The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1915-09-09
Sleep has sights as clear and true
AS any waking eyes can view"

Dreams are the keys that unlock
prison doors and give to the unfor-
tunate inmate weird and fantastic
night journey thru various fields of
activity in the great outside world.
From the rosy dawn OF early
morn until the shades of even-tide
have been drawn across the thresh-
old of the departing day, we are vexed
and worried by the problems of life;
but at retiring time we turn to cur
couch, not only to rest our bodies,
but, also, to find in Sunderland a
sur-cease from the goadings of con-
science, and from the painful men,
cries of other days.
In the Silly watches of the night
we are gathered in the arms of Nor
pheus, who, by some occult power,
ignoring such plebian things as steel
gratings and concrete walls. carries
us with giant strides DER hill and
vale, past waving fields of golden
grain and verdant meadows, where
flowing streams add ripping melody
to the night. Swiftly we pass the
mile stones of life and soon are in
the land of our youth. Years have
been gathered into the historic an
nails of the past. Changes have
been wrot in many things, but we
see ii not. All is as when we start
ed out in the world seeking fame and
fortune Fame and fortune! All
me; to many of us it has been ILL.,
fame and misfortune.
The first face we behold is that
dearest of all faces, the face of she
who passed thru The valley of the
shadow Of DEATH that we might
have life. Mothers face is the
first to fasten itself upon our men,
DRY. In our dreams we may see
her in the prime of life, with glossy
hair, and eyes that reflect the glCry
OF motherhood; or her hair NAV be
silvered gray with the frosts of many
winters. But whether in the bouy-
ancy of virile womanhood, or in the
bent figure of enfeebled age, she ap-
pears to us in our dreams, she is our
mother.
Mother, whose tender words were
as Balm in Gilead" that healed the
real or fancied wounds that were in
ficted at the hands of our play
mates. Mother, the friend who
soothed the aching heart when the
petty sorrows of childhood over
came US. Mother, who with the
hoar-frost of ED resting as a crown
of glory upon her head, sits on the
mourner's bench amid the sadden-
lug scenes of court room, her own
loving heart near breaking with
grief because of the misdoings of
her offspring; but still our friend.
Or we may see her as we did in the
long ago, when the Silent Reaper"
was garnering another sheaf in the
harvest of death. We may remem-
Der the promise we gave to her as
she drew us to her bosom heaving
in the last throes of death; the prom
Use that we would be good boy
always" We may see her as we
did just before the coffin lid was
closed for the last time, forever
hiding from view the face of the
best friend man ever had. All
other friends(? )may desert us in the
hour of trouble and dire need, but
Mother, living. is our friend still.
If dead, her loving face appears to
us in our dreams to implant anew
the erstwhile blasted hopes of our
sorrow-laden lives.
Another face that appears to us
in our dreams is one that we recog-
nize at once as An old sweetheart
of mine." And in memory's retro
spect we traverse again the winding
pathway of the past to the long ago
when in the halcyon days of youth
we met maid whose mystic charm