Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 7, Number 40, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 31 March 1877 — Page 7

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THE MAIC

PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

LUCK AND LABOR.

BY UAOOI.tKB

SOtJLSi

Luck doth wait, standiUK idly at thegato— Wishing, wlshltn? all the day Ano at night, wiiliou a Are, withouta Hgnt

And before an empty tray, To-morrow sornethinlf may tarn Dpi g\ wishes I mast sap.** f~"

Doth ally say: nornet

Te-nlghton wishes

Labor plowing th" fertile r»-v. Singing.singin? ail dty And a*, night, before the tire bealduthe

[yi j*e And*vrita a well filled tray, 3j[ Doth eladlv «ay: Doth gladly «ay:

To-morrow I'll turn something up To night on wages earned I sup."

NATURE.

HY LON»iKELI-OW.

As a fond mother whtn the day Is o'er. Leads bv the hand her 11! tie child to bed, Half willing, half reluctaiu to holed,

And leave liU broke.i plaj thing* on the flo r, Htlll tint,Ing at them through the open door,

For wholly missured and ooinfoiU-d By promising of others In iliolrK.wwl, Which, tbntigli more splendid, may not phase him more Ho Natim- deals with us and Iftlces away

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Bcarce knowing if we wish to go or say,

Uelng too full ot sleep to understand How far the unknown tianscends file what we know.

"Stop Her, Pard! Stop

2 9

I *ivr it in bis words as nearly as I can. Wo made tho run from away station, the name of which has escaped me, int Puebl» by night. There bad been heavy rains. Parts of the track were submerged. The darkness and the rusb of waters created among the passengers -considerable anxiety. I spent most of the night in the cab. The engineer was too much absorbed in his duties to talk. He answered my questions with civility, but with brevity. I did not observe it at the ilaif, but afterwards I recalled distinctly the sudden start be gave, and the look of intense interest he turned upon me, when I made some observation which indicated that my house was in tho vicinity of Pittsburgh. The next day ho accepted my invitation to dine.

We wore alone at my room. I had been recalling the scenes of the past night, when, taking his pipe from his lips, he began

TUFL ENGINEEK'H

Iyears

Now

STORY.

Mayhap. »tranger, you hev run over the Pennsylvania Central Railroad. As you may say, I was brought up on that line,

rst as fireman and the engineer nigh on to twenty year. It's allers excitin' t« run a machine, and wen I was a flreuum I used to tbiDk it was better to be top of one of them splendid engines than to bo President of the United States. Tho day they first put me on the footboard and I took the lever in my hand and know it was my engine, I reckon I was the proudest man between Pittsburgh and Altoona. I kinder thought that everybody was goin' to bo out that day, to see bowthet train made her run, and you kin bet allyerspocie that she went smack np to the mi nit, the whole hundred and seventeen mile. But this kind of spirit wore off, after a while, 'n I settled down into a sober stiddy goin' man 'n they did say that I wor as safe 'n reliable a man as they bed in the business. I hev to say it, stranger, as there's no body else to do it elso-wlse you wouldn't know it

I was turned twenty-three wen me and Mary was married. Twenty eight ago! You hev a wife, stranger? Hevn't got uo»wife! Well! maphaps it's Must as well! hed Marv some eight .years, but it don't seem like no time, Inow. Heft her there in the old KeyIstone State, her an' tho boy. Sometimes !l think I'd like to go back agin, and see Ithe plaoo whore they both lie, but I suppose I never shall. Don't seem as if I bad the heart to do it. It wasn't in any leburch yard, you know but a little way up the mountain there was a green, quiet spot among the trees, and they are there—not mor hundred foot, nay, above the track—and I often wonder if

Charley doesn't still dream, when 'the

York Express thunders by, that bla old father is holding the throttle. I put up a snug cabin by the side of the road when I had a small clearin', and between whiles I used to plant my potatoes and things, enough to keep us going, and Mar* had hergarden. Mary allers took to flowers, as 1 used to tell her, jokin' like, 'cos she was one of the family. Then we had a oow, and Mary raised chickens, and I never aee no person oould do as much with ohickens as Mary could. Jest seemed like those hens were always stralnin' of thelrselves layln* eggs. Yon never see nothin' pay stricter attention to business than what they did. Never standln' about and foolin* around, but allers at it. An' then they'd set and hatch incredible. Mostly two broods a year, and brought 'em all up.

