Newspaper Page Text
Vol. XII. — No. 18
Written for The Prison Mirror. Jhanksgiv>ir\g ir\ the Country Oh Thanksgiving time is coming. That goodly time of year. When the ice is on the horse-pond And the skates are ringing clear The'old oak’s bare and bony. But the red-squirrel's looking down With a smile that’s gay and saucy. Though all Nature wears a frown. From the cornfield calls the bob-white If you list perchance you’ll hear. The drumming of a partridge. Or the wild-goose calling clear In the country there’s corn-shuckings In the farmers house good cheer. There’s apples in the cider-press. And popcorn in the ear. The gobbler struts, and caretli not,’ How soon the time comes round. When he will deck the festive board All basted, baked, and browned, There’s scented clover in the loft. And on the barn floor lies, A goodly heap of fruit, to make Those “mother's pumpkin pies.” Oh, had I now the pen of flame, I’d gladly undertake, To tell the richness of those pies “Our mothers” used to make. The farmer spreads his feast at noou. On tables lengthened out; And cousins, aunts, and uncles come To join the festive rout. A month-old shoat is roasted brown— A pippin in his snout— And vies for honors with the best Of barnyard-gobblers out. There’s tarts, and jam, and marmalade And cider in jug of stone. There’s eggnog too. the sideboard on. To give the feast a tone. There's cotillions in the evening. And the young-folk have their fun; “Salute your partners—alamonde left,” Shouts the fanner’s lusty son. “Now faster on the corners there— First four with right hands crossed Everybody balance partners. Mind your step and don’t get lost.” There’s a nut-brown lassie near him; In her eyes the love-lights shine. “Join your hands”—he bends toward her— “ Promenade all— will you be mine.” Faster goes the feet of dancers. Louder rings the prompters call; But the love-song in their young hearts Rises clear, amidst it all. Out of doors the moon is shining Down upon a frosty earth. But around the farmers fireside. All is warmth, and joy, and mirtli And, though for some, perchance there’s not The good tilings that seem due, Would they but note more wretched ones, I’m sure they’d give thanks too. Wilder K. Andrew's Written for The Prison M irror. Unprincipled, Unmanned A man’s a man with but his name— A man’s a man devoid of fame. But when, the name he merits not. Is when lie is unprincipled. When standing in lifes conning tower. That place is darkest every hour— The blighted spot—on earth a blot— Where men do dwell—unprincipled, The danger signal flies in vain For men who, for a guilty gain. Will ruin earthly innocence— The men of shame—unprincipled. If man would stop before a sin, Begotten of the the thought within He’d shudder at the consequence, Of doing aught—unprincipled. Albbrt Edwin Graham. i^yyyggl^f Written for The Prison Mirror. AT BRADY’S. If the beautiful snow be a desirable thing, then Brady’s had to a much of a good thing. It had commenced falling on Monday, and for three days had ceased not a moment. As the mantle of sweet Christian charity is said to cov er the imperfections of poor human na ture, so had the beautiful snow thrown over rugged mountain and dark can yon, ore dump and miners, rude shan ties, a robe of spotless purity. To certain Boston stock-holders, some mail clerks and perchance a few others, Brady’s meant a railroad station in the Coeur D’Alene region from which was shipped the ore from the Midas mine. To the miners, gamblers, and other necessary evils of a mining camp, it meant the long, low-roofed log building, in which Michael C., sur named Brady, conducted a dance-hall and sold certain liquid refreshments. It is in this sense solely that we have to do with Brady’s. Thanksgiving originated in “Ye Merry England” where it was called Harvest Home. Our Pilgrim Fathers, thinking the name savored too much of earthly hopes and joys, changed it to Thanksgiving. (;ould those stern old covenanters have dropped into Brady's and beheld the preparations his guests were making to give thanks upon the morrow, they would assured ly have girded up their loins and smote in the name of the Lord. Brady, resplendent in a red and black calico shirt, was leaning over his bar, talking earnestly to “Parson Bill.” “The Dude” and “Nugget Joe” were shaking dice at the end of