The pioneer express. [volume] (Pembina, Dakota [N.D.]) 1883-1928, 1916-05-19

VOWotN th0 WuoTk oSeu % IL Su0 SuatoU
the feeling Of friendliness and leaned
lovingly towards the crowd that she was
so soon to leave behind.
The captain was on the hurricane
aeck walking back and forth casting i'm.
patient glances at the burrying roust.
abouts with the last loads of freight;
the whistle had blown for the second
warning. the bell began to toll for the
last OF the passengers to hurry on board
aud the friends who were not TO go to
hurry tolthe wharf, while men took their
places at the moorlng piles ready to
quickly obey the command OF the cap
tain to 'Cast.off."
Just then down from the street came
to the wharfa hurrying bus but delayed
Tor Gbvi0us'reasons until the last.moment.
From this carriage descended several
police and they in turn assisted four or
tive men to alight, the latter being chain
ed one to the other. They were the pro-
duct of the district court held the day
before and were on their way to Thomas
ton state prison to serve the terms to
which they had received righteous sen.
tences.
They stood there waiting until the last
loads offreight we're trundled down in
to the depths of the steamer where they
would follow to make their fifty mile
trip, apart from Curiosity and thus to
begin their long separation from their
fellowmen. They stood with looks
averted, they had no interest in that
busy throng SO full of life; they we're 60.
ing to temporary death with no mourn.
ers at their funeral.
The crowd gazed at them with emotions
akin to those we feel when at the circus
or museum we see the Wild and disgust
ing hyena snarling behind the bars of
his cage. These were but animals and
dangerous to humanity. There was no
pity for these outcasts, only fear against
the class and relief that these at least
we're to be placed for time where they
could not harm society.
But suddenly, from among the silent
by.standers came cry, long wailing
cry. almost rythmecal lament. like 1t
was song of sorrow. 1t was Rachel
mourning for her first born, even as
David sang in his sadness '.Absalom, my
son. Absalom." Couched in Irish brogue
mingled with Celtic enderaments that
lament went echoing over the crowded
platforms and up to the crowded galleries
of passengers on the boat. Above the
noises of escaping steam, above the roar
of traffic, came the Irish mothers wild
lament and as she rushed through the
Gordon of bluecoats and threw her arms
;.bout the neck of her boy with the tears
streaming down her aged cheeks, that
touch of mother.love made the whole
world akin.
The spectators forgot that the son was
a "plug.ugly" who had been born and
raised on the Devils Half-Acre'' IN
that same city, they forgot that he was
we'll knowp as desperate criminal. that
he was only human hyena in cage,
the only thing they heard was that wild
Irish cadence, all they saw were those
mother tears.
Amid the rugged rocks of crimlnality,
among the arid sands of vice, throughia
crust of sordid ignorance had sprung a
clear beautiful spring-and the spring
was all the more beautiful because of
the contrast with its surroundings.
Most Of those passengers and friends
and prisoners have long ago passed to
their final destinations, but the memory
of how that mother.love changed the
feelings of that careless crowd, how
those precious mother. tears washed out
the feelings Of bitterness from the on
lockers and perchance from the crimi-
nails, will always remain with the writer
as long as he lives.