Kate Shelly

Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express—
Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road?
Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess
Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed
On that terrible evening when Donahue's train
Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.
She was only eighteen, but a woman in size,
With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe,
With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes,
And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow;
With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art—
With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!
'Tis evening—the darkness is dense and profound;
Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires;
The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound,
And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires;
The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky;
The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.
The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train!
The sound of a bell! a mysterious light
That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain!
A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright!
The falling of timbers! the space of a breath!
A splash in the river; then darkness and death!
Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash;
The sounds of destruction she happens to hear;
She springs to the window—she throws up the sash,
And listens and looks with a feeling of fear.
The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry
Of a drowning man down in the river near by.
Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan,
And then through her soul in a moment there flies
A forethought that gives her the strength of a man—
She turns to her trembling old mother and cries:
"I must save the express—'twill be here in an hour!"
Then out through the door disappears in the shower.
She flies down the track through the pitiless rain;
She reaches the river—the water below
Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again;
"The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!"
Then closely about her she gathers her gown
And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.
Then carefully over the timbers she creeps
On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath.
The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps,
And struggles to hurry her downward to death;
But the thought of the train to destruction so near
Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.
With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb,
Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels;
Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim;
Her strength is fast failing—she staggers! she reels!
She falls—Ah! the danger is over at last,
Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!
In an instant new life seems to come to her form;
She springs to her feet and forgets her despair.
On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm,
She reaches the station—the keeper is there,
"Save the lightning express! No—hang out the red light!
There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"
Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red;
Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train,
The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead,
The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain.
"Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill;
She heeds the red signal—she slackens, she's still!
Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done;
Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze;
An endless renown you have worthily won;
Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise,
Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare
What a woman can do, and a woman can dare!
Eugene J. Hall.

There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night

An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro
In an easy chair, whose creaky craw
Told a tale of long ago;
While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.
The good man dozed o'er the latest news
Till the light in his pipe went out;
And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws
Rolled and tangled the balls about;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.
But anon, a misty teardrop came
In her eyes of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep
Like a single drop of dew;
So deep was the channel—so silent the stream—
That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.
Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light
Of her eye had heavy grown,
And marveled he more at the tangled balls,
So he said in a gentle tone:
"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."
Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim;
And now, there remained of the goodly pile
But a single pair—for him;
"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"I cannot but think of the busy feet
Whose wrappings were wont to lay
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time—
Now wandering so far away;
How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.
"For each empty nook in the basket old
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;
'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight,
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door—
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming wave,
And diminished the basket's store;
But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold,
They'll never be warm any more.
And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.
"Two others have gone toward the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
And fairy fingers have taken their share,
To mend by the fireside bright;
Some other baskets their garments will fill—
But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.
"Another—the dearest, the fairest, the best—
Was taken by angels away,
And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day;
Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

The Young Man Waited

In the room below the young man sat,
With an anxious face and a white cravat,
A throbbing heart and a silken hat,
And various other things like that
Which he had accumulated.
And the maid of his heart was up above
Surrounded by hat and gown and glove,
And a thousand things which women love,
But no man knoweth the names thereof—
And the young man sat and—waited.
You will scarce believe the things I tell,
But the truth thereof I know full well,
Though how may not be stated;
But I swear to you that the maiden took
A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook,
And heated it well in the gaslight there.
And thrust it into her head, or hair.
Then she took something off the bed,
And hooked it onto her hair, or head,
And piled it high, and piled it higher,
And drove it home with staples of wire!
And the young man anxiously—waited.
Then she took a thing she called a "puff"
And some very peculiar whitish stuff,
And using about a half a peck,
She spread it over her face and neck,
(Deceit was a thing she hated!)
And she looked as fair as a lilied bower,
Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;—
And the young man wearily—waited.
Then she took a garment of awful shape
And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape,
But it looked like a piece of ancient mail,
Or an instrument from a Russian jail,
And then with a fearful groan and gasp,
She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp—
So fair and yet so fated!
And then with a move like I don't know what,
She tied it on with a double knot;—
And the young man wofully—waited.
Then she put on a dozen different things,
A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings,
Till she strongly resembled a notion store;
Then, taking some seventeen pins or more,
She thrust them into her ruby lips,
Then stuck them around from waist to hips,
And never once hesitated.
And the maiden didn't know, perhaps,
That the man below had had seven naps,
And that now he sleepily—waited.
And then she tried to put on her hat,
Ah me, a trying ordeal was that!
She tipped it high and she tried it low,
But every way that the thing would go
Only made her more agitated.
It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair,
And she wished she could hire a man to swear,
But alas, the only man lingering there
Was the one who wildly—waited.
And then before she could take her leave,
She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve.
Then a little dab here and a wee pat there.
And a touch or two to her hindmost hair,
Then around the room with the utmost care
She thoughtfully circulated.
Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin,
Some breath perfume and a long stickpin,
A bonbon box and a cloak and some
Eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum,
Her opera glass and sealskin muff,
A fan and a heap of other stuff;
Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke,
Something about the maiden broke.
So she scurried back to the winding stair,
And the young man looked in wild despair,
And then he—evaporated.
Edmund Vance Cooke.

Invictus