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Che MIRROR= j.j i —jj'Vii. 1 1 EDITED AND PUBLISHED BY THE INMATES OP THE MINNESOTA STATE PRISON, BTIIA.WATEB V MINNESOTA, r ~~ ~ ~ Entered at the postoffice at Stillwater, Minnesota, as second-class mail matter. Contributions solicited from all sources. Rejected manuscripts will not be returned. -— = ——i 7 The Mirror is issued every Thursday at the following rates: One Year .... SI.OO <sx Months - - - . : 9.50 Three Months ... .25 To inmates of all oenal institutions 50 Address all communications to per year. The Mirror, Stillwater, Minn. The Mirror is a weeklv paper published in the Minnesota State Prison. It was founded in 1887 by the prisoners and is edited and managed by them. It aims to be a home newspaper; to encourage moral and intellectual improvement among the prisoners; to acquaint the public with the true status of the prisoner; to disseminate penological information and to aid in dispelling that prejudice which has ever been che bar sinister to a fallen man’s self-redemption. The paper is entirely dependent on the public for its financial support. If at any time there shall accrue a surplus of funds, the money will be expended in the interest of the prison library. For the information of new arrivals and all others desiring to send The Mirror to friends, the privilege will be granted by complying with the following rules: Write vour own name and register number and send same to this office witn name and ad dress of person to whom paper is to be sent. Each paper must be kept clean and folded in the same manner in which it is received and placed in your door every Fri day night. All inmates are requested to comply with this order whether sending out a copy or not. Service in the Prison Chapel at nine o’clock every Sunday morning. Protestant and Catholic service every alternate Sunday. Rev. C. E. Benson and Rev. Fr. Corcoran, chaplains. There is a peculiar quality wbicb some persons possess that makes us turn to them when we are in trouble, while we as naturally Bhrink from others where friendship for us may be quite as sincere. Some one has said that “there are persons who are as much out of place in a house where there is illness or death as would be a parrot perched on a coffin.” Perhaps these may be the people who, never Laving suffered them selves, do not know how to sympathize with those who suffer. Their one idea in the presence of grief is to make the mourner forget sorrow —a thing which is manifestly impossible. They talk lightly, even merrily, of indifferent matters, and avoid all reference to the trouble which presses like a weight on the sufferer’s heart. It depresses rather than soothes. To sympathize, one should possess that tender-heartedness that feels for another’s woe. When wo are in trouble, the friend we want is one to whom we can talk our trouble out. There in comfort in speaking'of it. It ceases then to be a hidden pain which we must bear alone. We can not forget it, and to try to hide it under immaterial conversation is agony. The true sympathizer may gently lead our talk and thoughts iutoYither channels, but does not feign forgetfulness of our grief. There is much said to the effect that words of condolence do not lighten s>rrow. They may not lighten it, but they make it easier to bear. And words are not all, for he who’s pity and desire to comfort are gen uine will convey in a hand clasp, a look, a tone of the voice more genu ine sympathy than can be expressed in the most eloquent language. Last month a bill passed the U.S. Senate authorizing the parole of federal life prisoners who have served fifteen years or more of their sen tence. In its issue of Feb. Ist, “Good Words.” the paper published by the inmates of the U.S. prison at Atlanta Ga., carried the following arti cle by prisoner No. 3419: “When the lirst golden rays of the rising sun shot across the crests of the rolling Georgia hills, on Sunday morn, January 19, they awoke the occupants of both hill and dale to another day of prosaic existence; to an other day of cheer or sadness, or to another day of worship or work. “Speeding on their way, the golden rays crept swiftly over the huge gray wall surrounding the Atlanta Federal Prison and flooded with light the massive stone and steel structures within. Through gloomy prison bars their brightness penetrated, carrying into every nook and corner of the Abode of Sorrow the bright and cheerful light of another day of life. As they stole silently into cell after cell, the golden shafts of light found each and every one of the fifty-eight life prisoners confined within these walls, wide awake to welcome their coming, for to them the golden light had never seemed so bright and warm and cheerful. It brought to them a day bl ight w ith hope and comfort, for during the dark hours of the night the Warden had sped the message to each one of them, that the bill ex tending the benefits of parole to those life prisoners