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OUR NEW STORY
We had planned to give you the first installment this week, but have
decided to let it come to you first in the Christmas number.
We feel sure you will vote this story
THE BEST YET
We are going to leave you guessing even as to the title, bnt give you
this incite —it throbs and scintilates with real, living life. It’s characters
for the greater part like most of those in The Mission Girl are not
imaginary, but real people, fighting real battles, learning and teaching real
lessons, in real walks of life. And could you through the occult powers
lift the veil of mystery that a change of name and scene or circumstance
throws about them, you might meet them face to face. So prepare to fol
low them through the mystic mazes of this intensely interesting story.
Shameful to relate, he was in jail. A strange
place for a twelve-year-old boy with a soul and
heart.
The jailer had telephoned me one cold wintry
night that the boy was in a spasm of crying and
had so alarmed him that he urged me to come at
once. I grabbed my coat and hat and went
out into the night, feeling that the pitiless
beat of the sleety rain was ever kinder than
a criminal law that condemns little chil
dren to crime and iron cells. But this was
before the fight against the jail was fought
and won. This was before love and firmness
had supplanted hatred and degradation.
Behind iron bars that would shame the
king tiger of the jungle I found the boy.
He was sleeping, and you would have
thought not a care had ever visited that lit
tle tousled head with its worn and tear
stained face. But he wakened, startled by
the grating of iron bolts and bars, and
clinking of great keys turning in their sol
emn, monotonous locks, as the jailer, leav
ing me alone with the boy, returned from
the cell back into the dimly lighted corri
dor.
The boy frightened at these strange sur
roundings, looked at his new cell mate at
first cautiously —almost fearfully. Then a
look of joy and gladness came to his eyes,
as might come from the captive at the ap
proach of deliverance. The boy knew me,
for he had been a chronic little truant, and
there may have been worse things, but they
may be left unsaid, for it was the boy, and
not the “things” we were trying to re
deem.
I sat down in the cell on the iron floor
and put my arm around thb boy. I told
him how much I thought of him, and how
I despised the bad things he did. Yet what
could I do if he did not help me? I might
help him, but I could not carry him; I
would always be his friend, but he was get-
ting both himself and me in trouble if he 11 swiped
things,” for if I should let him out and he “swiped
things” again, would not the officer say that the
judge made a mistake in not sending “that kid to
the State Industrial Schoo], where he would not
have a chance to swipe things”? Then they would
HOW THE SOY W 45 SAVED
By B. B. Lindsey, Judge of the Jubenile Court of Denber
The Golden Age for December 10, 1908.
say both the judge and the boy should be in jail.
How could he expect a judge to keep his job if his
boys did such things? He saw the point and stand
ing upright there in the cell the light in his eyes
speaking better than his words, the earnestness of
his promise to “stay wid yer, Judge,” as he tearful-
Christmas Forethoughts
Want to Make Others Happy ?
Include These In Your Plans
Sir: Own an auto or horse and buggy? Know anybody sick,
crippled, poor, old, who never gets a ride year in and yeai’ out?
Know a dozen counting children? Don’t forget they will need
extra wraps—need ’em the rest of the winter, maybe; ahem!
Madam: Have your washing done out? Has your washerwo
man any children? Have you a maid, a cook? Yes, the peddler
woman that brings things to town. Ever had to make your living
this way? Any idea how gifts of old clothes pall? How a sight
of something new and useful and pretty will make a hard-working
woman dance like a child? And cry? Priced any soft wool
blankets lately? Any gloves, imttens, nice, warm jacket? Is
there an infant? Don’t forget it!
Sir: Noticed business improvement? Felt it? Good to see
the unemployed getting jobs! Ever been down and just about
out? in winter? Remember how you felt when you got work?
WORK, not aid. Remember the excited, bubbling family group?
The glow in your heart; how good all men looked; the strong,
new courage? Must be nice on Christmas morning to feel one
has transformed some despairing life that way! Don’t forget the
newsboy!
Madam: Tired out? Everything ready for the joyful morn
ing? Everybody “remembered”? Any one. ' Sure there isn’t
some one who may, because you are too tired to remember, who
may, Christmas morning, turn wearily under the scant covers and
chokingly say, “Never mind, dearie, don’t cry”? (Think
of that; “dont cry” on Christmas morning!)" . . . don’t cry any
more; perhaps Santa Claus . . . But what can be said to a
child on Christmas morning crying over a thin, empty stocking?
Sir and Madam: Go make a Merry Christmas for all! —Circle.
ly declared he would never get me into any trouble
and we would both keep out of jail.
And so I almost as tearfully accepted his prof
fered protection, and out of the jail we walked to
gether into the now raging storm. And yet, it was
no such storm as had raged in that boy’s life a
home blighted by a father who had deserted and
trodden under foot every vow he took at the mar
riage altar. And so a father’s care, the divine
birthright of every child —’had been denied him.
The boy was not bad. His opportunity had been
poor; his environment was bad. I took him home
to his mother, a poor, struggling woman
deserving of a better fate than to toil all
day to feed and clothe her hungry chil
dren. A child with no father and a
mother, however noble, who under such
handicaps and difficulties tries to perform
the functions of both, generally fails to
perform that of either. Is it a wonder
then, that the child is not “brought up in
the way it should go”? Is it the child’s
fault? If not, why then the jail and degra
dation?
The boy returned to school. He brought
good reports for over two years, and with
them he bought joy and gladness. We had,
in a poor way, tried to supply what was
lacking in his little life, but to do this well
a spark had to be struck somewhere, or a
heart-string had to be sounded that would
respond.
One day his mother came at the end of
a weary, toilsome day to tell me that Harry
was a changed boy. She told me how
thoughtful and loving he was and that once
Mien she had been sick he had, with the
tenderness of a woman, waited on her and
given up all the pleasures of the street.
Finally the tears came into her eyes, and
she said: “Judge, I never knew just why
Harry changed so much till one day
while I was ill and he had been so sweet
and kind I asked him how it was he
became good for the judge, and looking
up into my face with a tear in his eye, he
said: ‘Well, mother, you see, it’s this
way, if I ever gits bad, or swipes things
again, the judge—the judge will lose his
job —see? —and he is my friend —he is—and I am
goin’ to stay wid him.’ ”
*, n
Tommy (aged ten): “Dad, what is the bone of
contention?”
Mr. Henpeck: “The jawbone.”
