Year: 1873

\ In the material chronicIing OF
daily events as they occur, ii is not
expected that much poetry or senti-
ment will manifest itself. In the
newspapers the chord that most fre-
quently is Vibrated is that OF hor-
FOr. Fearful accidents, riots and
murders ccme in damp, inky way,
TO the breakfast table, and fasfens
ones attention while the neglected
coffee eools. But, once in a while.
without designing IL, flowers Of
poetry VIII bloom beneath the busy
fingers of the telegraph operator as
he sends his dot and dash story
along the wires He does not know
il, perhaps, fer his brain is busy
with the translatiODs OF his copy
into the mystic alphabet OF Morse


Such story comes as a sequel to
the appalling catastrophe at PaWca-
tuck River. First we were thrilled
10 the heart by the graphic recital
OF the running train, speeding on
through the black night towards
the yaWning chasm Just ahead
Then came the final leap, the leap
into the clammY arms of death, aud
over all the crashed and broken ears
ana their living freight, the flame
king waved his crimson banner.
While reading the story we could
hear the agoniZed shrieks OF the men,
women and children, slowly roast
ing 10 death. Tue picture was lust
as vivid as that given us Of the noble
I Atlantic grinding npon the rrral
rocks Of Marr's head. But il was
all z picture OF horror. Hunhint
through il, however, is a silver
thread of sentiment, a touching
little episode, as tender in its effects
as any wrought by the loving hand
| Of Dickens.


The engineer, William ID. Guild,
lived in that part of Providence
known as ElmWOOd, his house being
close te the railroad crossing. And
IN that house were his wife and
BARNS. So, every time he rushed
by the loved spot, whether in night
or day, in storm or sunshine, he
sounded a short, peculiar signal
| upon the locomotive whistle, as
greeting to his wife. Think of a
hoarse, ,shrieking locomotive whistle
uttering notes of Lowell This signal
meant he was there "an right, [" and
we can easily imagine how eagerly
she listened for the sound. To her
it was sweeter music than ever
dropped in gold on streamlet from
the pen of Bhopin, In time the peo-
pie of Providence, and the regular
passengers along the line, came to
know the sound, and when they
heard it would say, 'That's Guilds
signal to his wife" On last SUNDAY
night she missed il for the fret
time, and will never hear il again.
Such anincident as this,
ted by the noble character ofthe man
and his heroic death, round and fill
out as pathetic 8 story as was ever
told. lie was as gallant a man as
ever tilted for a bit of ribbon in the
rosy days of the chivalric time
True, he was an engineer-always
looking ahead to where the flaming
eye of his engine searched into the
night but he was none the less a
hero. When the end came at last
he did not quail. They say he could
have jumped from the train, but ht
preferred to die at his post. Nc
doubt his last thoughts were of his
wife and babies. A prayer fiuttereC
from his lips to Heaven, and theI
came the crash. His burned body
was found erect, with his face K
the front and his hand upon the
throttle. That was a death to die
since die We must, one and all of us
The "Black Sargent" can come il
no better guise than when ne re
lieves man from the post of duty
and tells him to turn in for the Ions
sleep Of Eternity.


Two low whistles, quaint aud clear,


That was the signal Of the engineer


That was the signal that Guild, 'tis sale
Gave to his wife at Providence,


AS through the sleeping towns and thence


Out in the night


On to the light,


Down past the farms, lying white. he sped
As husbands greeting, scant, no doubt,
Yet TO the woman looking out,


Watching and waiting, no serenade,


Love-song or midnight roundelay


Said what the whistle seemed to say:
ITO my trust true


So love to youl
Working or waiting, Good nightg' it said
Brisk your bagman, tourist fine,
Old commuters along the line,


Brakemen and porters glance ahead,


Smiled As the signal sharp, intense,


Pierced thro' the shades Of Providence


Nothing amiss,
Nothing lit is
Only Guild calling his wife," they said.
Summer and Winter, the old refrain
Rang Ger the pillows Of the ripening grain
Pierced thro' the budding boughs o'erhead
, Flew down the track when the rcd leave


burned


Like living Goals from the engine spurned
J Sang as it flew;
TO my trust true,
First Of ali Duty-Good nightP' il said.
And then, one night, it was heard no more


From Stonington over Rhode Islan,
shore


And the folk in Providence smiled and said
: AS they turned in their beds, sThe engi
l neer


Has once forgotten his midnight cheer.
! ONE only knew
That to his trust true


Guild lay uRier his engine dead.