The prison mirror. [volume] (Stillwater, Minn.) 1887-1894, 1889-11-28

Gal ilIS HcI lIllduG SlSlcI Ill HcT arms. IL
was late. almost nine o'clock, and oh! how
tired her little frail limbs were. and how she
wished her sister would 20 to sleep. In
tently she watched those bright little eyes
looking up into hers. but no signs of drOwsi.
ness appeared in them. Little Fanny was
no exception to those angels in human form,
sent to cheer us on our way over life's
stormy sea. and she cOOed and gambOed
wholly unconscious of the fatigue of her
sister.
Taine's mother had been carried to her
last resting place that day. and the tall.
slender man was her father Two months
after the birth Of Fanny, her mother had
passed away to that bright and happy land
of whose glory and peace she had so often
talked about to her child.
Her father. Mr.. Arthur Blanchard. was
a painter who in disp aging h S rare genius
was rapidly rising to fame and honor. He
loved his wife with love bordering on il
sanity: her death was a terrible blow to
him, and he staggered under the force of it.
The summer months passed rapidly
away. Those months full of pleasure
and sport to other children were season
of grief and bereavement to little Tame.
Not so much on account of the loss of her
mother. but because of her fathers deep
dependency. He. wholly unable to con-
troll his grief. abandoned his profession.
forgot his two motherless children and gave
himself up to despair. Dark and drealW
| indeed was life to him. now that he
was bereft of her who had been his
all i'm all.
Little Tame struggled bravely against the
hard fate that was her lot. and endeavOred
| to please and cheer her father but to no
purpose. Laughingly she used to tell him
that she was now his little hOuSekeeper.
out he needed not her brave efforts. but
gazed glOOmily into the glowing embers of
the fireplace.
| AS the summer wore away and autumn
arrayed nature in its thousand beautiful
cOlors. he grew more Respondent than ever.
and sought to drown his grief in the spark
ing winecup. AS he now never touched
either brush or palette, want stepped into his
home. and one by one his paintings We're
disposed of to supply bare necessities.
When at last none remained. SuperfluOuS
furniture went the same way. Deeper and
deeper he went down until nothing re-
manned OF his once happy home but some
rude furniture;hiS children almost i'm tatterS,
and himself a ruin in soul and body.
1t was the night before Thanksgiving.
The unhappy man walked along the street
towards the miserable place he called his
home. The fowls in the butchers shop re-
minded him of the morrow. He telt in his
pocket. but all his search brought forth was
few pennies. Disappointed he threw them
back into his coat pocket and muttered:
Thanksgiving! Time honored custom.
| What thrills of joy and unalloyed happiness
did it not awake i'm my breast. when l was
boy and roamed over the fields and wood
lands of grandfather's farm! All! what
would give to live those happy days over
again. when unacQuainted with sorrow
and care would coax grandmother to let
me into the mysterious kitchen to see the
turkey roasting in the oven. and inhale the
| OdOr of the luscious pies! Alas! tits folly to
wish it. now that I've drank to the. dregs
the bitter cup held to my lips. when all
that l held dear and sacred lies stiff and
cold beneath the snow. Curse Thanksgiv
ing! What have | to thank God for. who
has blasted my happiness and shattered all
my hopes and ambitions!''
He turned down a side street. entered a
coal dealers shop. and laying his few re-
naming pennies on the counter. asked in
a husky voice for some charcoal. A ter
rble determination to take his own and his
children'S lives had taken possession of him.
and strange, unnatural light cleaned
i'm his eyes.
Taking the bundle under his arm he re-
gained the street. and turned down a lane
towards his home. The cold November
blast chilled him and he drew his thin.
threadbare coat closer around him.
Yes. there's nothing now to live for"
he muttered. Nothing better? yes. thou
sand times better to die and be out of mis-
cry. and grief of this living hell. AS for
the children. they'll be better off when they
too are dead" he added with bitter laugh.
''They'll he angels i'm heaven. All. the
charcoal will soon do its deadly work. and
when to mOrrOw's sun shall rise our misery
will be over forever
All. dear reader. How many unhappy
beings. driven by despair and grief have
cOurted death with the same Terrible lnnrinr