The prison mirror. [volume] (Stillwater, Minn.) 1887-1894, 1891-06-25
Five Gents.
Prisoners.

From somewhere comes an old story of a
prisoner. This man was chained in cell,
bound hand and foot. Scant motion his
chains allowed; he could scarcely move
limb, and his days and nights he spent in
lamenting his miserable fate.
His captor sent him broom with the
message, :'Sweep your cell and you shall
be free" Free! The man laughed scorn-
fully. What power had he to sweep his
cell? He could but move his hands little
to and fro.
Came the message again, ''Sweep your
cell and you shall be free" Desparingly,
and with bitter smile, the man took his
broom. and as we'll as he could cleared the
place at his feet. His strokes were feeble
and uncertain, but as he swept. 10. the
chains hung lighter on his arms. He moved
them more freely. The long unused mus
cles began to work. Longer and longer
grew his strokes. larger and larger the
space he cleared, family and more family
he felt the weight of his fetters. Filled
with wonder and Joy he rose slowly to his
feet. and with an almost forgotten energy
walked back and forth. sweeping now with
glad haste which soon brought him free
dom.
Throughout the world are many such
prisoners-prisOners none the less that the
walls of their cells are invisible, and to the
eyes OF others the captives walk as free men
up and down beneath the open sky. We
are bound fast and sure. and by chains
which encircle our bodies and souls more
firmly than bands OF iron. Sometimes the
chains have been forged by love, and we
would not break them if we could. for when.
we try they cut into our hearts as knife,
and liberty purchased with bleeding heart
is dearly bought; sometimes they are forged
by circumstances whose chains are light and
slender. but strong; sometimes by necessity,
whose bondage is hard and sore; sometimes
by fear of ridicule; often, how very often,
by our own reluctance and prOcrastinatiOn.
These are the hardest of all to break.
They may stretch. but afterward they
tighten the more, and though prone to the
earth, we mourn our incapacity. we lose
daily the strength to break the chains which
daily drag more and more heavily. Our
virtue is gone. we cry. Why mock us with
hopes we can never realize? Let us lie
here until we die.
Grant that the power to sweep the whole
little to and fro. Enough to clear the
space at our feet. Enough to brush away
tri1e of the dust which clouds our eyes.
that more light may fall through. 1t is
true we may never do the great deeds of
which we once dreamed. Few are the
blessed hands to whom it is given to sweep
broad path where the feet of others may
walk securely, but the spot. though small
and cramped, to which we are chained
might be made purer and brighter because
it is we who are chained there.
And as we strive-who can tell?-it may
be strange strength will stir in our long
fettered limbs; mystical grace may rest on
the determined effort to break the bonds of
lifelong repression. 1t may be that the
strokes will grow stronger and braver.
That wider and wider may become the cir.
Gle we can reach. 1t might even be that
somewhere, perhaps near. perhaps afar off.
prisoner as hopeless and desolate as ever
we have felt will see the struggle, and into
his heart it will put fresh courage For
every prisoner who sits to-day grieving 81.
lently his wasted captivity, his forlorn help
lessness. there is message. ''Sweep! chat
way lies reedom!"-Harper's Bazar.