Mary raised the oow. One of the neighbors giv it to her wen it wfcs a calf, and she inado much of It. 1 used to tie it to a stake near the cabin wen it was a little thing, for it to eat grass. Mary didn't know much about things then, she w*n« voum* like, and one day she thought she'd put. the calf iu the stable. 1 told ber nhed better not try it—she

was

just a slight girl. Now a calf, you

know,

is the most deeelvin' animal in

tho wor d. It don't look as if it lied any strength, and yet it'll upset a full grown man. So Mary unties the rope and starts for the shed, and the calf kicked up his heels and aw»y he went. Mary held on to the rope and away she went —thrown down, rolled over—and there was a confusion of calf and calico all over the place. There wasn't no bones broken, but Mary was the most amated girl you ever saw. That calf grew up to be a knowin* oow. She need to run out on the track just on purpose to frighten people, She'd stay on till the train was close up, but never got hit. Tbe uien soon all got to know her and didn't tnlnd her. Bat whenever a new eng.neer came along and saw her, he'd whistle brakes, and raise a rumpus, often bringing the train to a dead nop. But she'd walk off just at the right time and seemed to understand the joke.

Our little cabin was among the mountains, a good ways from any other house, and I used .to sometimes think that Mary must be lonely, with me away so much of the time. Yon see, I was alien out three nights in the week. I went up in the day time, passing my house at 5 noon, and down again at night, pasting at midnight. But I was home two or three days in the week and alien Sunis day. The piaoe where we lived was a wild region of country, and the storms we used U» have up there, so high In the air. was fearful. 1 didn't tell you anything about the boy No! Well, do yon know, I look to him the very first moment. An' that's ga very cur'ous thing about babies. Now

but tell

I never fancied 'em much, you, stranger, it

111

ikes all the differ

ence in the world whetber it's your baby or whether it belongs to somebody, else. T'Ve seen a great many of 'ettiin my time, and accordin' to tpeff parents they was the mbst unconHWSn rabies but I never could see much of it. I used to lsugb a good deal when people made such fools of thelrselves over their children, but I know exactly how it is now for I suppose I was the greatest fool over IIIV

Charley as ever 11 ved. Mary named hi in Charley. That was after mt. Seems to me that boy took to a locomotive from the time he was nix months eld. His mother would set out front of the house with him In her lap, when I was up at noon, and sbe'd kiss her band and wave the baby at me. By the time lie '-"as three years old, he'd got so that I used to take him up to ride with me. There was a water tank near the house and when I stopped to water be was allers there, and I'd ketch him up 'n carry 'im off ten or twenty miles, till I met another train, and some of the boys'd carry him back home. Twasn't long afore there was scarce a man on the road as didn't know Charley Latham's baby. They'd pick 'im up wherever they could find 'im, and sometimes he'd be gone nearly all day, but somebody'd set 'im down afore night 'n' he'd come toddlin' home. Sometimes I think it's quee.bow the men used to take to that baty. There was fellers just as rough as bears —brakemen, that'd get drunk and crar.y with liquor and -nut or shoot a inaa quicker litenin' 'n' section men—up in tbem mountains them section in^n were mighty hard cuses. What for flghtin'and quarrelin' they'd beat Sam Hill. An' jet there wasn't one them chaps as would speak across word to my baby. They was all fond of 'im, why, there'd be a muss quk-ker'n the drop of yer hat.

