Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 34

_Sir Walter Scott._

The Engineer's Story

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be.

Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me.

What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."

I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.

There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.

'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light.

Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, An' the river roared below us--I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge An' I found her--dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!

So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be-- Now we're married--she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me.

An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell-- She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."

_Eugene J. Hall._

Small Beginnings

A traveler on the dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade, at evening time, To breathe his early vows; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way Amid the gra.s.s and fern, A pa.s.sing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that all might drink.

He paused again, and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true.

It shone upon a genial mind, And, lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame; The thought was small, its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill; It shed its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, Unstudied from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath-- It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death.

O germ! O fount! O word of love!

O thought at random cast!

Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last.

_Charles Mackay._

Rain on the Roof

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.

I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed, cherub brother--a serene, angelic pair-- Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy pa.s.sions swell, As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

_Coates Kinney._

Gunga Din

The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much appreciated by the men.

You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.

Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental _bhisti_, Gunga Din.

He was "Din! Din! Din!

You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!

Hi! _Slippy hitherao!_ Water, get it! _Panee lao!_ You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find, When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!"

Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, It was "Din! Din! Din!

You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?

You put some _juldee_ in it, Or I'll _marrow_ you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.

If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.

With 'is _mussick_ on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."

An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"

With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.