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Vol. 1. No. 19. Stillwater, Minn., Wednesday, DeG. BOV STILL. I)o you think I’ve forgotten the day I earric d him at my breast ? Many fair children I’ve loved since then. But I think that I loved him best. For he was our iirst-born child, John, And I have not the heart, or will, To love him less; whatever may come He’s my boy still! I remember when he was a little lad, llow he used to climb on my knee; How proud we were of his beauty. Of his wit anti mimicry. And I know quite well lie’s a man now. With a wild and stubborn will: But whatever he is to you, John, He’s my boy still! lie was just like sunshine about the house. In the days of his happy youth; You know we s lid that with all his faults He had courage and love and truth. And though he has wandered far away. I’d rather you’d sa7 no ill; He is sure to come back to his mother: He’s my boy still! 1 know there was never a kinder heart Ami 1 can remember to-day How oft lie went with me apart And knelt at my knee to pray. And the man will do as the boy did’ Sooner or later he will; The Bible is warrant for tlratj so He's my boy still! A mother can feel where she can’t see, She is wiser than any sage; My boy was trained in the good old way, 1 shall certainly got my wage. And though he has wandered far away, And followed his wayward will, 1 know whatever, wherever he is. He's my boy still! Tito 151 even til Hour. Editor Mirror Since I have been here 1 have often heard some of the boys saying, “What is life without liberty?” Some would say it is a living death, or being buried alive. Also that a man may as well be dead as to be here for life, or even a long term. Some think it a great curse to be here for a little while. With me it is different. Why? Because L think it is a blessing to be here for awhile. When I look upon my past life and how 1 used to live half the time, 1 can say to-day with honesty, “Thank God. lam where 1 can reform and build up a new reputation.” One word of ad vice to the wise: Do not wait until you get outside to reform, because if you do you never will succeed. Don't say like the foolish one, “Now, when I get out of this place, 1 will be a better man.” Nine out of ten men that speak thus come back, if not here, to some other prison. Brother prisoners, repent while it is day; the noon of our life is passing and night is coming. Many things have been said about repent ing at the eleventh hour. Ido not believe in such lepentance. 1 do not want you, dear reader, to think that I am trying to represent myself as a philosopher. Not at all, but rather as a man who lias seen a good deal of this world, although only thirty-two years or age. 1 have traveled around the whole world, and also have read a great many books, and I think I am right when 1 say that it is too late to re pent at the last hour. And why? Did not God give us an understanding and rea son to know right fron wrong? Does not our conscience tell us when we do any thing contrary to God’s commandments that we are offending the great Omnipotent? Is it reasonable that after being ten or twenty years in vice and crime that an accident should happen ami we are afraid to die? We then begin to think about our souls, is it because we have great faitli in the conversion of our souls, and believe in all God’s commandments?’ lam afraid it is not the reason, if it were we would think about it before the time I have mentioned. To my own understanding about the eleventh, hour conversion is this, that Christ, our blessed Redeemer, spoke to us in this man ner. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand; and you shall be saved even at the eleventh hour.” Does he mean by that to wait until we are dying? No, my friends; but he means to-day is the eleventh hour. So repent while there is time. Remember we may wait too Jong, then afterward be sorry for the delay. How do you know how many years you will live in this world? None can tell. I know a great many rich people who never find time to go to church, but we see them going to dinner parties and dancing clubs; also to the opera, but when Sunday comes, then they lie in bed all the forenoon so as to be able to enter again into dissipation the next night. But when they are taken sick they immediately send for a priest, or a minister, to pray for them; and the first words they say are these: “Dear father. 