the bar, while grouped around the stove and seated at, and on, a couple of tables, was a motley crowd of miners, bar-room loafers, etc. “Parson Bill” walked to the end of the bar and spoke hurriedly to “The Dude,” who at once went out. Had a casual observer entered the place, he must have noticed from the faces and manners of Brady’s guests that something out of the common had happened. Half an hour before the Thanks giving revel had begun in full swing with Addle and flute. “The Dude” was balancing corners with “Moccasin Kate,” and “Parson Bill” was “sasshav ing” down the middle with Mag, when the latter, becoming suddenly ill, had to be carried to her cabin down the gulch. Something very much out of the common had indeed happened. Had it been but a little “gun play,” the dead would have been carried out and then—“on with the dance; let joy be unconflned.” but this little accident, as the divine Sarah designated it, was an unknown quantity with which they could not deal. When “The Dude” returned, he an swered the inquiring looks with a sin gle word—DEAD, and held up two fingers. No one spoke or moved ex cept Brady, who commenced placing glasses upon the bar for all hands. The invitation was accepted in silence which was unbroken until every glass had been filled, then “Parson Bill” con stituting himself spokesman said: “Boys, 1 reckon you all knows what’s happened and that Mag has cashed in. Now no squar’ man is goin’ to refuse to drink this toast which I’m ’bout to give, and if thar’ be any others here they’s got to settle with me. Now here’s to Mag, who always did the best she knowed how.” When ev ery glass had been drained, “Parson Bill” continued: “Now this here out fit has got to give Mag a proper send off, for I reckon she was worth it. So I’points‘The Dude’and ‘Nugget Joe’ to look after the flowers and sech like and when everything’s got ready, we’s all goin’ over to Mag’s shanty to pay our respects.” The floral committee certainly had no sinecure, for the only flowers within three hundred miles were those made of yellow tissue paper, behind Brady’s bar. These—acting upon his newly ac quired authority, “The Dude” immedi ately took possession of, beer-glass and all. “Nugget Joe” determined not to be “IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEAD.” STILLWATER, MINNESOTA, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1898. outdone in this labor of love, cut from a cigar-box, a rude cross which he cov ered with the tinfoil taken from a con pie of packages of tobacco. It was indeed a strange band of mourners which in the grey dawn of Thanksgiving morning wound its way down the Midas Gulch to the out cast’s cabin. Yet, could every kindly thought and generous impulse in the hearts of these rough men become a plant to blossom upon Mag’s grave she would have been laid to rest beneath a wilderness of rare and beautiful flow ers. Filing into the cabin, they silently took such places as they could find. Up on the bed—about the only piece of furniture the room contained —lay all that was mortal of the poor human waif known as Mag. Two of her sis ters in misfortune, having done the lit tle there was to do, sat dry -eyed and mute beside the bed. “The Dude” placed his floral offering upon the pillow, while “Nugget Joe” laid his tinfoil cross over her folded hands. It was said afterward, that for the first time in his life, “Parson Bill” knew fear and could not “speak his mind.” He succeeded, however, after several desperate efforts, in clearing his throat, and after laying aside his gun and cramming his hat into his hip pocket, he delivered the following dis course: “I hever reckoned, pards, that when I got the name of ‘Parson Bill’ because 1 could outswar’ any man in these here diggins, that I’d ever be called to take a real parson’s job, but as there haint nobody else to do this here thing I reckon I’ll have to tackle it. So here goes: Now Jesus, I axes you in the first place, that if so be I don’t pray just proper like, that you wont hold it agin Mag, cause that haint no fair play and they’s always lowed as how you deals squar’. When 1 was a little kid back in the states, I use to hear my old granny read in the Good Book, as how when you was down here, they use to bring the blind and the lame and the sick for you to cure ’em. Now' Jesus that’s