WHOSE DOG WON THE RACE?

Observer, Volume 3, Issue 69, 7 January 1882, Page 265

WHOSE DOG WON THE RACE?

[Note. — A true story of the deeds of an unconscious hero, recorded in the local English newspapers of the day, twenty years ago.'] Skidinore, I think, was the collier's name, So I read in the paper long time ago, And he strangely came to my mind to-day When talking of sorrows and scenes of woe ; How hair turned white as snow in a night, How some were " converted " and some went mad, By troubles and dangers they had passed through, And then I thought of this collier lad. I call him a lad, in Staffordshire style, But he was a man, tall, strong and ngly, A Black Country collier earning his bread In coal-mines belonging to great Eail Dudley. He wasn't converted, he didn't go mad ; His rough hair was still as black as his face, Though for days he had been eye to eye with death ; His first words were : " Mate, whose dog won the race ?" I forget how long they had been in the pit, How niairy were saved and how many died j But at last the water was all pumped out, And men went down, whilst women erieil, And wrung their hands 'twixt hope and fear, As the bodies of loved ones came to veiw, Till, with a shout that echoed the welkin round, They brought to the surface the living fewAlive ! bat the very next thing to dead, Exhausted, unconscious they all of them lay, Save Skidmore, and he walked weak as a child. Now was the time for the strong man to pray, To thank God for deliverance from the jaws of hell, But he thought of sport, and not of grace, The ruling passion was strong in life, So he said, " Mate, whose dog won the race ?" A reckless sinner, the unco' quid say, To think of vile spore when just saved from death ; But the sequel shows, to my mind, at least, That he served the Lord without wasting his breath, For they afterwards told how, when confined lii dark, gloomy caves of the mine, they had Shared their scant provisions among them all. Skidmore took, but gave all his share to the lad. For a boy of twelve, widow's only son, Was confined with, them in that living tomb. The strong man fed him and starved himself, Laughed, joked and sang, in that dreadf ul gloom — " Kept their spirits up," fought death for them all ; Chewed a piece of leather cut from his clog, Till after long days they were brought safe to earth, And then his first thoughts were about his dog. A strange theme this for a Christmas tale, But Christ came into the world for all. This man only know His Name as a curse ; Yet Christ through the gloom of the mine could call And make Himself heard in that rude man's breast, Who knew not the Voice, yet felt It in his heart, And, perhaps, we shall find at the reckoning Day Deeds count more than prayer, his the better part. " The Vagabond."

The other night, as a Avell-known citizen was walking home, when near the corner of Hohson and Victoria streets, he saw the gleam of a light shining through the shutters of a shop. Thinking the " enterprising burglar " was at work, he cautiously approached and there saw a, man in his shirt sleeves busily employed in packing away a large quantity of silver plato and jewellery. Instantly our friend fiew to the station, and having obtained the assistanco of fourteen constables and two sergeants, returned to the shop, where the police, to their utter disgust, found the suppose :1 burglar to be Mr Singleton, the popular jeweller. He waa packing up a large order he had received.