The Ellensburg dawn. [volume] (Ellensburg, Wash.) 1898-1914, 1902-07-05

There is a silence in the hall; every
face is stamped with deep and awful
responsibility. Why turns every glance
to the door? Why is it so terribly still?
The committee of three who have been
out all night planning parchment are
about to appear.
The parchment. with the signatures
of these men written with the pen lying
on yOnder table, may either make the
world free, or stretch these necks on
the gibbet yonder in the potter's field,
or nail these heads to the door-pOsts OF
these halls.
That was time for solemn faces and
deep silence. At last: bark. The door
opened and the committee appear.
Who are these men who come walking
on to John Hancock's chair? The tall
man with the sharp features, the bold
brow and the sand-husd hair, holding
the parchment in his hand, is the Nir-
gina farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That
stout built man with the resolute look
and sparkling eye is Boston man, one
John Adams. The calm-faced man
with hair dropping in thick curls to his
shoulders, dressed in a plain coat and
such odous homemade blue stockings:
that is the Philadelphia printer, Ben
jamin Franklin.
The three advanced to the table.
The parchment is laid there. Shall it
be signed or not? Then ensues a high
debate: then all the faint-hearted cringe
into corners while Thomas Jefferson
speaks out his bold words, and John
Adams pours out his whole soul The
soft toned voice of Charles Carroll is
heard undulating in sylabes of deep
music. But still there is doubt, and
that pail-faced man cringing in one cor
ner squeaks out something about axes,
scatrold and gibbet
"Gibbet," echoes a fierce, bold tone
that startle men from their seats, and
look. A tall, slender form raises, dress
ed although it is summer time, in
faded red cloak.
Look how his white hand trembles as
it is stretched slowly out; that dark eye
burns as his words ring through the
hall.
"Gibbet." They may stretch our
necks on all the gibbets in the land;
they may turn every rock into a scat
fold, every tree into gallows, every
home into a grave; and yet the words
of that parchment can never die. They
may pour our blood on a thousand
scaffods, and yet from every drop that
dyes the ak, or fall on the block, a new
martyr to freedom will spring into
birth
The British king may blot the stars
of God from his sky, but he cannot blot
out his words on the parchment here.
The work of God may perish, but his
words, never.
These words will 90 forth to all the
world when our homes are in dust. 10
the slave in bondage they will speak
hope; to the mechanic in his workshop,
freedom.
To the coward kings these words
shall speak, but not in terms of flattery.
They will speak like the flaming sylla-
bles of Belshazzar's wall: 1.-THE days
of your pride and glory are numbered.
The day OF judgment draws near. y
Yes, that, that parcment will speak to
kings in language sad, terrible as the
trumpet of an archangel. You have
trampled on the rights of mankind long
enough. At last the voice OF human
woe has pierced the ear of God and
called His judgement down. You have
waded on to the thrones through seas
of blood; you have trampled on tC
power over the necks of millions; you
have turned the poor mans sweat and
blood into robes for your delicate forms
-iuto crowns for your annointed brows
Now, kings. Now, purpled hangmer
of the world. For you comes the day
Of axes, scafrolds and gibbets; fol
you the wrath of man; for you the
lightning of God.
Look. Ho, the light of your palace or
fire flashes up into the midnight sky
Now, purpled hangmen of the world
turn and beg for mercy! where will yot
find it?
Not from God, for you have bias
phemed his law. Not from the people
for you stand baptized in their blood
There and scifold stares you in the
face.