the way I brings Mag to you now; just kind o’lavin’her down at your feet, and axin’ you to give her what she haint never had—a squar’ deal. “Now Jesus, there’s a sight o’ people that’s had a fa’r show, and goes ’round calling you their pard, who does a heap worse than Mag’s done, and they does it just from damn cussedness. Now Jesus, you know’s there warn’t no cuss edness in Mag, for she didn’t know no better. You see, nobody never told Mag nothing ’bout right and wrong things. Her mother was old Calamity Jane—a mighty ornery old cuss—and she never had no father; leastwise no reg’lar father like other folks got. So now' Jesus, I rec’on you’d better call it all squar’ with Mag, A men.” There were many prayers ascended to the Throne of Grace on that Thanks giving morn, from cushioned pew and velvet altar-cloth, from costly cathe dral, with white-robed priests and swinging censers; but none of them, I believe, came more sincerely from the heart of sinful man, than that of “Par son Bill.” Was it answered? Yes; for over the mountain’s snow-clad peak, burst the glorious morning sun, a to ken of the universal God who is a God alike to the saint and the sinner, the pagan and the Christian. -Its beams lighted up mountainside and canyon; and reaching the out-cast’s cabin, it gilded table, chairs, and rotten floor; and then kissing the rude cross lying upon the folded hands, it turned the tinfoil into gold. Which one of yon dare say that her’s was not a glorious “Harvest Home,” and that she did not hear: “More sinned against than sinning—enter in.” Written for The Prison Mirror ‘Aria Misther Donohue, its trials oi’m after havin’ wid these nu-fangled dintists. phat’s humbugin’ the paple intoirly.” “Sure, an’ how was it Misther O’Rourk ?” “Well, ye see. Misther Donohue, oi’ve been ailin’ some toime with a bad tooth and me boy, Mickey, tould me to go an’ have the nurve kilt. As oi didn’t want to loose me tooth, oi goes down to a shop on O’Fallon street, an’ sez oi to the mon: are ye a dintist? an’he sez ‘oi am.’ Well, sez oi, kin ye kill the nurv phat’s aching me tooth? ‘Faith an’ oi kin,’ sez he. Well oi’m yer mon thin sez oi; an’ wid that he goes at me. He opened me jaw an’ found the tooth an’ be the hevins, oi don’t know phat he done; but oi gave a lape an’ a yell, an’ dung him up agin’ the wall. Houly murther an' turf sez oi, phat are yez troy in’ to do? Sure its killin’ every nurve in me body yez are; an’ wid that he tried to explain that he had only touched the nurve. Faith thin, sez oi, an’ ye’ll touch it no more, sez oi an wid that oi laves em. Now me son Mickey is wan o’ thim smart byes; an’ sez he: ‘dad why don’t ye have it taken out widout pain ?’ Oi wasn’t on to him thin, so oi sez: Arra ye gossoon, an’ phy didn’t ye tell me oi could have it taken out widout pay in’? So he shows me a dintist, an’ in oi goes. Misther Dintist, sez oi, do yez draw’ tath widout payin’ ? ‘Oi do,’ sez he. Well oi’m yer mon, sez oi. Faith, an’ he had that tooth out philea cat 'ud be lickin her ear, and as nate a job as ye could wish to see. An’ as he was helpin’ me on wid me coat, ‘A dollar,’ sez he, rachin’ out his hand. A dollar, sez oi, an’ phat for ? ‘Fer dthrawin yer tooth’ sez he. An’ be the hivens, sez oi’ did ye not tell me ye’d dthraw it widout payin’? ‘Oi did,’sez he. Thin divil a dollar oi’ll give ye, sez oi. Well Mister Donohue, phat does he do but send for an officer, and bechune the the two oi was forced to pay the dollar. But maybe oi didn’t make me bye, Micky’s jaw sore. Sure, an’ he’ll be after stearin’ me up agin’ a gould brick the next thing oi know. Anyhow he’ll not sind me to get any more teeth dthravvd widout payin’. Man is of a few days and as full of trouble as a drunken barber at a coon dance. He riseth up in the morning with a song of gladness, and then snarls and growls at everybody all day be cause his wife asked him for two bits to buy an apron. He can take a S 9 shotgun and go out and hunt for a whole band of grizzly bears, sixteen miles from the nearest wood-camp, but he can’t sit for his picture without feeling as guilty as a sheep thief and knocking his knees together like hay tedder. A man can have an eye taken out by a traveling oculist without making a sign; but let some one at home step on his corn, and he will shriek like a stuck Pig. A man can