1 have led a very wicked life, but I confess my sins; do you think, dear father, that God will hear my petition?” And what is the answer to this great question, dear reader? You know as well as I. and it is “yes.” Again, 1 will say l don’t believe in such conversion. If such is right, then what is the use of having so many preach ers: to pay so much money for missionary purposes, and to have Sundays, and live a sober and Christian life? Surely we may follow the command, “Let us eat, drink and be merry; to-morrow we die.” But any one endowed with common sense, and with tiie intelligence that God has given us, from the beginning—even from our birth —knows such a doctrine is false. So, dear reader, let us begin to-day to live a model and upright life. Some of the boys in this place, whenever they write any thing for our little paper, always address themselves to us prisoners only; but I call upon all. inside and outside these, walls that are .surrounding us to day. And why? Because prisoners are not the only people that are bad in this world. There are many young girls and hoys outside—even old people—who need to be taught the right way of life. 1 hope all those who have put it off dav after day will begin to-day, to labor for the benefit of their souls. Oh. that 1 were eloquent, that I might De able to write some good words that would enter the hearts of some of you. If I thought by writing these lew lines for our little paper I could help some one to lead a bet ter life. I would be happy to be here. Brothers, let me appeal to you again—as 1 did a few months ago—about writing to mother. Do you write to her? If you do not, begin next Sunday. You cannot|eom prehend what happiness it will give the old mother's heart. You net dn’t say that you are in prison; even if you do, our old and loving mother will be glad to hear from us and that we are alive yet. because she thinks that she. will see her long absent boy once more in the paternal home. Now, dear reader, in conclusion, as the holidays are approaching, allow me to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Frank X. Beaudin. Dec. (». 18&7. —lndianapolis News, For The Mirror. A remark made by inspector Butts in his address to the boys Sunday before last, to the effect that, “the board of corrections and charities had under consideration a plan which contemplated the encouragement of a prisoner on his release, and to his mind more genuine good could be accomplished in this direction than could be hoped for by the most zealous conservative of the pres ent system,” called to my mind a little in cident that came under my observation while engaged in the task of elevating mud on a shovel from a trench. A young man of about twenty-five had just been dis charged, but like a bird that had been long in captivity he was lost and went round and »* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.” Sunday Musing*. lound the cage. He seemed afraid to ven ture away from the prison far, but kept close to the guard and the men who were working outside. Night came on. and I supposed we had seen the last of the poor fellow, but on resuming work in the morn ing, to my surprise there was our ex-com rade, still lingering near the scene of his disgrace and the walls that inclosed so many months of hateful restraint and weary toil. I then thought of how strange to my mind had been the return of that character in “Little Dorrit,” by Dickens, to again view the old Marshalsea prison, where for so many years he was known as the “Father;” and how during the Gordon riots the Newgate prison was demolished . and the prisoners released, and on the morrow they back to view the scene of their wretch edness, and were arrested by the score. It seemed very unreal, but Dickens had no doubt often seen the phase of character in life. How long this poor man might have re mained in the vicinity of the prison l do not know, had not his presence attracted the attention of an old gentleman connected with the car company, who procured for him a place to work in a Hour mill, and he was seen by us no more. But 1 will never forget his woe begone and friendless look and the melancholy fact that with all the big world before him lie would choose to linger near this spot of all others. «- w -s * The charities and corrections have at last hit on one measure, the ultimate good of which is incalcuable, but if the circumlocu tion which usually attends the workings of bodies devoted to “cold charity,” could be obviated, or at least abridged, to the min imum period of inactivity characteristic of precedent, it would preclude much suffer ing, for prisoners are being discharged every day all over the country, and as they go out into the world which they have regarded so long with longing, and find it cold and cheerless, with no friends or even acquaint ences. and every one hustling and schem ing for himself, with no time or desire to notice him. The contrast to the former con dition is discouraging, for in prison he was at least ami it and in the great world he immaeriues he is a nonenity. The old life with its dearly bought dissipations comes back and the temptation to plunge into tiie whirl of alleged entrancing bliss is too strong, and so society is reinforced to the extent of one enemy. Of course there are exceptions to this rule; for instance, that of the “old timer.” He steps out the door, takes two or three sniffs of the free air, rapidly takes his bearings and with a bee line course makes for the nearest barrel house, and noncha lantly injects into the inner man two or three glasses of tangle foot. He then pro cures a railroad map and with a practical and business-like air sits down and proceeds to map out his future campaign. He does not waste his time repenting; he knows it is useless. Looking for charity lie knows means notoriety, and lie don’t that. He has been there before and knows all about it. and simply follows the only course