Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1857-10-21

would to have heard his fame.
Bending forward to take every muttered tone
in her ears, the absence of the one she sought
fell on her heart like want.
She begged the keeper to let her go through
the prlson-s.It may be he has changed his
nama, and will know the voice of his poor old
mother"
The man could not refuse, rough-hearted as
he was, and soon his lantern was lighted, and,
taking huge bunch of keys from an iron safe,
proceeded to lead the way.
The aged mother noticed her companion no
longer; her old eyes glistened, her step was
not now so faltering, as she followed on with
hope in her heart, though often so sorely dis
appointed.
SO, Willie!'' she cried, as she entered a.
mong the cells, sswill you hear the voice of
your poor mother, and speak to me, if you
are here ?''
So from cell to cell she went, uttering with
tremendous voice, sWillie Byron! are you
here? You needn't shame to be known. The
world may say what it will, but your mother
loves you still.'' Old men wept to hear her;
the icy fountain of their tears burst, and found
vent through the head pumps, as the sailor says.
Young men hid their heads to think of their
own mothers, forsaken and left to shame and
sorrow. But no answer came to give her heart
its long and sole desire.
Through all the passes of the prison she
went, all that the light of day could visit and
now the iron door of the great dungeon lets
them in. She shuddered as the changing door
fell back, to think it possible to find her dar-
ling there. The lantern was raised to the CRATES,
as each prisoner was called forward to receive
the scrutiny of those tear-wet eyes.
go Willie, Willie Byron, are you here my
dear boy, are you here in this dark place If
you hear me, Willie, it's your poor old mother
that speaks, and you'll answer me for the MEM
DRY of the time when you were a little child.
o, Willie Byron, are you here Speak fo-
the love of your old mother, who loves you,
whatsoever you have done; let me see you
once more! o God, let me see him once be-
fore die %
She turned from disappointment after disap-
pointment, her wrinkled face to heaven, and
supplicated God to help her.
The hard, rough keeper, stood fixed with
wonder, and touch of the human seemed to
vibrate in his bosom, for he stood sullenly still
and scowled without fixing his eyes anywhere,
or moving them-sure mark that such a na-
ture has been humanity stirred. He suffered
the lantern to be taken from his hand by the
poor mother, whose strange words thrilled the
darkest lairs of crime, and started tears where
they would never flow but in the dark. Not a
doomed felon in that blackest cave of penalty
that Knocked her, and, alas not one that an
sweredsher darling's name.
Another blank in the long annals of her aw-
ful search and the poor mother, struck by
another blow, went farther into the open air.
to wander-whither2
CHAPTER II.-TuE LOST FOUND.
Down seven stone steps, topped by that iron
door which more than eight years ago received
a form 1t had not let pass out, two persons trod;
the one a kind. good hearted man, who had
superseded the cruel keeper of former times
in his office; the other, an aged woman lean
ing on his arm.
"The man you seek, perhaps, is this way"
said the attentive guide.
ssGod bless you, sir. 1 shall be happy if it
proves so, for came to this very door near
seven years ago, and the man who could not
done less to a robber, wouldn't let me in here,
and many and many mile have walked, by
the help of kind charity, only to come back
to this place again, and now 1 am just ready to
die if my hope fails here.'
The prisoners attracted by the light, came
forward to their windows, and even among the
deepest sunk in crime, there shone some hui
man meaning in the glances they bestowed
upon their keeper, for he had sought by kind
ness to undo the wrongs which hate and the
worlds scorn with their own dark passions had
done to them.
ssFar ahead is a prisoner. could wish, if
you will find your son, it were he. When
came here, there was in the foulest dungeon
of the prison, a hard, sour man, bitterly taunt-
ing every one to whom he was allowed to
speak.
The former keeper had abused him beyond
the measure of his common abuse, andia proud
spirit that would not break, only turned from
vain revenge to sullen hate. / went into his
cell to take his chains off, which had been left
on him without warrant, and though spoke
with kindness, he trusted me not, but struck
me with the manacles from which had freed
him, very cruel blow. 1 told him / should
not use my privilege to whip and chain him
for it, as the law allowed, and for all private
wrongs he had my forgiveness. He was silent
and savage, and for all my notice, remained
so for days. At last 1 wrung a reply from
him. I asked him to be man, for he was yet
to go among men.
bitterly.