distant
parts in charge of fellow-workmen and erect the finished engines. A
union of many qualities was necessary here. Managers of erection had to
be managers of men, by far the most complicated and delicate of all
machinery, exceeding even the Watt engine in complexity. When the rare
man was revealed, and the engine under his direction had proved itself
the giant it was reputed, ensuring profitable return upon capital
invested in works hitherto unproductive, as it often did, the sagacious
owner would not readily consent to let the engineer leave. He could well
afford to offer salary beyond the dreams of the worker, to a rider who
knew his horse and to whom the horse took so kindly. The engineer loved
_his_ engine, the engine which _he_ had seen grow in the shop under his
direction and which _he_ had wholly erected.

McAndrew's Song of Steam tells the story of the engineer's devotion to
his engine, a song which only Kipling in our day could sing. The Scotch
blood of the MacDonalds was needed for that gem; Kipling fortunately has
it pure from his mother. McAndrew is homeward bound patting _his_ mighty
engine as she whirls, and crooning over his tale:

That minds me of our Viscount loon--Sir Kenneth's kin--the chap
Wi' Russia leather tennis-shoon an' spar-decked yachtin'-cap.
I showed him round last week, o'er all--an' at the last says he:
"Mister M'Andrew, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?"
Damned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin', on my back--the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?
I'm sick of all their quirks an' turns--the loves and doves they
dream--
Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam!
To match wi' Scotia's noblest speech yon orchestra sublime,
Whaurto--uplifted like the Just--the tail-rods mark the time.
The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an' heaves,
An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:
Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
Till--hear that note?--the rod's return whings glimmerin' through
the guides.
They're all awa'! True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes
Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamos.
Interdependence absolute, foreseen