The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1914-04-23
THE WAY OF THE
TRANSCRESSOR
A Very Pretty Little Story Written by
an Inmate of the EImira, n. y.
Reformatory, and Published In the
Summary.
BRAND FROM BURNING

6KAND KUN 6OKNlNS
The grim puff and shrek of the
Old Mother Hubbard announced
again the advent of coal train to
the hill country. Successive puffs
and signals of the forward engine to
the pusher in the rear failed to over
come that unseen force, which holds
back at times the power of men.
The escaping steam and the chug-
chug OF the engine finally entered
in one last effort which announced
defeat. The grade could not be
made. With the stopping of the
train a much hesmeared individual
emerged from the region of the bum
pers of coal car at the rear.
Through the patches of coal dust one
could not help but recognize the un-
mistakeable marks of good breeding.
A few lines in the forehead suggest
ed trouble as well as the character
istics peculiar to dissipation. Even
then his head throbbed from the eff
fects of long carousal, which &C
counted for his present predicament.
Where he was he knew not, but be-
ing accusomed to the eccentricties
of life he took this as a matter of
course. Carelessly he inspected the
surrounding landscape, stretched
himself, yawned. and reached for
the evitable tobacco. At that mo-
ment passing brakeman announced
that another engine had been sent
for, and that No. 3 would be held up
for forty minutes.
The Outcast
Nonchalant.y he lighted ciga-
rette and wandered up the track
Fortunately the delay had occurred
near one of those quaint villages
that dot the hill! country of Northern
New York. Struggled at the foot
of the mountain bathed in the moon
light. it spelled home to the lone
observer. He who had drifted on
the ocean of life for the past ten
years; he who deserted all, who had
come to forget all that bore any
sem blance of good; he who had
broken the hearts of loved ones.
What right had he to recall me-
mories of the past? He the scum
of humanity; he who was a living
example Of that subtle temper That
Stingeth Like An Adder"
AS he gazed at the scene below
him lights began to twinkle from the
semi-darkness, and there, nesting
under some stately elms be noted
little church, then a smile over
spread his face as there came to his
besotted brain the memory of how
years before, he IN church had listen
ed with childish rapture, as a little
girl the sweetheart of bygone days
had sung that Xmas carol dear to us
all.
ooh little town of Bethlehem
How deep we see thee lie
Amid thy deep and dreamless sleep
| The silent stars go BY
How like that scene of long ago
thought he. AS if he were lead by
an unseen hand-he was drawn to
the chapel and paused before the
open door. He drew back with a
start as he looked within. What
trick of fate had brought him here?
His Sweetheart
There in the pulpit stood the same
old minister whom he had known
years before. As his glance wan
dered to the choir loft. he shuddered
his lips quivered. There in her
accustomed place sat the ideal of his
boylsh dreams, Dora Perkins. Now
with the rounded features of wo-
manhood she exemplified the angel
he had pictured in his widest fancy.
With the closing strains of Old
Hundred and the solemn amen our
friend listened intently for the text.
Finally the feeble voice of the old
pastor, drifted out on the evening
air. The way of the transgressor
is hard" If he but knew the truth
of that statement thought our friend.
His gaze seemed held to the
throng within. There, we'll to the
front was the family pew. He could
picture for the moment, the mother,
father and little sister who were
wont to gather there on Sundays in
years gone by. Now others occu-
pied it. A few faces he recognized.
Yes old Deacon Henderson still re-
manned and there was Uncle Joe
Hooker who had smoothed the way
out of many a boyish difficulty. The
Uncle to everyone-rhe advisor of
the village at large.
Why had he left them all? Why
had he cast his lot in that city?