Some years ago, while conducting a series of meetings in Michigan City, I was asked to
preach to the convicts in the State prison. I sat on the platform with the governor of the prison and
watched the prisoners march in -- 700 men, young and old. They marched in lock-step, every man's
hand on the shoulder of the man before him. At the word of command they sat down. Among that
number there were seventy-six lifers," men who had been committed to prison for life for the crime
of murder.
After the singing I arose to preach, but could hardly speak for weeping. Disregarding all
the rules of the prison, in my earnestness to help the poor, fallen men, I left the platform and
walked down the aisle among them, taking one, and then another by the hand and praying for him.
At the end of the row of men who were committed for murder sat a man who more than his fellows
seemed marked by sin's blighting curse. His face was seamed and ridged with scars and marks of
vice and sin. He looked as though he might be a demon incarnate if once aroused to anger. I placed
my hand upon his shoulder and wept and prayed with and for him.
When the service was over, the governor said to me, "Do you know you have broken the
rules of the prison by leaving the platform?" "Yes, governor, but I never can keep any rule while
preaching. And I did want to get up close to the poor, despairing fellows and pray for them, and
tell them of the love of Jesus the Savior. 'He came to seek and to save that which was lost. This
Man (Jesus) receiveth sinners and eateth with them.'" (Luke 19:10; 15:2.)
"Do you remember," said the governor, "the man at the end of the line in the lifers' row,
whom you prayed with? Would you like to hear his history?"
"Yes," I answered, gladly.
"Well, here it is in brief. Tom Galson was sent here about eight years ago for the crime of
murder. He was, without doubt, one of the most desperate and vicious characters we had ever
received, and, as was expected, gave us a great deal of trouble.
"One Christmas Eve, about six years ago, duty compelled me to spend the night at the
prison, instead of at home, as I had anticipated. Early in the morning, while it was yet dark, I left
the prison for my home, my pockets full of presents for my little girl. It was a bitter cold morning,
and I buttoned my overcoat up to protect myself from the cutting wind that swept in from the lake.
As I hurried along, I thought I saw somebody skulking in the shadow of the prison wall. I stopped
and looked a little more closely, and then saw a little girl, wretchedly clothed in a thin dress; her
bare feet thrust into a pair of shoes much the worse for wear. In her hand she held, tightly clasped,
a small paper parcel. Wondering who she was, and why she was out so early in the morning, and
yet too weary to be interested, I hurried on. But I soon heard that I was being followed. I stopped,
and turned around, and there before me stood the same wretched-looking child.
"'What do you want?' I asked sharply. 'Are you the governor of the prison, sir?' 'Yes, who
are you, and why are you not at home?' 'Please, sir, I have no home; mamma died in the poorhouse
two weeks ago, and she told me just before she died that papa (that Tom Galson) was in prison,
and she thought that maybe he would like to see his little girl, now that mamma is dead. Please,
can't you let me see my papa? Today is Christmas, and I want to give him a present.'
"'No,' I replied gruffly, 'you will have to wait until visitors' day,' and started on. I had not
gone many steps when I felt a pull at my coat, and a pleading voice said, 'Please, don't go.' I
stopped once more, and looked into the pinched, beseeching face before me. Great tears were in
her eyes, while her little chin quivered with emotion.
"'Mister,' she said, 'if your little girl was me, and your girl's mamma had died in the
poorhouse, and her papa was in the prison, and she had no place to go and no one to love her, don't
you think she would like to see her papa? If it was Christmas, and your little girl came to me, if I
was governor of the prison, and asked me to please let me see her papa to give him a Christmas
present, don't you -- don't you think I would say yes?'
"By this time a great lump was in my throat, and my eyes were swimming in tears. I
answered, 'Yes, my little girl, I think you would, and you shall see your papa, and, taking her hand,
I hurried back to the prison, thinking of my own fair-haired little girl at home. Arriving in my
office, I bade her come near the warm stove, while I sent a guard to bring No.37 from his cell. As
soon as he came into the office he saw the little girl. His face clouded with an angry frown, and in
a gruff, savage tone he snapped out:
"'Nellie, what are you doing here; what do you want? Go back to your mother.' 'Please,
papa,' sobbed the little girl, 'mamma's dead. She died two weeks ago in the poorhouse, and before
she died she told me to take care of little Jimmie, because you loved him so; and told me to tell
you she loved you, too -- but, papa' -- and here her voice broke in sobs and tears -- 'Jimmie died,
too, last week, and now I am alone, papa, and today's Christmas, papa, and -- and I thought, maybe
as you loved Jimmie, you would like a little Christmas present from him.'
"Here she unrolled the little bundle she held in her hand, until she came to a little package
of tissue paper, from which she took out a little fair curl, and put it in her father's hand, saying, as
she did so: 'I cut it from dear little Jimmie's head, papa, just afore they buried him.'
"No.37 by this time was sobbing like a child and so was I. Stooping down, 37 picked up
the little girl, pressed her convulsively to his breast, while his great frame shook convulsively with
suppressed emotion.
"The scene was too sacred for me to look upon, so I softly opened the door and left them
alone. In about an hour I returned. No.37 sat near the stove, with his little daughter on his knee. He
looked at me sheepishly for a moment, and then said, 'Governor, I haven't any money; then
suddenly stripping off his prison jacket, he said, 'Don't let my little girl go out this bitter cold day
with that thin dress. Let me give her this coat. I'll work early and late; I'll do anything, I'll be a
man. Please, governor, let me cover her with this coat.' Tears were streaming down the face of the
hardened man.
"'No, Galson" I said, 'keep your coat; your little girl shall not suffer. I'll take her to my
home and see what my wife can do for her.' 'God bless you,' sobbed Galson. I took the girl to my
home. She remained with us a number of years, and became a true Christian by faith in the Lord
Jesus Christ."
Tom Galson also became a Christian, and on a subsequent visit to the prison the governor
said to me, "Would you like to see Tom Galson, whose story I told you a few years ago?" "Yes, I
would," I answered. He took me down a quiet street, and stopping at a neat home, knocked at the
door. The door was opened by a cheerful woman, who greeted the governor with the utmost
cordiality. We went in and then the governor introduced me to Nellie and her father, who, because
of his reformation, had received pardon, and was now living an upright Christian life with his
daughter, whose little Christmas gift had broken his hard heart.
