What's that?
Crash goes the window-glass; clouds of scalding steam pour into the cars, which seem to be vibrating in mid-air; benches, baskets, bags, and passengers are all jumbled pell-mell together; every face is blanched with terror.
"Oh, it's nothing, only the cars run off the track—only the engine smashed, and baggage-car a wreck—only the passengers' trunks disemboweled in a muddy brook—only the engineer scalded, and the passengers turned out into a wet meadow in a pelting shower of rain; that's all. Not a son of Adam was to blame for it—of course not," growls the exasperated editor. "Thank Heaven the Superintendent of the road and the Directors were in the forward car and got the first baptism in that muddy brook."
"Zounds!" he exclaimed, pinning up his torn coat-flap, and punching out the crown of his hat; "they shall hear of this in 'The Weekly Scimeter.' Railroad companies should remember that editors sometimes travel."
"May! my little May!" gasped the poor sick woman, recovering herself, and looking about for her child; "where's May?"
Ah, where's May? Folded in His arms who carries the little lambs so safely in his bosom—gone with the smile yet bright on her lip.
Blithe little May!
They take the little lifeless form and bear it across the fields to the nearest farm-house, and the mother falls senseless, with her face to the damp grass—the last tie of her widowed heart broken.
"Sad accident, ma'am—hope you are not hurt," said the bustling village doctor to a lady who held her handkerchief over her mouth. "Deplorable!" exclaimed the delighted doctor. "My engagements are very pressing in the village—five cases of typhoid fever, two of chicken-pox—hurried up here in the face of promise to a lady, wife of one of our richest men, not to be gone over half an hour, in case she should want me. Ladies can't always tell exactly, you know, ma'am.