St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1881-02-18

duty at the bridge over the "Devils
Gulch," fanciful name given to an i'm
mense cleft in the rock, two hundred
feet wide and hundred and fifty deep,
which had been spanned by strong
bridge of wood and iron, believed by
the engineers who constructed it to be
able of withstanding all possible as
saults of wind and water.
1t was the duty of William Springel
-CarTs father-tO keep guard at the
bridge on stormy nights and warn the
oncoming trains of any lurking danger
which might exist.
Beneath the bridge a mountain
stream boiled and bubbled in ordinary
times on that night the heavy rains
had swollen it to a furious torrent.
Carl Springel hObbled very slowly
along upon his crutches through the
almost Egyptian darkness of the night,
halt-blinded by the rain, but buOyed
up by the thought that he was bringing
cheer and comfort to his beloved
father.
When within hundred yards of the
bridge an awful crash sounded out up
on the night air loud and above The din
of the storm, and shudder of horror
ran through his brave young soul.
1t was the bridge-the bridge which
had been deemed impregnable. The
bridge had succumbed to the fury of
the water, which rushed down its foun-
dations in irresistible torrents from the
mountain side.
Hurrying on as fast as he could,
Carl reached the railroad track. and his
IL
track, some ten feet away where the
entrance of the bridge had been, was
his fathers hand car with his red Ian
tern burning dimly in it, and by the
lanterns light Carl could see the full
extent of the disaster. Every section,
every timber of the bridge had been
swept away, and the yawning gulf and
roaring flood was all that were left.
''Father, father ~ cried Carl in his
lOudest tones. "Father, father.' he
called again, ''where are you p
But no answering voice responded,
and there rushed across his brain the
terrible certainty that his father had
gone down with the bridge.
For Il moment his breast was filled
with unutterable anguish. But it was
only for a moment. Quick as thought,
it flashed upon his mind that it was al
most time for the last train from the
great city above to come rushing along
with its living freight.
No danger signal cleaned from the
watch-tOwer upon the bridge, and on
they would come, unsuspicious of their
peril until it would he too late, and
they would be dashed in a moment into
the seething flood, more than Il hundred
feet below.
What was to be done? Forgetting
for the instant the great woe that had
befallen him, Carl decided at once that
it was his duty to supply his fathers
place, and warn the train of its peril in
time to save it if possible. But what
could he doP
The tempest increased in its fury,
and the rain poured down as though it
could never stop. Hark, the train is
coming! Already he hears it rum
bling on towards destruction, and it
must he near, or he could not hear it
above the storm.
He cannot run with his poor Grip
pied legs, so he throws himself upon
the hand-car, and nerves himself for
mighty effort.
As though his own life were at stake,
he begins to turn. Slowly at first, then
faster and faster, he drives the car in
the direction of the approaching train.
On, on, dashes the mighty horse
nearer and nearer it comes. Oh. if he
can get far enough off to save the train
from rushing headlong into that horri-
ble grave.
Around the mountain side, on the
curving track, the train speeds along.
The gleam of its lights is now shed
upon the valley, and the boy knows
that the supreme moment is at hand.
On thunders the engine, and the
track trembles beneath the heavy bur
den. Suddenly, around a sharp bend
hundred feet away, full on his sight
bursts the blazing headlight of the en-
gine.
Ceasing from his labor, Carl Springel
braced himself with one hand, and
grasping the red lantern with the 9TH
er, swings it above his head.
"The bridge is down! The bridge is
down. ~ he cries with all his power.
"The bridge is down! The bridge is
do
The engineer has seen him, but can
not save him. With dull thug, the
engine clears the obstruction from the
track and dashes along-but slower and
slower now.
The hand-car and the boy are hurled
fifty feet through the air, and when the
boy is found his body is crushed, man
gled and lifeless. But the train is
saved. Trembling, grasping stagger-
ing, the engine halts- halts not dozen
yards from the month of the yawning
chasm-and all on board are saved by
the unparalleled heroism of this Grip
pied boy who had given up his life that
they might live.
Two years ago, in a quiet village
cemetery in the south of Germany, |
saw the grave in which he sleeps. Up
on a modest tombstone at his head.
erected by the gratitude of those whose
whose lives he had preserved was this
inscription:
CARL SPRINGEL,
AGED IA.
"He died the death of a hero and
martyr; and saved two hundred lives"
A hero and martyr he was indeed,
some time yet, bards and poets will
sing the story of this brave VOunr peas-