There was Bill Walker. You Jidn't know Bill Walker, did you? No! Ot course you didn't. Dead now. Left a switch open on 'im and be run off. Never spoke alter they picked 'im up. Bill be was a crusty old bachelor—one of them lellers wat never sees nothin', if he can help hisself. He didn't have no relations, and he was so sot agin everybody the boys used to say they didn't believe he ever had a father or mother like other iolks. He'd had hard lines in life, for a fact, and it made 'im wat they call a

mjaen

They say Bill just turned ashy. He sets down his can a»d reached for that feller—jest one, square in the jugular, and he didn't git outo' bed for ten days. One day there come down from New York a rocking-horse, and Mary found it at the water-tank with a piece of paper tied to the bridle, 'n it said like this: "If Bill Walker could ever wish for a baby of his own it would belittle Charley." That rocking horse cost Bill a whole month's wages.

One of the first things Charley learned to say, when be was beginnln' to talk, was this." You see the men on the road used to call one another "Pard" short for "pardner." Charley he caught it, and he allers called me "Pard" I don't think be ever called me father or papa, like other children de but it was allers

Pard." "Yo" and me is pards, isn't we?" he used to say. And that's what we allers called one another, and he went by tho name of "Charley Latham's pard all over the road.

I'd be goin' by the bouse on the noon train, and leaniu' out of the cab watchin' for 'im, 'n he'd be out in front with a white rag or something to wave at me, and I'd see by the motion of his lips—I couldn't hear for the noise of the cars— that he was sayin', "You and me is pards, isn't we

As I was tellin', Sundays I laid off 'n in the mornin,, after breakfast, Mary would fill up a basket with some bread 'n butter 'n meat 'n things, and we three wo^ld go off up into the mountains and stay all day. We u«ed to do this mostly every Sunday, «nd .«n Charley got to cullin' It his pard's day. You see, he got a notion It was the best day in the week, 'cos I was allers homo with 'im. I didn't never go to church much—it was a long ways and then I thought Charley would get as much religion by going around in the woods, and amom the mountains, where the trees and leaves wore so beautiful and the rocks so grand, as any other way. If tbey don't tell us that the Creator who made 'em all is powerful and. good too th«re ain't no preacher can do it.

You went up to the tep of Pike's Peak the other day. I've been there too, 'n I'd like to know if a chap can go up there, among those awful precipices and gorges, and look over the country for a hundred miles, and see the mountains around, and the plains 'way off in front, that don't seem to have no end, and then look at hisself, and say whether he does rea'ly amount to a row of pins. Yon see I never was any Christian, and never

8ive

Charley no sich tralniu', and sememes I think inebbe I didn't do quite right by him. But, Lord love you, stranger, wen he went amcng the angels, I'm Just certain then wasn't none of *ein mid any cleaner sOul 'n what he bud.

There was a place, about three-quar ters of a mile from our hou&e, where we used to go agcod deal Sundays, and Mary would read the Bible to us and sing. She was a good singer, Mary was. We used to call the place Devil's Hun."

was anort of creek, but didn't

have no water In it, 'fiept alter a bard rain. It came down between two high mountains, where

was Weep as could

be. Wen a storm oame up I've known It in half an hour to have six feet of water in it. An' then it wipuld bHng down

big logs,

trunks of treeS^ and great

atones, roaring that way yon Could near It for miles. It got Ha name because it was such an Infernal place. Often I've been woke up at-nlght by a heavy shower, and I'd he&r Devila Run howling as though it would tear everything to pieces. There couldn't be no worse plaoe .fixed for the road, if they had hunted the whole country through, than right be re. There was a sharp curve, and on the outside of it was a straight up-and-down precipice tor hundreds of net, so that If a train went off *lt would be smashed into klndlln' wood and tenpenny nails. Devil's Run went underneath the track, near the point of the curve, through a barrel culvert, and once there came a bard storm! the trees 'n stones, and so on, chocked up the culvert, which wasn't large enough, 'n the water dammed up and roee, tul by'n by the whole embankment gave way, and twenty laet or the road went rlppin' down the mountain. They found out the break before any accident happened, and the culvert was rebuilt a great deal larger than before, But that place the whole road was afeard of.

