When rocks and timbers were cleared away,
And Jim borne up to the light of day,
They took from his bosom, stained with blood,
Two withered leaves and a withered bud
Pinned on a card. "Toute à toi - Marie,"
Was written beneath them; beneath it he,
On this relic his heart for years had worn,
Had written," All withered
What life romance, what story of wrong,
This man had locked up in his soul so long,
None who loved him may ever know ;
But the tale of his glorious chivalric deed
Shall not perish as long as men hold this creed, —
That the hero whose blood for his kind is shed
Wins a deathless fame and an honored bed;
A monument grander than sculptor ere gave,
In the glory that hallows the martyr's grave.
San Francisco Mail.
He preached but little; argued less;
But if a girl was in distress,
Or if a kinchen came to grief,
Or trouble tackled rogue or thief,
There Father John was sure to be,
To blunt the edge of misery;
And somehow managed every time
To ease despair or lessen crime.
That corner house was allus known
Around these parts as Podger's Own,
Till two pals in a drunken fight
Set the whole thing afire one night;
And where it stood they hypered round,
And blasted rocks and shovelled ground
To build the factory over there
The one you see; and that is where
Poor Father John God give him rest!
Preached his last sermon and his best.
One summer's day the thing was done;
The workmen set a blast and run;
They ain't so keerful here, I guess,
Where lives ain't worth a cent apiece,
As in the wards where things are dear,
And nothink ain't so cheap as here;
Leastwise, the first they seed or knowed,
A little chick had crossed the road;
He seemed to be just out of bed —
Bare-legged, with nothink on his head;
Chubby and cunnin', with his hair
Blown criss-cross by the mornin' air;
Draggin' a tin horse by a string,
Without much care for anything;
A talkin' to hisself for joy,-
A toddlin', keerless, baby boy.
Right for the crawlin' fuse he went,
As though to find out what it meant ;
Trudgin' toward the fatal spot
Till less 'n three feet off he got
From where the murderin' thing lay still,
Just waitin' for to spring and kill
Marching along toward his grave,
And not a soul dared go to save!
They hollered all they durst to do;
He turned and laughed, and then bent low
To set the horsey on his feet,
And went right on a crowin' sweet!
And then a death-like silence grew
On all the tremblin', coward crew,
As each swift second seemed the last
Before the roaring of the blast.
Just then some chance or purpose brought
The priest. He saw, and quick as thought
He ran and caught the child and turned
Just as the slumberin' powder burned,
And shot the shattered rocks around,
And with its thunder shook the ground.
The child was sheltered! Father John
Was hurt to death. Without a groan,
He set the baby down, then went
A step or two; but life was spent.
He tottered, looked up to the skies
With ashen face, but strange, glad eyes.
'My love, I come!" was all he said,
Sank slowly down, and so was dead!
Stranger, he left a memory here
That will be felt for many a year:
And since that day this ward has been
More human in its dens of sin.
But three feet good of that old wood,
So scarred in war, and rotten,
Was thrown aside, unknown its pride,
Its honors all forgotten:
When, as in shade the block was laid,
Two robins, perching on it,
Thought that place best to build a nest, —
They planned it, and have done it:
The splintered spot which lodged a shot
Is lined with moss and feather,
And, chirping loud, a callow brood
Are nestling up together.
That spot the soft nest caging,
Where war's alarms and blood-stained arms
Were once around it raging.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane ;
One after another he let them pass,
And fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said
He never would let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,
Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew to the hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lane been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
|