The Birmingham age-herald., 1910-04-09
THE MYSTIC FOUNTAIN
 IN CAPITOL PARK

Hard by the mystic fountain in the
 park Capitol Park-the cub reporter stood His pencil rested idly in his hand; l His mind was lost in thought; his l humble pad. Blank and unused, was lost within his l pocket. Midnight, and stars that tried their I best to shine Through a thick pail of dust, the city's
 pride. The vagrant breezes of oncoming dawn Crept stealthily among the newborn 1 leaves Of the tall poplars. Silence held the
 place
 Within her envious arms
 The cub reporter, stretching his weary limbs into the I night To such a distance as the atmosph ere l Permitted, heaved a sigh of mortal II woe:
 Tomorrow, and tomorrow; then 'tis Friday, And Friday eve the city editor Will raise his voice in query and de- The special story for the morning
 sheet An. woe is mel
 What is they travail, friend A kindly voice from out the neighbor-
 ing murk Of dust and midnight, spoke the
 words. The cub Started in blank amazement. "Who are
 you?" Thundered his quavering tones. "A
 friend. At least One who would be friend, if but per- | mitted." The voice was cracked and dry; it's tones bespoke Such infinite pathos that the hearers fear Melted to pity. Twas the fountain spoke: For lol the aged mystic monument Had oped is parching lips. T heard thee sigh" The iron structure whispered, and ny heart Ran to thee as a friend in misery. Write of me if you will; my cause is just, And never hath been yaunted in the Seasons have come. and ripened, and declined And yet again returned, and still my sides Have felt no soothing ripple of such waters As once did course my veins. The dust of days. Of weeks, of months, of years accumu- lates Upon my towering crest. I feel the By night and day of some poor, humble stream That will relieve my thirst. Oft in the night, When sleeping men reck not, l raise my voice In earnest supplication to the heavens To send me rain; but only the cold
 stars Look down and mock me in my misery And never comes the water. Tell me- friend, Is the fair city I have heard men speak of As lying round this spot, yet flour ishing, Or has 1t falln in ruin? Ripple there not Somewhere within the portals of our 1 valley Streams that are wet with water, which 1 might serve, In direst exigency, as a means Of moistening and laying low the l dust?" Thou speakest insanely, fountain" quoth the nearer. For such can not be; when the ele- ments Refuse to sprinkle for us, we rest help less
 Upon our fairy hopes. In fact, the | city But here the confab ended. Sud- 1 denly There shot from out the iron pile of l rust
 A sweeping flame, which lighted up | the air | kA a;1 A stream of water issued from the And trickled Der the summit and sped Into the air of night, far up to
 heaven And slowly swelled the volume, till
 the waters Gush ed in a mighty torrent from the
 fountain. Swift rushing up to heaven. Then the Received in glad surprise the watery
 onslaught, And lol the waters burst upon the
 stars
 And fell again in tiny drops from | heaven
 And sprinkled Birmingham. The cub
 reporter stood in astounded admira ton At the long -looked-for miracle, and
 barred
 His burning forehead to the falling
 waters.
 Then took he forth his pad, and jotted
 down
 His nights experience, that he might
 tell
 To a wide-gaping, wondering world
 his story.
 And then and there he woke, and
 kicked himself For waking; and gazed up in rapt dis
 gust
 At the rust -eaten iron monument, The mystic fountain there within the
 park.