As I was a tellin', jrlTlN£%*ben8lch a wicked placev^|Mftifs Jlmf-was the prettiest one o» mountain. The b-disrtbe deep down, 'n full of X&ns smfe gTMSeatbat Mary was aJieli^gatberiir^ alt' we oould see theretaniMMiotteetday 'n the

110

Yes! that's it—a misen-

tborp. He seemed tokeva particular grudge for everybody he had ever seen, and a sorter general disgust for everybody he hadn't. Bill picked np the baby for a ride one 4ay»

an(* when

',e

stopped at the next station he was goin' roun^l oiiin' his iujine and the litt'e tyke was tagging after, hold in' on to bis ooattail and gettin'hisself all covered with oil and grease jest like a reg'l»r engineer and there was one of the station men, as didn't like Bill no bow, and he ses, ses he, "Hullo, Bill! is that a lelt bander of yourn?"

aan could

never find his way overhead. As I was tellint Char! be an engineer. By the ume he tdbe six years old be knew the rtSWfe of nigh all the parts of the machine. He'd Searnt all the gnals that was used on the road. He knew that a red flag or a red light meant danger. That a lantern, at night swuLg backwards 'n forwards, slowly, across the track would bring a train up, all standin*. All that sort o' thing ne'd jest picked up hisself. He knew the sound of every whistle and bell on the road, 'n could tell what injin tbey belonged to, and I believe be knew the tread of No. 29 whenever she went by, night or day. No. 29 that was my injine, 1 run ber about three years, and there wasn't nothin' in God's world I couldn't getoutof her wen she was iu good humor. We sorto' understood one another, and she hardly ever went back on me. Once in awhile she did, ar then she was a perfect cuss. *es! he was seven that winter—just seven years old a few days beiore Christmas. After Chaney got a year or two old, I allers made much of Cnrist mas. Mostly contrived to lay off that day so as to te home with my little pard. Some of the boys was allers ready an'willin' to take my run on that day—them as didn't havo no wives or cluldroti. They'd come and say, "Now, Latham, there's your little pard, he 11 be a-waitin' of you to-morrow, which is Christmas. So I'll jest take your run down. An' this 'ore basket, why, the boys, you know, they ses, we ain't got

chick nor child, and we'll send this along to Latham's little Charley." The first time they did that I was took back that way I stood and gaped, a lookin'around like a natural, and couldn't say a word. And the things tbey used to send Charley was astonisbln' toys and go on. Why, one Christmas tbey sent 'im a real silver ring. Oh! stranger, them days was sich times as I've never ued since. There wasn't no other chil dren around for Charley to play with, but ine'n bis mother was all he seemed to care for, 'n we'd carry on together all day just as it none of us was more'u seven years oh1.

Charley bed a little room by hisself, where be slept, which had a window that looked down the track. I gave him a railroad lantern, which he trimmed and called bisaelf, after I showed him bow, 'n wen it was my night down he'd light his lantern 'n put it in the window at the head ot his bed. I could see it a long way boforo I got to the bouse, 'n you don't know, etranger, what comfort it was wen I was acomin' down to see that light and know that my little boy was lyin' there fast asleep and dreamiu' that the roar of the train was the footsteps of his old pard flying at forty mile an hour.

