Perhaps to the Mexican engineer
The child suggested a vision dear
Of a little boy of his very own
In a white-washed cottage at Torreon,
And the dark-eyed mother who, day by day,
Told beads for her husband, far away,
And watched, as the trains steamed forth and back,
For his mogul engine along the track.
But only a moment, with swinging feet,
The baby perched on his lofty seat,