who had served fif teen years of their sentence, had been passed by the Senate —and there had been no further sleep for them that night. They arose, laughed and chatted; for who would waste in sleep the hours that were fraught with golden hope? And thus the first golden rays of morning sunshine found them. “Many welcomed it as they had not welcomed the morning light for many a long year. For was not this the first time that it had brought to them a golden gleam of real hope? The bright sunlight of days gone by had uot meant to them what it had to the other prisoners—another day nearer home. To them it had alw T ays meant nothing but another day nearer Death. But now, for the first time since their imprisonment, the sun’s first rays on a perfect Sunday morn enveloped them with the bright light of a new-born hope—the hope that they could once more be free. Free to spend their declining years with loved ones! Free to prove to the world their worth!! Free to taste once more the sweets of liberty!!! To one of them the suu’a rays must have seemed like a message from the God he has so long and faithfully worshiped; for after thirty-three years of watching the sun rise and set on nothing but dark and hopeless days, it at last brought to him the light of a day filled to the brim with the hope that he might lie as other men. ‘As the sun’s first golden rays sped on toward the sea, leaving in their wake the birth of another day of life, nowhere, from the Pacific to the Atlantic, were they any more warmly or joyously welcomed than they had been by the fifty-eight life prisoners wdlhin the huge gray walls of the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary.” TO INMATES. CHURCH NOTICE •••• Ml Our Solid Sonnet: Alas, alack! ah, woe is me; and also woe is Mary D., because the fight is lost. I shout ed loud for women, when we had a gabfest in the “pen”, and did not count the cost. Metaphor and sub lime verse, night and day I did re hearse so I could put it strong. I wrote and preached day after day; and all my pals here rose to say I had it doped out wrong. Up in our great “Chat-ta-qua” I said with a grand hip hurrah give woman, pray, the “ballet.” The chairman, rising from his chair, said I was out of or der there, and hit me with his mal let. Shall w’oraan, always good and brave, I said, be evermore a slave to dish-pan and to mop. She shall, — I shouted —shall be free. Then a guy rose and said to me “chop,” Apache “chop.” It surely makes a chap so me blue when wooded heads whisper to you, you talk like a blind shoat. My voice has rang out loud and strong to hasten the good time along when you, “my dears,” could vote. I dreamed your final triumph would —when I at last was under stood — bri nf g on prosperity. I drempt a glad dream, o’er and o’er, some day a “lady governor” would ope the gates for me. My voice is gone, my spirits broke, I’m almost sorry that I spoke for “women’s rights at all. Years for the cause I slaved and they killed the thing in just one day. Oh, shame on you, St. Paul! Ob, w y ell it doesn’t matter much I’m hobbling ’round, upon a crutch, the “antis” gave me mine. From now on you must fight alone. My enthusiasm has flown. Suffra gettes, I resign. Some day I am going to write a book entitled “Girls that help their mother in the kitchen,” and all ths girls will be under 14 years. Uneasy lies the head that wears a —frown. At 3 p. x. zig zag he plods his homeward weary way. The water wagon made a stop lieside a swell cafe; Which accounts, O reader, for his zig zag “What about the‘good road’ from St. Paul to Duluth,” asks the Pine County Pioneer. Brother, who wants to go to either town? no mat ter how good the road. Some class to that New Prison sheet, fact is that reading between spaces we find that all of its corres pondents are working together to make it worth while. Notice to owners of “Winning of Barbary Worth;” “Garden of Allah;” “The Bondman;” “The Turn of the Balance;” “Melting of Molly.” I have sentthem to next number, with the hope that they may be sent to again when I have the time to read them. Some man down at the New Pris on is trifling with the truth, claim ing to have seen a robin. Let this be a warning to all who are trying to rob me of my glory. The first robiu always comes to my window. I have seen him first for the last three years, so beware, you are step ping upon holy ground. I always take my vacation when I catch a glimpse at the first robin. When Apache’s corner isn’t there then you will know that the robins nest again. I , ApaGhe’s For a year, or more, I have been searching through papers and mag azines in hopes of eventually connecting with that gem of poesy “My Rosary.” I’ve got it at last—seems as tho’ we can always find good things, if we are honest in our search—and hope it will appeal as strong ly to my readers as it did to me, when that young lady, from St. Paul, sang it to us, in the dining room, over a year ago. Dr. b rank Arthur Heath has a partner. It is