It was my run down Thanksgiving eve. I was goin' to stop off in the mornin|, and Bill Walker was t» take my train goin' back. We started from Altoona late in the evening and agood deal bebind. It had been ai warm day. The weather had been warm for some time back, and it began to rain in the mornin', and bed rained all day. By night the wind chopped round to the north, 'n it began to turn cold, so that w'en we started it was rainin' and sleetin' with an outlook for a heavy storm. A darker night I never saw,'n w'en the conductor pulled the bell I ses to my fireman, "Crazy, this is goin' to be an ugly run." My fireman was a wild, harum -scarum sort of a boy, and so tbey bad nick-named 'im "Crazy Jake." Bui they soon dropned the Jake 'n left him Crazy, and thet's the name be allers went j/y. So he ses to me, Boss, I guess you're right there." C'-azy was one o' tbem boys thet never was afeard o' nothin'. I've seen 'im iu desperate tight places, but never know'd 'im to show the white feather. I don't believe man or devil could scare 'im, but this night he seemed to be sorter uneasy like.

Sometimes there's semethlng makes you think beforehand that something is goin' to happen—a kind of—of— presentiment? Yes! that's it. Presentiment. You can't tell exactly how it is, but if there is sperits in accidents or disasters, seems like they wad tryin'some way to let folks know in time, and couldn't quite do it. Everything seemed to go wrong with us that night. The passengers was all growlin' cos we hurried 'eui up at supper and when I pulled out ray machine bad the very old boy in her. No. 29, as I was tellin ye, was one of the surest engines on the road, but wen she did git into her didos she was more obstreperous 'n a government mule. Ingines is like these sewin' machines or planners, and them things. They git out o' kilter without no reason, and yer can't tell w'at's the matter with 'em, only they jest won't, and that's all there is about it. She wouldn't steam, she fretted and snorted and foamed and wouldn't do her work no ways at all. Me and Crasy fussed with ber, and worked with ber, and coaxed and cussed her, but it wasn't no use. We kept rnnniu' behind all the time instead of making up, 'u the conductor swore like a pirate. He was a engineer hisself, and he came out into the cab and for five or ten miles be fussed and worked and coaxed and cussed. I believe that engine knew just as well that Satan was out loose that night as if sbe'd been a real human. Ingines Is like women—they can't tell you why a thing is so, and can't give no good reason for it, but they jast know that it's so.

Mebbe we'd made thirty mile, or sich matter. The rain and sleet and bail and snow was comin' down fearful. The water was poniin' down the mountain and fillin' the ditches and runnin' much as you saw it last night. The wind was a blowin' a tornado, and come tearin* through the peases gulches they call 'em In this country—in gusts thM would strike the locomotive like a big wave vtriking the ship, and almost throw her over. It was so dark, too, that I couldn't hev seen Crazy on the other side of the cab but for the lantern, and wen he opened the furnace door. But I bad to get along all I could. It wouldn't do to slow up, as I was runnin' for a ineelin' point.

Just before you get to the curve at Devil's Run, there's a abort stretch of straight track. Soon as I struck that I began to look for the light in Charley'a window, which was the other side of thearun. Strainin' my eyes through the dark just at the point of the curve, I saw a light swinging backwards and forwards slowly across the track. You know I was a-tellin' you as everything went crooked that night. Soon as I saw that light I knew what it was ail in a minit. It came on me with a rush, like. My faairstood on end. I blew brakes. I screams to the fireman, "Crasy! Devil's Run calverfa gone, by the livin' God!" He jumped 'n sot the tender brakes, and alid the wheels in a flash. The brakemen bebind didn't ana *er. They wss dosin' in the oars, I reckon. 1 blew brakes agin with a blast

wake the

dead, and threw her over. The driven ground and groaned under me, bnt the

railewaa sleety and slippery, and I wss forging ahead to a gulf five hundred feet square down, and a hundred and fifty human lives behind me. I was tellin' yeas No. 29 that night was dead square ag'in goin' ahead but wen I threw her back aeems like she knew her biz, and hlo,w much laid on her doin' of it well. Women, agin, Is ingines. Crabbed, crooked, cantankerous cusses wen they don't want to, but where it's works of goodness or mercy call on 'em and they are right there. No. 29 took bold on that reverse with a grit I never see in no engine afore. She put all there was in her into every turn, and the whole affair took less time than I'm a-tellin' of it till the danger was by.