that his limited intelligence tells him is compatible with happiness. Is he to be pitied or condemned for his lack of charac ter? Tell me, reader devoid of prejudice, is not society just a little responsible for some of the adamantine qualities of some of its members, and are not these men crea tures of circumstances, partly? F. M. Dec. 10, ISS7. Giving Away State Secret*. “Pa. what does ‘carrying the banner’ mean?” asked a precocious six-year-old of his parent. “it means walking around all night so as to be up early in the morning. But why do you ask?” “Because I heard mated the new min ister that you carried the banner at Get tysburg, and that if you continued on as you were doing now, you would soon he carring it again.” “My boy, go and tell your ma that if she persists in making the new minister the re pository of her domestic secrets, there will be wigs and false teeth on the green.” said the grief-stricken husband, as he sank into a chair. —Chicago Sunday National. Five Getits. A Convict’* Dream. Editor Mirror Thinking the readers of The Mirror would like a change, I will tell you of a dream I had a few weeks ago, which has caused me to think more of “the hereafter” than all the sermons I ever heard —I don’t go much on dreams, either. I dreamed I stood alone in a dark and un inhabited country where there was nothing to be seen but yawning chasms, deep, wide and dismal, with no means of crossing them: yet by some mysterious agency 1 was carried across them in rapid succession, al ways landing just on the brink of one more terrible than the one 1 had just crossed, while I was in bodily form, and seemed to be in the vast domain of lost souis. The, agony I suffered is beyond the power of lan guage to discribe. Suddenly 1 heard a voice saying, “It is nothing to remain thus forever and ever, but ii is all in all to lose Christ and the kingdom of heaven.” 1 lifted up my ejes and beheld a beautiful city in the distance enveloped in a mellow light, like the twilight of a summer’s even ing. At the same time the melodious chime of beils and the sound of the sweetest vocal music filled the air, and I reposed fora mo ment in the beautiful enchantment. I was aroused by the voice of a dear, departed sister singing louder than the rest, and her voice became more distinct every moment until I beheld iter by my side, clothed in white. She ceased singing and spoke to me in a tender voice, saying. "I have been waiting for you; wiil you come with nre?” I gave her no answer, and suddenly she vanished, and I was left alone; but only for a moment did the loneliness surround me, for on looking np I again beheld the city, nearer and brighter than before. I could now see roads leading in nil directions from the city into the gloom roundabout. Some of those roads were straight, but more of them were like the meandering course of a stream. On all of them were travelers, going toward the city, which called to my mind “The New Jerusalain.” Some trav eled with ease and apparent comfort: others labored on with difficulty. Often some trav eler seeming to be. overcome by the weight of his burden, or unable to pass an obstruc tion in his pathway, would pause and re main still, but none seemed to turn back. While 1 looked witli increasing interest at the travelers, the scene changed, and 1 stood between two walis each crowned by a huge rock in an insecure position, and I ex pected to he crushed at any moment by their fall. In this position of extreme torment and fear I looked for some means of escape and a diamond cross appeared above me a k! to it a chain of gold was attached. The chain came near and I grasped it, and that moment l was relieved from my position of peril, and was transported with the rapidity of the lightning’s ffash through space. Fi nally my hold on the chain gave way, and l feli, landing on my cot in cell 428. Dec. 8. 1887. ’ Andrew Rows. Possible Cause* ol' Disc ontent. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps lias written the follow ing very sensible lines on the above subject: "It is the little kindness—it is the little cruelty —that makes and mars all the human relations. It is the personal interest—it is the personal ne glect—out of which the universal order or disor der grows. Who knows how far the public discon tent has been fed by that $40,000 span with which, you drove past Houses from whose windows.inva lids, too poor to buy the air of heaven, watched you daily? How far will it be affected by the cost of her toilet, as reported by the Monday reception, of which the starving wives of drowned fishermen will read in the local paperon Saturday night? How far by the waslier-woman whom 1 forgot to pay? Or the shop girl to whom you refused the chance to sit down from dawn to dark? Or the seamstress whom we underpaid'? Or the sick clerk to whom we gave no vacation? Or the tramp to whom we were surly? Or the old fellow selling tissue paper flowers, on whom we cast a look of disgust or contempt? “Somewhere the hurrying life has driven too fast around a corner. Somewhere somebody’s rights or sensibilities have been run over, somewhere somewhere there has come ‘tiie little jolt.’ ’’