Rolling Stones | Page 6

PORTER Was born August 22, 1825
MONDAY EVENING, May 29, 1858 Still-born Son of A. S. AND M.
V. PORTER
MONDAY, August 6, 1860, 9 o'clock P.M. SHIRLEY WORTH Son of
A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
THURSDAY, September 11, 1862, 9 o'clock P.M. [O. HENRY]
WILLIAM SIDNEY Son of A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
SUNDAY, March 26, 1865, at 8 o'clock A. M. DAVID WEIR Son of
A. S. AND M. V. PORTER

MARY JANE VIRGINIA SWAIM [MOTHER OF O. HENRY]
Daughter of WILLIAM AND ABIAH SWAIM Was born February 12,
1833
DEATHS
MARY VIRGINIA PORTER TUESDAY EVENING, September 26,
1865 At 7:30 o'clock
ATHOL ESTES PORTER SUNDAY EVENING, July 25,1897 At 6
o'clock
ALGERNON SIDNEY PORTER SUNDAY MORNING, September
30, 1888 At 20 minutes of 2 o'clock

THE DREAM
[This was the last work of O. Henry. The Cosmopolitan Magazine had
ordered it from him and, after his death, the unfinished manuscript was
found in his room, on his dusty desk. The story as it here appears was
published in the Cosmopolitan for September, 1910.]
MURRAY dreamed a dream.
Both psychology and science grope when they would explain to us the
strange adventures of our immaterial selves when wandering in the
realm of "Death's twin brother, Sleep." This story will not attempt to be
illuminative; it is no more than a record of Murray's dream. One of the
most puzzling phases of that strange waking sleep is that dreams which
seem to cover months or even years may take place within a few
seconds or minutes.
Murray was waiting in his cell in the ward of the condemned. An
electric arc light in the ceiling of the corridor shone brightly upon his
table. On a sheet of white paper an ant crawled wildly here and there as
Murray blocked its way with an envelope. The electrocution was set for
eight o'clock in the evening. Murray smiled at the antics of the wisest

of insects.
There were seven other condemned men in the chamber. Since he had
been there Murray had seen three taken out to their fate; one gone mad
and fighting like a wolf caught in a trap; one, no less mad, offering up a
sanctimonious lip-service to Heaven; the third, a weakling, collapsed
and strapped to a board. He wondered with what credit to himself his
own heart, foot, and face would meet his punishment; for this was his
evening. He thought it must be nearly eight o'clock.
Opposite his own in the two rows of cells was the cage of Bonifacio,
the Sicilian slayer of his betrothed and of two officers who came to
arrest him. With him Murray had played checkers many a long hour,
each calling his move to his unseen opponent across the corridor.
Bonifacio's great booming voice with its indestructible singing quality
called out:
"Eh, Meestro Murray; how you feel--all-a right--yes?"
"All right, Bonifacio," said Murray steadily, as he allowed the ant to
crawl upon the envelope and then dumped it gently on the stone floor.
"Dat's good-a, Meestro Murray. Men like us, we must-a die like-a men.
My time come nex'-a week. All-a right. Remember, Meestro Murray, I
beat-a you dat las' game of de check. Maybe we play again some-a time.
I don'-a know. Maybe we have to call-a de move damn-a loud to play
de check where dey goin' send us."
Bonifacio's hardened philosophy, followed closely by his deafening,
musical peal of laughter, warmed rather than chilled Murray's numbed
heart. Yet, Bonifacio had until next week to live.
The cell-dwellers heard the familiar, loud click of the steel bolts as the
door at the end of the corridor was opened. Three men came to
Murray's cell and unlocked it. Two were prison guards; the other was
"Len"--no; that was in the old days; now the Reverend Leonard
Winston, a friend and neighbor from their barefoot days.

"I got them to let me take the prison chaplain's place," he said, as he
gave Murray's hand one short, strong grip. In his left hand he held a
small Bible, with his forefinger marking a page.
Murray smiled slightly and arranged two or three books and some
penholders orderly on his small table. He would have spoken, but no
appropriate words seemed to present themselves to his mind.
The prisoners had christened this cellhouse, eighty feet long,
twenty-eight feet wide, Limbo Lane. The regular guard of Limbo Lane,
an immense, rough, kindly man, drew a pint bottle of whiskey from his
pocket and offered it to Murray, saying:
"It's the regular thing, you know. All has it who feel like they need a
bracer. No danger of it becoming a habit with 'em, you see."
Murray drank deep into the bottle.
"That's the boy!" said the guard. "Just a little nerve tonic,