Wen we stopped within twenty feet of the light, which was swinginr still, backwards and forwards, slowly across the track, her. to Crtny, "Who's got that lantern?" Knew it conldn't be the trackman, for w'd just met him three miles below, and cept him there was nobody nearer'n ten miles at that time of nignt. S« I gits down from the machine and runs up the road. As I comes up I sees a little figure in white, it was scill a swingin'of the light, backwards and forwards, slowly across the track. He was in bis night-gown, just as he got out ot bed, hadn't

110

hat, and was bare-

toot. The sleet had froze in his hair and his night gown was stiff with ice. I comes up to 'im—well, I was took that way I cauldn't speak. An' he kep' swingin' the light, backwards and forwards, hiowiy across the track, and he stz to me, u« says, "You and me's pards, isn't we?" 1 looks at'im a minit. His eyes was open and looked queer. He was de&d fast asleep. Crazy ketches me or I'd gone over, which "it were my knets seemed weak like. Then I sets do

non the rail and Crazy picks up the child, 'n buggin' of 'im up busted right out a cryin', he did.

The conductor and some of the men got out of the cars'and come where we Was. It was sleetin' still, 'n' growin' bitter cold. Tbe boys carried the baby into tbe baggage car, where there was a stove, and took off his night clothes and wrapped 'im .up 111 blankets and great coats. Tht re was a doctor on the train, and he ses if we kin pit 'im buck to bed without wakin' of 'im up, p'raps it wouldn't hurt 'im butithe was to wake what with the wet '11' tho cold,'n' the irigbt, like as not it m.^ht kill'im. So tne boys takes 'im up to carry 'im to the house, and I loilered along, but I couldn't hev carried a kitten. The doctor be tells 'em to be keerful and not wake 'im, for it was as much as bis life was worth. So Crazy takes im, and two of 'em holds a blanket over 'im to keep the sleet off, 'n' one goes ahead with a lantern, and two or three more about with lanterns, so's to light tbe way. Wen we got to the break it- was just as I expected. Traok, road, culvert, everything gone, clean as if cut out with a knile. The water was pitchin' down the run six feet deep, carryin' big rocks and boulders that bounced and bumped from side to side and up into the air, clear oat of the water. It was awful to look at. How the child got over tbe gap, which was at least twenty feet wide, I don't know. A tree hed come down and lodged crossways, and I suppose he must hev gone over that- Wen we come to it we was most afraid to try it, for if you slipped off the log it was all day with you. I didn't like to trust the boys and I ses to Jake, "Crazy, you won't drop the baby, will you?" He points down into the break and ses, "Latham, we'd all been down there, every mother's son of us, but for your little pard, I'd drop my soul fint."

Well! we gdt 'im home safe at last. Mary was asleep when we got to tbe house, and soared as bad as me when she beard what was np. We pnt 'im back in his bed and sure enough he never waked up. Next mornin' they threw a trestle over the break and trains' was runnin' agin. But the doctor stayed with us. Jest out of his own head you know, but he seemed anxious. Seemed as though he took to the child. Don't wonder at that, neither. Most everybody did.

I watched by 'im all that night, and towards day I got out all his old Christmas things and set 'em on to a table near the bed, where he could see 'em the first thing. But a fever came on 'im, 'n' w'en be woke up he was out of his head. I* speaks to 'im and ses,

