of the mine and assist two prisoners who
were behind with their work. I obeyed. I hadn't been out of my room more
than about half an hour when there occurred a land-slide in it, which
filled the room entirely full of rock, slate and coal. It required
several men some two weeks to remove the amount of debris that had
fallen on that occasion. Had I been in there, death would have been
certain at that time.

Gentle reader, let me assure you, that although some persons
misunderstanding me, assert that I am without belief in anything, yet
I desire to say, when reflecting upon these providential deliverances,
that I believe in the Eternal Will that guides, directs, controls and
protects the children of men. While many of my fellow-prisoners were
maimed for life and some killed outright, I walked through that valley
and shadow of death without even a hair of my head being injured. Why
was this? My answer is the following: Over in the State of Iowa, among
the verdant hills of that beautiful commonwealth, watching the shadows
as they longer grow, hair whitened with the frosts of many seasons,
heart as pure as an angel's, resides my dear old mother. I received a
letter from her one day, and among other things was the following:

"I love you now in your hour of humiliation and disgrace as I did
when you were a prattling babe upon my knee.

* * *

"I would also have you remember that every night before I retire to
rest, kneeling at my bedside, I ask God to take care of and watch
over my boy."

Of the nine hundred convicts in the penitentiary not one of their
mothers ever forgot or deserted them. A mother's prayers always follow
her prodigal children. Go, gather the brightest and purest flowers that
bend and wave in the winds of heaven, the roses and lilies, the green
vine and immortelles, wreathe them in a garland, and with this crown the
brow of the truest of all earthly friends--Mother! Another reason I give
for my safe keeping in that hour of darkness and despair: In the city of
Atchison, on a bed of pain and anguish, lay my true, devoted and dying
wife. Every Sunday morning regularly would I receive a letter dictated
by her. Oh! the tender, loving words! "Every day," said she, "I pray
that God will preserve your life while working in the jaws of death."
The true and noble wife, the helpmeet of man, clings to him in the hour
of misfortune and calamity as the vine clings to the tree when prostrate
on the