| Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. |
| Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. |
| What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, |
| She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell." |
| |
| I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago |
| On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. |
| There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, |
| With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams. |
| |
| 'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, |
| An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, |
| Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, |
| With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below. |
| |
| Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, |
| Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, |
| Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, |
| Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. |
| |
| I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, |
| Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, |
| When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. |
| Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. |
| |
| I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, |
| Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, |
| An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, |
| An' the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die! |
| |
| Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge |
| An' I found her—dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge |
| Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, |
| An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill! |
| |
|
| So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be— |
| Now we're married—she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. |
| An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell— |
| She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell." |
| |
| Eugene J. Hall. |
| A traveler on the dusty road |
| Strewed acorns on the lea; |
| And one took root and sprouted up, |
| And grew into a tree. |
| Love sought its shade, at evening time, |
| To breathe his early vows; |
| And age was pleased, in heats of noon, |
| To bask beneath its boughs; |
| The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, |
| The birds sweet music bore; |
| It stood a glory in its place, |
| A blessing evermore. |
| |
| A little spring had lost its way |
| Amid the grass and fern, |
| A passing stranger scooped a well |
| Where weary men might turn; |
| He walled it in, and hung with care |
| A ladle at the brink; |
| He thought not of the deed he did, |
| But judged that all might drink. |
| He paused again, and lo! the well, |
| By summer never dried, |
| Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues |
| And saved a life beside. |
| |
| A dreamer dropped a random thought; |
| 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; |
| A simple fancy of the brain, |
| But strong in being true. |
| It shone upon a genial mind, |
| And, lo! its light became |
| A lamp of life, a beacon ray, |
| A monitory flame; |
| The thought was small, its issue great; |
| A watch-fire on the hill; |
| It shed its radiance far adown, |
| And cheers the valley still. |
| |
| A nameless man, amid a crowd |
| That thronged the daily mart, |
| Let fall a word of Hope and Love, |
| Unstudied from the heart; |
| A whisper on the tumult thrown, |
| A transitory breath— |
| It raised a brother from the dust, |
| It saved a soul from death. |
| O germ! O fount! O word of love! |
| O thought at random cast! |
| Ye were but little at the first, |
| But mighty at the last. |
| |
| Charles Mackay. |
| When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, |
| And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, |
| 'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, |
| And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. |
| |
| Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, |
| And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; |
| And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, |
| As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. |
| |
| There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, |
| To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. |
| I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain |
| Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. |
| |
|
| Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, |
| And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair— |
| Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, |
| As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. |
| |
| And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, |
| I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, |
| I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, |
| And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. |
| |
| There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, |
| In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, |
| As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, |
| Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain! |
| |
| Coates Kinney. |