The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1899-12-23

1o,,ed +o lavish her fairest gifts, is now
~ careworn. heart-brOken woman
Notbing but the thought of leaving her
children. his children, without pro-
tactor could induce her to prolOuS %
iife Of agony. She fears that despite
oil bar EFFORTS she must succumb. And
This dread rends still more II tWera
possible, her agonized heaIt-
..yVben will papa come nome ma
asked the eldest of her children, with
n LONGING expression into the pallid
caravvorn cOuntenance of his mother
.sIIusb dear answered the mother
with a Dang. ''He will come soon [
hone. And. my own dear little Eddy
don't ask that question any more or
you'll tear my very hearI out or my
breast. and then what would little Eddy
and little Sissy do for poor ma -
ooh. ma, dear. don't say that ple8d+
ed the little innocent. Il only asked DC
because papa used to kiss me so often
We'll. little cherub. III perform his
part today. There now, go to sleep
and the loving mother. having kissed
her first-bOrn, strained him to her
breast and fundIed the weeping child
until he slept. and then gazing around
at her desolate home. bent down her
wearied head on her infants breast
and wept the bitter tears Of misery.
And where is he for whose absence
those warm tears so cOpiously flow.
Dying a death, the more horrible that
it is prolonged in a prison cell. He had
loved his native land too well; he
struck a blow for her freedom, and he
lost his own in the struggle. The
mercy of the Crown" was extended To
him, and instead of suffering a few
moments agony, her Majesty was
graciously pleased" to consign him for
the remainder of his life to a lonely
cell.
And there he is on that particular
Christmas. thinking of the beloved ones
that are far away. Seated on a totLer-
ing chair, and his head rested on his
outstretched hands, his thoughts are
busy, and he heaves a sigh as he re
members how happily he spent the last
Christmas.
And then the recollection of his wife's
dream comes into his head, and, start
ing up, ne sOliloquized:
''Ah. yes. my Camilla. you were not
deceived. Was it a dream after all?
And shall l never see you again, my
darling wife? Shall / never more press
your chaste lips or fondle my innocent
children? Shall / live here for the re-
mainder of my days, lonely-lonely as
a corpse in its shrOud? At times, too,
how strange l feel. What wild phan-
toms cross my diseased mind How [
seem to feel something departing from
me, which | would fain keep posses
sion of! Oh, God, not yet. Take not
away my senses until l see her, see
them once more"
Shall his prayeT-the prayer of a
wretched. mayhap despalring man-be
heard? Let the sequel show.
Once more. merry old Christmas,
thou has made thine appearance
amongst US, bringing in thy train an
n
and. it may be, an increase Of sorrow
to the sorrowful
And how does it fare with our ac-
quaintances of the past? Is the chair
still deserted. or do the babbling child
rem still lisp the name of an absent ia
Their? Is that sorrow-stricken mother
as unhappy as before, and does the
'felon" still wear away the strength
of his manhood in a Lonely cell?
All, reader, we would wish that ours
was not the pen to chronicle the de-
tails Of such misery.
The once happy the chivalrOus, the
noble Edward OCOnnOr has succumbed
to the load of wretchedness that
weighed upon him. At first he became
morose, then flighty, and eventually
lost his mind completely. No longer is
the fire of youthful energy in his Ian
guild, meaningless eye, and that once
proud and manly gait has given place
to a dropping, liStless shuttle.
When the requirements of justice mad
brought him to this condition, the
mercy of the crown was graciously
extended to the 'felOn," and he left the
gloomy prison an insane and ruined
man. He is seOted in the same draw
ing room in which we introduced him
to our readers, but how changed! His
wife, far more worn and miserable than
when we last saw her, is seated near
her innocent" husband, with her beau
tiful children leaning on her Top. She
is gazing with a craving. devourlng
look into the face of her unconscious
Edward, as if hoping to discover there
a glimpse of returning reason. But no.
all is hstless unmeaning.
What ails papa that ne doesn't give
me kiss?'
The question comes from the younger
of the children, and she timidly ap-
proacheS the unconscious father, and
without opposition presses her little in
nocent lips TO his cheek. The touch
seemed to rouse him, and, looking on
the little upturned face that earnestly
pleaded for a kiss in return, he gently
pushed the child away, and in a COM
planning, melancholy tone, said:
Why don you bring me home? Oh,
will / never see Mile, my darling wife,
again?"
"Oh, you do see her, dearest eX-
claimed the wife. kissing his marble
lips, shes here before you. my own
Eddy. Don't you know your own
Millie?"
"Oh, go away; you're not my Millie.'
and he tried to push her away, and,
bursting into tears, he wept like lit
tie child.
But why dwell longer on so painful
a scene? Better far better to draw
the veil of obscurity over it end leave
that lonely mother to weep over her
ruined happiness.
Reader, if you are happy at this
blissful season-and that you are is
the earnest wish of the writer of these
lines-do not forget that the wives and
children of some of those noble patrt-
OTIS who loved their country mot wise
ly, but too well' are in need of your
kindly assistance. On. do not forget
them, and believe me, you win not be
without your reward
THE DYING YEAR.