How goes it, Pard But he didn't know me. That was thanksgiving day, you know, 'n I oat there by him, liopin' every minit as he might come round, so I could give'im his things and we could hev eui holiday jest as we used to do. But he kep' a gettin' worse from hour to hour. •He was sick jest a week and wanderin' and wild from fint to last. 1 stayed with 'imall the time, for I hadn't wits enough left.to handle a machine, and the boys sent word not to bother myself about business, 'n' they'd see me through So between 'em thev did my duty and No 29 went up and down in ber reg'lar runs jest as if I wan at the lever myself. You know I was tellin' about the water tank near the bouse. It didn't use to be used much, but that week seemed as though there wasn't a train either way, tban didn't gil out o' water just theie. and some of 'em would come over to see tbe boy. And their wives kept sendin' nice things—and they was all poor people, too. You see, somehow it traveled about fast what little pard had done, stoppin' the train that night, 'n' he such a mite of a child. An' it got into tbe newspapen, and the President of tbe road came up to see 'im and all that. But be jest went on from day to day, for Denth struck 'im from the first moment as he stood there in the winter rain.

From his talking while be was delirious we found eut pretty much all how it was. 1 reckon be heard the storm in his sleep abd tbe roarin' of tbe run, and that set 'im to dxeamin' Of course he knew it was my night,' 'nd I had often told'im what a bad place it wa9, and what to do ifanythiug happened—never thinking that he'd go to doin' it hisself. Bui be gits up in his sleep, takes his lantern ana goes out to meet me. I'd be a siuin' there watchin' of 'im by his bed, 'n he'd begin first, jest kir.d o' mutterin', and I'd bear him say, softly like, as ef be was talkin to hisselt: "Pajd's due at tbe run in twenty minit*. I kin sit there in time." 'Peared like it was all goin' through bis mind agin and be was doin' over jefet what he did that night. We could tell wen he got to the place where the road broke, for be ses, "Kin I git over on that log? Ef I don't my pard '11 be killed."

Then seemed as though be was goin' down to tbe curve where we found him. An' he'd shiver like, as ef the cold rain was strikin' 'im

You see we oould mostly foller Mm by wstcbin' 'im and ketch n' what he said. Onct or twict be shook right hard, and his teeth chattered. We thought it was tbe oold be was feelin again as be felt it out there in the night with nothin' on Mm. Then be keeps still awhile like he was a fraitin' and ltst^nln' for tbe train, and you'd see 'im hold his breath fearin' be oould n't ketch the sonnc. Pretty soon he speaks agfn, gently like* and ses: "Kin he see the light in timer' 'N he waits a bit Next he jampe up in bed on his knees and screams oat the top of bis voice.

"Stop ber, Pard! Stop 29!" Stranger, I've eeen frightful things in my time, but I .never seen things so awful iis that waS. Pale and wild, with the fever on 'im^ that mere baby was tryin' to make nae hear, and the wind howlln' and the rain roarin' the way it was. An' we'd try to keep Mm stilt, *n his mother would coax him, and I'd try to quiet him 'n he'd scream agin. "Culvert's gone! Stop her Pard

An' I'd take Mm in my arms 'n he'd be all of a quiver. Then it seemed like he beerd me whistle, for be ses, "All right! he's blowin' brakes."

An' I puts Mm back in bed and he lays still a minit like he was a listenln' and

"Ho's a reversin of 29, he is! My pard —pard'ssafe." Then he'd shut his eyes and drop off, and smile in bissleep, like be was satisfied. By-and-by he'd begin and go all over it again, ana so, day after day allers tbe same. He seemed to hev it in his mind all the time.

The doctor, you know, bltn I was a tallin' about, well, he stopped off that night and staid with us the whole week and nursed baby like it was his own. 'N wen it was all over I thought it was no more'n right, '111 ses to him, "Doctor! can I pay you?" "No!" ses he, "Latham, you "can't. His life saved mine. 'N besides that, Latham,"

'11

filled up like, "besides that, Latham, I've got one jest bis a^e. There ain't nothin' you kin givo me but that little curl tbere oil his forehead." So Mary takes the scissors and cuts it off. He kissed it, '11 put it in his pocket 'n went away.

