Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,
Old commuters, along the line,
Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead,
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,
Pierced through the shadows of Providence,—
"Nothing amiss—
Nothing!—it is
Only Guild calling his wife," they said.
Summer and winter, the old refrain
Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain,
Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head,
Flew down the track when the red leaves burned
Like living coals from the engine spurned!
Sang as it flew
"To our trust true.
First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.
And then, one night, it was heard no more
From Stonington over Rhode Island Shore,
And the folk in Providence smiled and said,
As they turned in their beds: "The engineer
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."
One only knew
To his trust true,
Guild lay under his engine, dead.
MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.
The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,—
"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."
"Come to what?"
"Interview you."
"Ah! I see. Yes—yes. Um! Yes—yes."