Alas! for Maiden; alas! for Judge, The saddest are these: "It might have been !" JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. RAMON. REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO. Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled ! "To the man who'll bring to me," Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— 66 Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine: Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!" No one answered, for a cry From the shaft rose up on high; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, As the weaker gasped and fell "To the man who sets them free," Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— "Hold your peace!" some one replied, "There has one already gone whoe'er he be!" Then they held their breath with awe, Fainting figures re-appear, On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skilful hand from below; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained, He the hero and the last, He whose skilful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer! Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards. Señor, my name Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 66 We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! P We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old; That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;”— It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge. That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Parliament," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh. That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, There's a boy, we pretend,-with a three-decker brain, And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,— You hear that boy laughing?—you think he's all fun,— Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen, And I sometimes have asked,-shall we ever be men? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! POOR PEOPLE. 'Tis night. The cabin door is shut, the room, A shelf with row of plates that glimmer bright. Upon the hearth some embers glowing red; Her husband is out fishing. From a lad, With chance and danger he has had to fight, So in his little sailing boat each night She can pray God for her dear husband's weal. |