it is a deep, deep feeling,Neither happiness nor pain!'Tis a mighty, soulful longingTo see mother's face again!'Tis, I think, a natural feeling;Worst of me, I can't controlMyself no more! It seems to stirAnd thrill my very soul!Try to laugh it off—but useless!Oh! my tears will fall like rainWhen I get this soulful longingJust 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 longingJust to see her face once more.Mother! tender, loving soul!Heaven bless her dear old face!I'd give half my years remainingJust to give her one embrace;Or to shower love-warm kissesOn her lips, and cheeks, and brow,And appease this mighty longingThat 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 oneWas there to list to his last faint moan,Or point the suffering soul to the throneOf grace. If, perchance, God's only SonWould 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 broughtTo the poor boy's friends; they loved him well,And yet you dared the vile beverage to sellThat 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 grantThe license to sell, do you think you will wantThat record to meet in the last great dayWhen heaven and earth shall have passed away,When the elements melting with fervent heatShall proclaim the triumph of right complete?Will you wish to have his blood on your handsWhen 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 signA petition to license; you would do it I weenIf 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 usTill we reach that blissful shore;Where the angels wait to join usIn 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 DepotInto which your train will glide;There you'll meet the Superintendent,God the Father, God the SonWith 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 bloomingMeet 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 delightWhere 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 eyeCan 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 shoreWhere there shall be no night.

The Great Judgment Morning

Tune—"Kathleen Mavourneen."One cold Winter eve when the snow was fast fallingIn a small, humble cottage a poor mother laid;Although racked with pain she lay there contentedWith 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 youthWhen life seemed fair and bright,When ne'er a tear, nor scarce a fearO'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 heardMy name, my name in mother's prayer.ChorusMy name, my name in mother's prayer,My name in mother's prayer!There is just one word I tho't I heardMy name, my name in mother's prayer.I wandered on, but heeded notGod'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 spokeMy 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 beThe 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 faceYet with care;He is on the giving hand,Will you come at His command,Will you with the angels standOver there?ChorusOver there, over there,There's a land of pure delightOver 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.ChorusThis 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 boweryWhere were assembled together one nightA crowd of young fellows carousing,To them life looked happy and bright.At the very next table was seatedA 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 venturedOn 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 meetA girl that is thoughtless or a boy that is wild,My heart echoes softly: It is some mother's child.ChorusSome 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.ChorusJust 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 messageTo your dear mother, praying still for you at home.