The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1912-10-17
Vol. XXVI.-No. IL

A barb-wire fence marks the last
of the American frontier in the des-
ert of the Colorado, the line be-
tween California and Lower Cali
fornia.
On the north side of the fence
Americans have stood and watched
revolution in progress on the south
side. They have seen town taken
by insurgents, men killed and
government buildings burned,
and they have shaken hands with
rebel generals across the fence.
They have seen troops attempt to
retake the town and retire defeated,
and after watching battle and lis
tening to the hum of bullets through
an afternoon, they have gone to
their homes and their peaceful af-
fairs, as from show, at the fall of
the curtain OF night. In one of the
little towns of the Imperial Valley,
north of the barb-wire fence, the
editor of local paper was reading
his proofs, and he barely glanced up
as young man in well-worn cordu-
roy entered the room and laid some
papers carelessly on the table at his
elbow.
Perhaps you may want to print
that; if not, your waste paper bag is
big" The young man spoke the
words curtly, turned and went away,
and the editor looked neither at him
nor the papers he had left, but re-
tanned vague impression from his
cursory glance that the fellow was
young, roughly dressed, and possibly
a sort of hobo. Wanderers of that
type, previously rare in the desert,
had appeared in numbers since
the waves had begun breaking
against the barb-wire fence, and
they were drifting back and forth
across the line.
When the days work was done,
the editor picked up the manuscript
so neglegently left, aud read it. And
them he went out upon the streets
of Ell Centro and searched for the
man in corduroy, but with little
hope of finding him, for he had not
fixed face or form in memory and
there was no signature to the manu-
script. The search was futile.
The editor took the manuscript
across the street to the editor of the
other local paper. and they agreed
that it was not country newspaper
stuff" and that it would be unfair
to the unknown author of "A Little
Dream of Empire" to accept his care
less gift and let his story live but a
brief hour and be buried in their
files with the news of the day.
This is all we know of the origin
of the story. 1t is vivid sketch
of Mexicali and the Mexican insur-
rection. and if it as good tale to
you and we think it is, it is worthy
a larger audience than we can COM
mand for it.
Our country, right or wrong, still
our country, is the Cry of the Ameri-
cans, here and abroad and the cry
of Southern Mexico is, My
Mexico"
Mexico, we may talk lightly of
your judgment but we cannot talk
lightly of your courage. We may
deem your fight for liberty futile,
but we pause in admiration at your
noble attempt at achievement.
Write futile against the sun kiss
ed hills Of Southern Mexico, write
defeat out upon the blueness of their
sky, and you drag down their hopes,
the aims and aspirations of centuries;
down into the dust of dispair.
Blot out all hopes of final victory
and you create a tragedy akin to
the tear-sprinkled agony-filled Geth-
semane Garden, in which the car
penter of Nazereth met his hour of
dispair. In giving you this sketch
| place forget-me-not upon that
far off lonely desert grave, III which
lies a youth who dreamed golden
dream-a visionary who saw glori-
GUS day of freedom-one leader of