LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2014, 7 August 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE ENGINEER'S STOBY.

On a sunny October day, according to instructions I had received from the officers of the railroad company, I handed the engineer of Engine No. 32 a letter from his chief, requesting that I accompany him upon the engine, as a better post for the observations along the rails I had been commanded to make. After reading it he touched his hat, and respectfully bade me welcome, arranging as comfortable a seat for me as he could provide for the long ride which lay before us. It was a novel experience for me. and a highly exciting one, as we seemed to cleave the air, the train thundering along behind us ; aud I could but look admiringly at the man who stood so unflinchingly at his post, and In whose hands lay In reality all our lives. He was a tall, handsome fellow, whose keen grey eyes never stirred from his post, either to right or left, but whose cheery laugh often rang out in the clear morning air as we chatted together. By noon we had becoma friends, at which hour we stopped at a Email station, where there was a delay of twenty minutes to take on coal or water. As we slowed up I noticed, standing on the platform, a young woman, holding a neatly-covered basket and clinging to her skirts a little child, some three years of age. ' Papa ! papa!' the little one screamed, in delight; and, glancing at my companion's face, I needed not to question if he were the one thus called. Another moment we had stopped, and wife and child were pressed to his breast, while a look of wonderful tenderness crept into his eyes. 'My wife and child, sir.' he said, turning to me. * I have only one day a week off with them, but Mary always meets me here with my dinner, and now and then I get an hour or two with her.' *ltis a hard life,' I Biid. ' You muat miss them sorely.' 'No matter where I am, sir,' he replied, ' they are with me. I hear the little one's voice above the loudest wind, and I see my Mary's smile In the darkest night, although I stand alone on my engine, with my life in my hand. It's a bard life, maybe, sir, but I ought not to complain. It gave me happiness, since it won me my wife.' When we were on our way again, and I had seen tears fill the wife's bright blue eyes as she fondly kissed her husband good-bye, while I had slipped into the little one's chubby hand a golden gift from the strange gentleman riding with papa. I asked my companion what it meant. ' I don't know as you'd care to hear, sir, and there's not many as I'd care to tell. You read so many book stories of the people who make up your world, that you have not much time to look down to mine. There are people who think such as we have no time to love, but you have seen Mary and my boy, and—you'll tell me if I tire you ? ' I was a careless fellow six years ago, not neglecting my work when at my post, bnt fond of a good time with my companions when off duty, always ready to accept a friendly glass, and sometimes with my head not quite steady when I mounted my engine, though the air always set me right before we had gone far on our way. ' One evening at a dance I met Mary Morton. She was the prettiest girl in tho room, sir, and a little of a coquette in those days, though no more than was natural, with all the young fellows trying their best to turn her head.

' I was not long behind the rest. I couldn't get her out of my thoughts, but it did not take me a great while to find out the truth of the matter, I had lost my heart. The only question was, would she turn me adrift, or giro me hers for what she had stolen ? It was many a week before I got up my courage enough to determine to aek her to be my wife, Every moment off duty I would spend with her, until I grew to fancy she used to watch and wait for my coming. ' But I was not without my jealous hours, for all that. How did I know how she spent the time, I was so constantly away from her? ' At last I heard of another dance, to be given on the night I would be off duty. I could not see Mary until then, but I felt sure she would know 1 would come for her, and would go with no one else. ' But when the evening arrived, I found, when I called for her, that she had already gone. Perhaps, sir, in your rank of life, you know, too, what it is to be jealous, and how many a man destroys his future happiness by it. ' My first words to Mary were those of reproach, while her smile at my entrance died away, and her face grew white. * I did not know you were coming, John How could I ?' ■ You might have waited, then,' I exclaimed. 'And stayed at home, perhaps, to have had you Hugh at mo with the rest. Besides, I am quite satisfied with my escort, and believe I am the only person to be consulted in the matter.' ' As you will,' I f a'd, turning on my heel, muttering the word ' Coquette!' between my teeth, and unheeding the little pleading glance she sent from time to time across the room to where I stood. ' She was not without pride and if she suffered from my coldness, she only smiled the brighter on others, until I grew mad with jealous anger. That night I began a series of dissipations with which I employed every leisure moment. I drank more deeply than I had ever done in my life—not as before, for £0 called good-will and good fellowship, but to drown memory. ' I did not go near Mary for near a month. To me it seemed a year. Once, after a night's carousal, I passed her in the street, but not until long after did I learn of the bitter tears my haggard face and dissipated air had cost her. finally, my better nature triumphed, and I went t» her, repentant, to a9k her forgiveness, and perhaps her love. ' On a long, lonely night ride I made up my mind to do this, though, like a thousand mocking devils, memories of the moments that I had spent in the last few weeks crowded around me, as though taunting me in contrast with her purity; but, with God's help, I would make myself worthy, I said aloud, and I thought the hours would never drag along until I could find myself once more in her presence. She came in to see me, held out her hand with a sweet smile of welcome, as though we had only parted yes. terday, and yet—and yet there was a change. Ah, I learned it, all too soon I In those first few moments I told her the story of my life for the past few months, of what it had been before I knew her, of what it should be_ if she would give me the assurance and promise of her love. Then I psused. For a moment eilence fell between us ; then she spoken. A bright flush was in hc-r cheeks, her lips trembled, her lashes veiled her eyes, but her lips faltered not. 'John, 1 she said, 'I am only a girl, it is true, but the man I marry must be a man. Perhaps I might have loved you ' —here a little tremble crept into her tone—'but I have almost ceased to respect you. Were you my husband, I would fear for you, and fear and love caunot go hand in hand.' 'Step,' I said. *Do you want to drive me back to the life I had hoped to have left behind me ? Oh, Mary, do not be so cruel. Be my wife, and let me prove the stuff that Is in me.' ' No, John,' she answered softly, but the blue eyes she now raised to me were swimming in tears. 'lf you have seen the wrong, surely you will not return to it? Rather, if you indeed [love me, prove yourself a

