POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1915, 14 April 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

THE STATION AGENT’S STORY.

By Robb Haetwiok Thoepe, Author of “ Curfew must not Ring To-night.’ Take a seat in the shade, here, lady. It’s tiresome, I know, to wait, But when tho train reaches Verona

It’s always sure to bo late ; ’Specially when any one’s waiting’. Been gatherin’ flowers, I see ? Ah, well, they’re better company Than a rough old fellow, like me. Yon noticed the graves ’noath the willows, Down there where the blossoms grew ? Well, yes, there’s a story about them, Almost too strange to be true ; ’Tis a stranger, sweeter stoiy, Than was ever written in books ; And Good made the ending so perfect— There, now, I see by your looks,

I will have to tell tho story : Let mo see—’twas eight years ago. One blusterin’ night in winter, When the air was just thick with snow; As the freight, came round the curve there, They beheld a man on the track, Bravin’ tho storm before him ; but Not heedin’ tho foe at bis back.

And, ere a hand could grasp tho bell-rope, Or a finger reach the rod, One sweep from the cruel snow plough Had sent the man’s soul to its God ! They laid him out here in the freight-house And I stayed with him that night. He’d one of the pleasantest faces, So hopeful and young and bright.

There was only a worn out letter ; I know it by heart.it said—- “ Dear John, baby May grows finely, I send you this curl from her head. Wo will meet at Brackenboro’ The grandfather’s sad and lone. Bat. I read him your kind words, saying, When we’ve a homo of our own,

He shall sing the songs of Old England Beneath our own willow tree.” That was all there was of it, lady. And 'twas signed just “ Alice Leigh.” So we made a grave in the morning, And buried the man out there, Alone, unmourned, in a stranger’s land, With only a stranger’s prayer. But when he’d slept in his lonely grave Out there, nigh on to a year. Hay’s freight run into a washout By the culvert, a way down here ; There only were two passengers that night Dead, when we found them there— A sweet little English woman, And a baby with golden hair.

On her breast lay the laughing baby, With its rosy finger tips Still warm, and the fair young mother, With a frozen smile on her lips. We laid them out here in the freight-house, I stayed that night with the dead ; I sjiall never forget the letter We found in her purse ; it said—

“ Dear Alice; praise God I’ve got here, I’ll soon have a home for you now ; But you must come home with the baby. As soon as you can, anyhow. Comfort the grandfather, and tell him That by-and-by he shall come, And sing the songs of old England, ’Neath the willows beside our home ;

For, close by the door of our cottage I’ll set out a willow tree, For his sake and the sake of old England, Lovingly yours. John Leigh.”

The tears filled my eyes as I read it; But I whispered—“ God is just!” For I knew the true heart yonder— Then only a handful of dust— Had drawn this sweet, little woman Bight here, and God’s merciful love, Had taken her from the sorrow, To the glad reunion above!

So, close by the grave of the other. We laid her away to rest; The golden-haired, English mother. With the baby upon her breast. I planted those trees above them, For I knew their story, you see ; And, I thought their rest would be sweeter ’Neath their own loved, willow tree.

Five years rolled along, and Lady, My story may now seem to you, Like a wonderful piece of fiction ; But I tell you it is true. As true as —that God is above us ! One summer day, hot and clear, As the train rolled into the station And stopped to change engines here.

Among a company of Mormons Game a tremblin’, white-haired man. He ask’d me with voice very eager, “ Will you tell mo, sir, if you can, Of a place called Braokenboro’? And how far have I got to go ?” “ It’s the next station north I answered, “ Only thirteen miles below.” His old face lit up for a moment. With a look of joy complete ; Then ho threw up his hand toward Heaven, And dropped down dead at my feet! “Old Hugh Leigh is dead,” said a Mormon, And sights o’ trouble he’s be’n. Nothin’ would do when we started, But that ho must come with us then To find Alice, John, and the baby ; And his heart was well nigh broke. With waitin’ and wstchin’ in England, For letters they never wrote.” So wo buried him there with the others Beneath the willow sree. ’lwas God’s way of ending the story— More norfect than man’s could be ?