On the night of the break at Devils Run, wen I got off the machine to go and see what was the matter, I pulls out my watch and It was twelve o'clock and three minits. Some of the neighbors, 'n' a minister from a village about fifteen miles off. I didn't give no attention to nothin', for I was stunned like and didn't know how it all was.

I was a sittin' in front of the bouse on a large stone, where Charley used to sit and wait for me when I was coming by, and I beerd a whistle. An' 1 seed a train. It stopped near where I was. The locomotive was No. 29. The boj's had her dressed in mournin'. Bill Walker, was runnin' her and Crazy was tirin'. There was three coaches, filled with the boys and their wives and children. They wa3 in their best clothes, 'n when they came by where I was sittin' —they all knew it was little Charley's placed—the men took off their hats and the women bad their handkerchers to their faces. I allers knowed they was fond of him, but it seemed as though they had lost an only child. Tbere was six'little boys, all the same size, and they took 'im up, and we all followed up the side of the mountain. .It was a mild day. and tbe sun was shiuiti' bright. We crossed Devil's Run and came to a place of level ground where tbere was some large pine trees. It was just over the cliff, a little ways from the road, say a hundred feet, and in plain sight of where he stood wavin' his lantern backwards slowly across the track when he said: "You and nie is pards, isn't w9?"

After all, it was harder on Mary than on me. In three months' time I took her there, too. I stayed on the line awhile after that, but I couldn't never back to my house agin, and whenever was goln'%byand saw those two heaps of fresh earth it worked on me so I couldn't stand it.

As I was tellin'. I sometimes think I'd like to get back there and see tbe place once more, but seems as if I was afeerd. I don't believe in ghosts, but I know if 1 was to run a train around that curve in a dark night I'd see .nay little Charley waivin'his light as be did that

when it cost him bis life.

Saturday ISten&J

-MATT.,

FOR THE TEAR

sp:,- V*-* IWV ,-VJ

1«-

Mail

night

Always keep on hand, as delay increases suffering. If you have a cough er cold use Dr. Bull's Cough Syrup. It will cure yon. Price, 25 cents.

—Rheumatism, Neuralgia, Lumbago, Sciatica, Rheumatio Gout, Nervous and Kidney Diseases positively cured by Dr. Filler's Rheumatic Remedy—a Physicians specialty 42years, never fails when taken as directed. P. M. Donnelly, agent. 'I

mar7 IT

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d"fTQdOA per day at home. Samples $0 3/SU worth $5 free. SlINSOiN & CO., Portland, Main,:.

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THE ABOVE IS THE PLACE where at all may be found the largest assortment of

PIANOS, ORGANS,

aofd8makiier8Mu8ical

PIANOS AND ORGANS rented and sold on easy monthly payments. Notice.—OUIDE TO STRANGERS inquiring for

1877. .^

A MODEL WEEKLY

FOR THE

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Mail and office Subscriptions will, lnvarl- P, ably, be discontinued at expiration of time paid for.

Encouraged by the extraordinary suoeess which has attended the publication of THIS SATURDAY EVENING MAIL tko publisher has perfected aiTangorti^nts by Whlehlt will lienoeforth be one of the most popular papers in the West. 1

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Address P. ». WEST FALL, fubliHher Saturday IGvenlng Mai', rrcRHh A1TTK. INJ

I ':i -fjfr 4d*ws£ii#il£i

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4.Ti

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*-v* WlMip*

£S1

times

Instmments

and MUSICAL MERCHANDISE, of every description," ever kept in Terre-Hautc. Purchasing everylliing from first hands, the'proprietor also having acquired tbe trade of a Piano Maker, at tbe same time having an e#tabllahed reputation as a Tuner and Musician, superior advantages nre claimed which are simply' ...

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KI8SNER S PALACE OF MUSIC.

Take street ears to corner of Main and Third streets, south thence one bloek to Ohio street, Mwen lUid and Second streets.

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