"You are bound in a terrible bondage,
And I come, love, to share it with you;
Is there shame in the deed? I can bear it,
For, at last, to my love I am true;
I have turned from the home of my childhood,
And I come to you, lover and friend,
Leaving comfort, contentment, and honor;
And I'll stay till the terrible end.
"Is there hunger and want in the future?
I will share them with you, and not shrink!
And together we 'll join in the pleasures,
The woes, and the dangers of drink!"
Then she raised up the glass, firm and steady,
But her face was as pale as the dead,
"Here's to wine, and the joys of carousals,
The songs and the laughter," she said.
Then he riz up, his face like a tempest,
And took the glass out of her hand,
And slung it away, stern and savage,
And, tell you, his manner was grand!
And he says, "I have done with it, Nellie,
And I'll turn from the ways I have trod,
And I'll live to be worthy of you, dear,
So help me, a merciful God!”
What more was remarked, it is needless
For me to attempt to relate;
It was some time ago since it happened,
But the sequel is easy to state:
I seen that same feller last Monday,
Lookin' nobby and han'some and game; He was wheeling a vehicle, gen'lemen, And a baby was into the same.
It was an English summer day,
Some six or seven years ago,
That a pointsman before his cabin paced,
With a listless step, and slow.
He lit his pipe there was plenty of time
In his work there was nothing new;
Just to watch the signals and shift the points
When the next train came in view.
He leant 'gainst his cabin and smoked away,
He was used to lounge and wait;
Twelve hours at a stretch he must mind those points,
And down-trains were mostly late!
A rumble, a roar, "She's coming now —
She's truer to time to-day!"
He turns, and not far between the rails
Sees his youngest boy at play.
Not far, but too far! The train is at hand,
And the child is crawling there,
And patting the ground with crows of delight-
And not a moment to spare!
His face was dead white, but his purpose firm,
As straight to his post he trod,
And shifted the points and saved the down-train,
And trusted his child to God.
There's a rush in his ears, though the train has passed;
He gropes, for he cannot see,
To the place where the laughing baby crawled,
Where the mangled limbs must be.
But he hears a cry that is only of fear,
His joy seems too great to bear;
For his duty done, God saw to his son-
The train had not touched a hair.
IN the Diamond Shaft worked Gentleman Jim,
Handsome of face and stout of limb,
Coarse in dress; but something in him,
Whether down in the coal mine, soiled and grim,
Or wandering alone in holiday time,
Won the love and respect of all in that clime.
He had no sweetheart, he had no wife,
Some mighty sorrow had dimmed his life-
His earnings hardly won, and small,
Were aye at the orphans' and widows' call-
Of those who had perished in shaft or winze,
He was the friend of all living things,
And moving along in those toilsome ways,
He wore the demeanor of gentler days.
In April last, when the mine fell in,
Beneath the timbers stood Gentleman Jim;
With a giant grasp he flung two of the boys
Clear of the danger -with deafening noise
The shaft gave way on every side;
The boys were safe, but Jim - he died;
Died as men die, and will die again,
Giving their lives for their fellow-men.
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.
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