lose all his wealth in a prospect hole without saying a word, even to his wife; but he will roar like an enraged lion if he inadvertently sits down on sticky fly-paper. A man can go a whole week while out hunting with nothing but straight bacon to eat; but give him a pancake at home with a lump of flour in it, and he will accuse his wife of having been a chef in a section house, and make more noise than a steam threshing machine being shown os by its proud owner on Main street. A man can stand with the calmness of a stoic while an indian takes his Hop Sing. WITHOUT PAIN. Jan O’Rurick. MAN. Terms - i Si .00 per year, in advance ’ | Six Months s«cents. scalp; but let the barber nip his ear, and he will yell like a dog with a sprinkling can tied to his tail. A man can walk forty miles over rock mountains in search of blue-tail grouse; but ask him to pump some water for the w r ash, and he is too tired to lift anything but his voice. A man can figure up just how much the war cost; but has no more idea of the price of a calico dress than a Hottentot. A man may be as strong as Sandow, but he cannot help his wife carry out a wash-tub without getting a crick in his back and walking lame for a w’eek. A man can meet a man who threat ened to shoot him on sight, without a tremor; but let him play pool until after dinner-time, and then see him tremble in the presence of his wife! A man can work hard for years, trusting and hoping that the public will rise to un appreciation of his work; but when the hired girl suddenly quits, the ambition of a life is sub merged in a Hood of overpowering calamity. A man will work and slave night and day to make a home on his farm, and then let it tumble to weeds in his efforts to get an office so that he can rent a House in town. A man will stay out all night at lodge without saying a word; but if he has to get up and give the baby a drink, he will complain to everyone of the unbroken rest he has undergone. —Bozeman (Mont.) Chronicle. BEYOND PRICE. Regardless of one’s station in life, it is essential that he has friends. If his habits or occupation daily carries him among the uneducated and vicious element, or among educated and moral men, the necessity for the re spect of his fellow-men is not changed. It has been said that the home in which we are reared and those w hom w r e select as our companions was the chief external influence that deter mined our character. Every person who succeeds to any degree in life must have fulfilled the relations which he bore to his companions, in fact true life consists in the fulfillment of duty. Seneca said. “God divided men into men to help each other.” The most important of all social principles is that of mutual dependence of one member of a community upon every other member; that reciprocal relation that exists among men, which relation, when unfurled works discord and chaos in our home and communities. Misfortune may overtake a man and he may suffer a loss of fortune, of social position, but if he absolves him self from his feliow-men he will be driven to despair and destruction. Many times the only thing we can do is to form new' associations, when our former companions no longer care to mingle with one whose conduct is open to suspicion. By making our demeanor agreeable toward those with whom we dislike to mingle does not necessitate that we become like them in any respect. But we can win their respect, and they will often be the means of helping us and we may be instrumen tal in helping them to rise to a higher and nobler position. This is the prin ciple which has been the keynote to the success of many ambitious and aspiring men and women. And it is no selfish principle; we can act on these lines w'ith a clear conscience feeling that for the help each individual renders us, we can give value received, we help them in return. Show me a man of education and influence whom the ignorant and humble classes ven erate and I will show you a benefactor to the human race. He who can make friends wherever he goes, can rise up when he has fallen; he who has due appreciation for the rights of others has frier ds, and he who has proper conception of his own shortcomings will never be hasty to condemn his neighbor for mistakes, but will make reasonable effort to assist him to rise up when down—The Reflector.