Bristol news. [volume] (Bristol, Va. & Tenn.) 1867-189?, 1875-03-16
JULIA WHALEN,
DR. The SCHEDULE FIGURED WRONG.

And "nothing in front to fear"
That canyon hides q cabin,
In its pack of oak and vine,
Where the eyes of Julia Whalen
Are the only things that shine.
Now as Julia glanced to'rd Union,
As she'd done thousand times,
When she heard the downward signal
That with tremor shook the vines,
"There's something wrong" she muttered,
cor Pm nightly deceived,
For the up trains left Watauga-
If my ears can be believed 20
The Number Eight with plume of steam
Shot round the canyons curve,
And like painted serpent, climbed
The rail with mettled nerve.
The fireman heaved his wood within,
One forty stood the steam,
And little dreamed the mountain girl
Tagged them and death between.
Uhheeded were her GESTURES wild
Or waving of her crimson shawl,
Her frantic leap across the chasm-
The story old-unheeded all!
He tipped his cap-the engineer
And; bewing to her queenly form,
Mack Doolcy kissed his smuttcd hand:
The Eight just Numbered on.
Alas how fiery footed Time
freads down the brave and strong,
When least the world recks of it,
Because the schedules wrong!
Down breaks the deaf ming whistle llew!
The engineer reversed,
And, yOwiEg he bad killed the maid,
"Why spring in front ?" he cursed.
The moRsters crashed and climed in air,
And isaped eaca hastilc trait
In ruins shapeless mass, through which
They Kissed with tongues of flame.
In the heap of brokea tImbers
There were Zen with broken bones,
But the double lightning blow of death,
Was too quick for dying groans.
For the fremen, Grouse and Wyatt,
Saw, from their spirit eyes,
Their crunched and seething flesh go up,
In that needless sacrifice.
And over all grim chaos threw
His pail of smoke and steam
AS though the Gods would intimate
What; for Julia, would have been.
We can't tell how it happened,
But from ont that fiery tarn,
Arose the dingy form of Dooley,
And the maid was on his arm.
The dead are silent as Gabriel,
The broken bones are knit,
And of all that smouldering ruin
There is only an ashen pit.
But within the humble cabin,
There were silver purses thrown;
And the maid in n coach of velvet,
Was sent to a college home.
Twas only n whistle at Shells Grade,
A signal at Watauga she heard;
'Twds genius that leapsd lihe instinct,
Fleeter than feetest word.
Twas only a mountain maiden
Touched the soul of President Jaques;
But in the flash of ind pulse,
Religion its affairs makes.
Your theOrIed, solemn apostle,
Might sing him deaf with his hymns;
He'd go back to his doubling dungeon,
And wrestle with sterner things.
Yet the child on poverty's comtBon,
Whelmed by misfortune's drip;
That looks and listens for others,
That from higher pathways slip,
Can ope that generous heart of his,
Where he carries his stocks and gold;
And climb on his silver ladder,
Where brighter realms unfold.
You ask il this is religion:
Really, l cannot tell
What nse can God make of them,
In such place as hell.
For the maid that flags down danger
AS he speeds on his fiery train,
And checks il till his victims
Can leap and live again;
May save some erring Trainham,
When he opes the throttle of sin,
And bids some moral Ryland
To figure the schedule for him.
And the man that feeos Gods children,
That are lost in the silent wood,
anu EiNVs theH iSaI Ming uuAoUVhiSf
Has a heart that's apt to be good.
lie may dance to mirth and Tusic,
May laugh when he money makes;
If he wipes the tear from sorrow,
And the chains of Genius breaks.
The devil would find if he had him,
That he'd drawn o bishop Of earth
Or one of the pawns of heaven,
And count him nothing vo-th.
/. c. F*s4*
There are no people who git snab