Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear
On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear.
Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick.
"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick;
The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before,
I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face--
I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace.
Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail
To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail!
Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes.
How can I look--his father--on that which there mangled lies?
That voice!--O merciful Heaven!--'tis the child's, and he calls my name!
I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy;
The place reeled round, and I fainted,--swooned with the sudden joy.
But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed
With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head,
That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad,
And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad--
She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view,
And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound;
The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found
With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white:
I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night.
Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind?
Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind?
If I hadn't 'a' done my duty--had I ventured to disobey--
My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

_George R. Sims._

Hark, Hark! the Lark

_(From "Cymbeline")_

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!

_William Shakespeare._

Tommy's Prayer

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate,