I have written this simple, uncolored, true statement of facts in justice to Nick Breen, as Mr. Fleming, the deputy sheriff, told my mother that Mr. Meany had ordered Mr. Breen to take me to Modesto, and that he (Breen) had disobeyed orders. My mother went immediately to Mr. Breen and asked him if what Mr. Fleming said was true. "No," said Mr. B., "I wanted to take Harry to Modesto, but Meany's strict orders were, the Half-Way House." * * * * * The following beautiful poem was written after the authoress had spent several hours in jail with the prisoner in company with his mother, in which time they all dined together; the meal being furnished from a restaurant by his mother. Young Harry acted as host, calm and dignified, though pale from confinement and want of sun and air: THE FATAL SLANDER; OR, HARRY'S DEFENSE. BY MRS. L. E. DRAKE. The sun was shining bright without, where happy faces smiled, But within the lonesome prison walls sat one so pale and mild; No sigh escaped his peaceful lips, no tear bedimmed his eye, Though weary from the waiting to know if he must die. Kind stranger, do you wish to know what is the prisoner's crime? 'Twas because some cruel monster his mother did malign, Which roused the sleeping passions of anger, hate and strife, When in a time unguarded he took the offender's life. "Oh now," said he, "I'm ready to answer for this crime; You see I've killed the villain my mother did malign-- That mother who has cherished me through all my childhood days, And rocked me on her bosom when weary of my plays; That mother, who in her early years her orphan boy has led O'er weary wastes and craggy peaks, to earn our daily bread, Far over snow-capped mountains and through the sunny glens, To sell her own productions--her books--to stranger men; That mother, who at midnight hours, when daily toils were o'er, And millions, on their downy beds inside their palace door Were resting from all sorrow while she, who forced to roam, Sat writing by the camp-fire--an authoress, with no home. How many, many were the days, when I was but a child, I stood beside that mother, and watched her pen the while, Until her hand grew weary; her mind would fain have rest. But the publisher was waiting; the book, her child might bless. Thus months and years rolled onward; when childhood's days were done, I stood beside that mother, a faithful, happy son. For years we toiled together, with books and pen and type, In hopes the future had for us a home--Oh, happy sight! But ah! stern fate, how cruel! when men who mock our laws, And strive with unrelenting hand to find some legal cause To murder every cherished hope with slander's cruel knife, And drop by drop to steal away poor woman's helpless life."