a curious partnership for charitable work, like politics, sometimes makes strange bed-fellows We will call the little doctor s partner William,” for the excellent rea ron that that is not his name. Now, Dr. Heath is a man of God and head of the Seattle Brotherhood League Club, which keeps “The Open Door,” on King St., in wbat was the old Arcade dance hall. The door is wide open, night and day, the year ’round, for down-and-out men. Now, W illiam is not a man of God. He admits he has been here and there during the course of a roaming aud adventurous life, and he has done this and that. He has been up against all sorts of curious games and has exchanged wallops with Fate many times and oft. “I sometimes despair,” said the doctor to William recently. “It is so difficult to lead these men to Jesus.” “Lead them to a ham sandwich first,” advised William. “William,” said the doctor another time, “how is it you have never been converted? I have watched you. William. I have observed your sympathy for these men. Surely, you have Christian sentiment?” iam,” be said. Doc,” said William, “I understand you like a book. You’re a good man. Aou were converted at tbe age of 11. You’ve always been good. That’s wbv you don’t understand me. I’m glad you don’t. We’re a team, Doc. You furnish the Christian sentiment. I furnish tbe under standing. Alone, we’re neither of us complete. Together, they can’t beat us. Let it go at that.” So the little doctor is the spiritual head and William is the temporal head of The Open Door.” Tbe little doctor preaches the sermons, teaches the Bible classes. William puts the drunks to bed, sobers them up, finds jobs for them. William buys the groceries and meats, pays the bills, runs the lunch counter, collects old clothes. It’s a comedy life,” says William, “and I’m wondering what my old friends would say if they knew. But I like it. Don’t get any wrong no tions about why I’m here. I can’t fall for this religion stuff, and I’ve told the doctor so. It hurts his feelings. My talk’s rough, too, and it bothers him —hurts his ear-drums —but it’s the only language I know.” Don’t imagine, either, that William is a common criminal. He feels nothing but pity and contempt for the stick-up man, tbe strong-arm man, the brute who would “roll a drunk.” “Nothiug rough,” says William. “I’m all for classy work that’s in side the law. When you roll a drunk, you’re lucky if you get a nickel — and it’s highway robbery. Bur if a guy walks up to you and urges you to accept a large sum of money for nothing and thanks you kindly for do ing it —w r ell, far be it from William to turn him down.” There is nothing extraordinary about William’s outward appearauce. He is a well-set-up man, ou the right sideof 40, with bright, shrewd eyes and a good mouth, which, when he smiles, as he frequently does, discloses perfect teeth of dazzling whiteness. He’s a bit of a bully, as one soon learns when he has entered “The Open Door.” Theoretically his hours are from nine to nine. Actually he works all hours, wandering restlessly through the streets of the old restricted district, turning into alleys, entering tough saloons, looking for brands to be snatched from the burning. lie has a positive genius for being on hand when there is mischief doing. He prides himself on being able to get to a drunken man before the policeman on the beat. In a trice he has him through “The Open Door.” In two shakes he has hisclothes off. Before you could say “Jack Robinson” the drunk is in the tub, having, perhaps, ihe first bath in his life “ln you go,” says William, and the drunk is in a cot, covered to the chin, and snoring. Out at 6:30 in the morning, shaky and penitent, the wayward one has a heart-to-heart talk with William. Breakfast, and, if needed, a second hand coat. A job, maybe. “Services tonight,” says William, “and if you don’t show up I’ll knock your block off. The doctor’s going to preach on ‘Come unto Me, all ye who are heavy laden.’ It’ll do you good to hear him. ‘Laden’! You were ‘heavy laden’ last night, all right. To the guaids, my boy! So mind you, show up on time, or I’ll go get you. And what I’ll do to you’ll l>e a-plenty.” The hours I spent with thee, dear heart Are as a string of pearls to me, I count them over —every one apart, Lach hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer J o still a heart in absence w T rung, I tell each bead until the end—and there A cross is hung. Oh, memories that bless —and burn, Oh, barren gain—and bitter loss, I kiss tach bead and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross. 9 9 9 William Is Not A Man Of God But He Knows the Ham-Sandwich Gospel and so He Helps the Little Doctor Guide the Down-and-outers Through the Open Door. From a Seattle Newspaper It isn’t Christian sentiment. It’s justice,” said William. The little doctor sighed. “I confess I don’t understand you, Wiil- I don’t know what I would do without William,” says the doctor Gorner My Rosary My Rosary ;! f '