HOW THE GOVERNOR SIGNED THE PARDON.
By Eugene Field
[By Eugene Field, in Chicago News.] EVERYBODY was afraid of the old governor, because he was so cross and surly. And one morning he was crosser and surlier than ever, because he had been troubled several days with a matter which he had already decided, but which many people wished to have reversed. A man, found guilty of a crime, had been imprisoned, and there were those who, convinced of his penitence, and knowing that his family needed his support, earnestly sought his pardon. To all these solicitations the old governor replied, "No," and having made up his mind, the old governor had no patience with those who persisted. So the old governor was in high dudgeon one morning, and when he came to his office he said to his secretary: "Admit no one. I am weary of these senseless importunities." Now, the secretary had a discreet regard for the old governor's feelings, and it was seldom that his presence of mind so far deserted him as to admit of his suffering the old governor's wishes to be disregarded. He bolted the door and sat himself down at his modest desk, and simulated intense enthusiasm in his work. His simulation was more intense than usual, for never before had the secretary seen the old governor in such harsh mood. "Has the mail come? Where are the papers and the letters?" demanded the old governor, in a gruff voice. "Here they are, sir," said the secretary, as he put the bundle on the old governor's table. "These are addressed to you privately; the business letters are on my desk. Would you like to see them now?" "No, not now," growled the old governor; "I will read the papers and my private correspondence first." But the old governor found cause for uneasiness. The papers discussed the imprisoned man, and these private letters came from certain of the old governor's friends, who, strangely enough, exhibited an interest in the self-same prisoner. The old governor was disgusted. "They should mind their own business," muttered the old governor. "The papers are officious, and these other people are impertinent. My mind is made up—nothing shall change it." Then the old governor turned to his private secretary, and bade him bring the business letters, and presently the private secretary could hear the old governor growling and fumbling over the pile of correspondence. He knew why the old governor was excited; many of these letters were petitions touching the imprisoned man. "Humph!" said the governor at last. "I'm glad I'm done with them. There are no more, I suppose." When the secretary made no reply, the old governor was surprised. He wheeled in his chair and searchingly regarded the secretary over his spectacles. He saw that the secretary was strangely embarrassed. "You have not shown all," said the governor, sternly. "What is it that you have kept back?" Then the secretary said: "It is nothing but a little child's letter—I thought I would not bother you with it." The governor was interested. A child's letter—what could it be about? Such a thing had never happened before. "A child's letter! Let me see it," said the governor, and, although his voice was harsh, somewhat of a tender light came into his eyes. 'Tis nothing but a scrawl," explained the secretary, "and it comes from the prisoner's child—Monckton's little girl—Monckton, the forger, you know. Of course there's nothing in it—a mere scrawl; for the child is only five years old. But the gentleman who sends it says that the child brought it to him and asked him to send it to the governor." The governor took the letter, and he scanned it curiously. What a wonderful letter it was, and who but a child could have written it! Such strange hieroglyphics and crooked lines—it was a wonderful letter, as you can imagine. But the old governor saw something more than the hieroglyphics and crooked lines and rude pencilings. He could see in and between the lines of the little child's letter a sweetness and a pathos he had never seen before, and on the crumpled sheet he found a love like the love his bereaved heart had vainly yearned for, O! so many years. As the old governor looked upon the crumpled page, and saw and heard the pleadings of the child's letter, he thought of his own little one—God rest her innocent soul! And it seemed to him as if he could hear her dear baby voice joining with this other's in truthful pleading. The secretary was amazed when the old governor said, "Give me a pardon blank." But what most amazed him was the tremulous tenderness in the old governor's voice and the mistiness behind the old governor's spectacles, as he folded the crumpled page and put it carefully in the breast pocket of his greatcoat. "Humph," thought the secretary, "the old governor has a kinder heart than any of us suspected." When the prisoner was pardoned and came from his cell, people grasped him by the hand and said, "We saved you." But the secretary knew, and the old governor, too,—God bless him for his human heart!—they knew that a dimpled baby hand opened those prison doors.