man. It does not take a battle field to make a hero.' ' Prove yourself a man.' These were tie words that haunted me in the weeks that followed saving me from thn ruin I would else have drifted into, but tortnring mo with their hopelessness. What hoc had i in my daily routine of duty of changing Mary's mind T Yet. spite of her words, something in her eye had told me that she loved me, and that something gave me strength to live, and to withstand the daily temptations of my life. ' So six months passed, when one scorning, I mounted my engine to take the express engine to C——. We were golrg along at the rate of thirty miles an hour when suddenly right ahead of us, it seemed a tiny speck of red fluttering on th- track. ' I strained my eyeB —I b!ew my whistle. What could it be ? Merciful heaven 1 Another instant it was maiie dear to me. It was a little golden-haired child playing i& the very face of the huge mon-ter of death my hand was guiding to its destruction. 'I whistled, "Down brakes," but as I did so, knew it was of no avul, Before the order could be obeyed it wou'd be re»dered useless. Then something within me flaid : * Your life is worthless. Give it for that innocent life if it must be, bat save it at the peril of your own. Had yon been a better man you might hive had a Vt'Ae th Id like that praying for you at home.' * It takes a long time, sir, to tell all this', but in reality not one seca> dhad passed. At such times men think qui k,y One bitter sigh rose in my breast. I would never have a chance of proving to Mary my manh:ol by some great deed in the future, < r long years in penance. But it did not make my duty any the less dear. Bill, the fireman, was behind me. 'Take the engine!' I screamed to him; * good-bye, Mary,' I whispered low to myself. * The next minute, hardly conscious of what I was doing, I was down upon the cow-catcher of the train, cl ng-'ng by one hand, the other outstretched to grasp the child, now paralysed with teiror. Then we were upon it. - It was killed, crushed, mangled. No! I looked down. It was safe, held within one strong »rm, its red dress fluttering in the wind, its golden head closely pressed against my shoulder. Bow was it done ? I cannot tell you, sir. God, they say, does not let the sparrow fall. 'Then the train checked its speed, stopped; the passengers came crowding about us, men took me by t'na hand, women cried over me, and I—stood di-zad, bewildered, in their midst, the child tight-held within my arms. It was each a simple thing ; yet, sir, they gave me this (throwing back his coat and showing' a go d medal). ' I wear it In thanksgiving for the little life I saved. They raised for mo a purse of gold to a large amount, but the gift which teemed to cleanse my heart was the poor mother's grateful tears. ' The papers rang next day with the story. You see, sir, it seemed more to them, looking at it, thin to me, who had no time to stop and think; but somethi- g more was in store for me. I was off duty the next night' alone in my lonely desolate room, thinking it all over, when some one whispered my name. In another moment some one was sobbing in my arms, some one who had come to me of her own sweet wil 1 , foms one who, from that moment, has been the sunshine of my heart and home. ' That is all, sir. It is a simple story. I trust I have not tired you.' But I, as I grasped the noble fellow's hand, whose speech had so unconsciously betrayed the grand, true heart within, could only echo his Mary's words—'lt does not take a battle field to make a hero.'