'Tis said the abbess rests not well
In that sepulchral pile;
But yearly, when the night comes round
As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound
She flits along the aisle.
But whither passed the virgin saint?
To slumber far away,
Destined by Mary to endure,
Unaltered in her semblance pure,
Until the judgment day!
DAVID SHAW, HERO.
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man.
So far my text--but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane
Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab
David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab.
Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said;
(Jim was his fireman.) "_Make up time!_" On and on they sped;
Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind;
The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind;
Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead.
How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.
Leavenworth--thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race.
Now for the hills--keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace.
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