He flung himself face down upon the gra.s.s, Alone between the living and the dead, And wept and prayed beside the lonely grave Until in sorrow's slumber sunk his head.

They found him in the morning, stiff and cold, His hands clasped o'er his mother's lowly grave, His head upon its turf, as though he thought That turf the bosom his poor heart had craved.

Upon his pallid cheeks the trace of tears Showed in the glowing ray of morning's sun, But o'er that face there shone a wondrous peace, A smile of joy now all his life was done.

Men marveled that he looked so young again Despite his crown of sorrow-silvered hair, And tender-hearted women sighed and wept And smiled to think that they had found him there.

Ah! G.o.d is good! with loving tenderness He saw the sad, repentant soul alone Weep out his sin upon his mother's grave, And gently led the weary wanderer home.

This we believe: That now in Heaven's street The mother and her son are reconciled, And all the pain and sin of earth below Are blotted out, and he is G.o.d's own child.

--_Hattie F. Crocker, in Union Signal._

IF WE KNEW.

If we knew the heart's sad sighing In the secret hour; If we knew the bitter crying O'er the tempter's power, Slower would we be to censure, Kinder in reproof; From the erring, peradventure, We would not stand aloof.

If we knew the hard, stern struggle Of the one who fell, Toiling on 'mid grief and trouble That none but G.o.d can tell, Our thoughts, perhaps, would be kinder, Our help more pitiful-- Be of G.o.d's love a reminder To the tempted soul.

If we knew the fierce temptation, Could we feel the pain Of the deep humiliation, The tears shed all in vain, We, perchance, would be more gentle, Our tones more tender be; O'er his fault we'd draw the mantle Of fervent charity.

If we knew how dark and cheerless Seem the coming years, We might then appear more fearless Of each other's cares.

Could our eyes pierce through the smiling Of the face so calm, See the bitter self-reviling, We'd apply the balm.

Did we walk a little nearer To Jesus in the way, Hear His voice a little clearer We would know how to pray.

He has words of comfort given That we to them should speak, Ere the hopeless soul is driven His faith with G.o.d to break.

We shall know each other better, The mists shall roll away; Nevermore we'll feel the fetter Of this toil-worn clay.

Only let us love each other, 'Tis our Lord's command, To each fainting friend or brother Reach a helping hand.

--_Anna L. Dreyer, of Missionary Training Home at Tabor, Iowa._

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 crying Will 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d.--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 n.o.ble men as G.o.d e'er gave; I saw them fall from honor's joys To 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 mine Linked to a kingly bridegroom's side; Her heart was proud and light as thine, Oh, would to G.o.d 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 woe A 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 pa.s.sionate 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 "breadt.o.s.s.e.rs" 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.