The hunter raised his gun, He knew one charge was all, And through the boy’s pursuing foe He sent his only ball. The other on George Nidiver Came on with dreadful pace; The hunter stood unarmed, And met him face to face. I say _unarmed_ he stood; Against those frightful paws, The rifle butt, or club of wood, Could stand no more than straws. George Nidiver stood still, And looked him in the face; The wild beast stopped amazed, Then came with slackened pace. Still firm the hunter stood, Although his heart beat high; Again the creature stopped, And gazed with wondering eye. The hunter met his gaze, Nor yet an inch gave way; The bear turned slowly round, And slowly moved away. What thoughts were in his mind It would be hard to spell; What thoughts were in George Nidiver’s I rather guess than tell. But sure that rifle’s aim, Swift choice of generous part, Showed in its passing gleam The depths of a brave heart. ANONYMOUS. 62 A MAN’S NAME Through the packed horror of the night It rose up like a star, And sailed into the infinite, Where the immortals are. “Down brakes!” One splendid hard-held breath, And lo, an unknown name Strode into sovereignty from death Trailing a path of flame! “Jump!”--“I remain.”--No needless word, No vagueness in his breast; Along his blood the swift test stirred-- He answered to the test, Gripped his black peril like a vise, And, as be grappled, saw That life is one with sacrifice, And duty one with law. Home:--but his feet grew granite fast; Wife:--yet he did not reel; Babes:--ah, they tugged! but to the last He stood as true as steel. Above his own heart’s lovingness, Above another’s crime, Above the immitigable stress, Above himself and time, Smote loving Comfort on the cheek, Gave quibbling Fear the lie, Taught ambling Fluence how to speak, And brave men how to die. Who said the time of kings was gone? Who said our Alps were low, And not by God’s airs blown upon? Behold, it is not so! Out from the palace and the hut, Dwarf-fronted, lame of will, Limp our marred Joves and giants--but Sceptered for mastery still, And clothed with puissance to quell Whatever mobs of shame Are leagued within us, with such spell As David Simmons’ name. RICHARD REALF. (From _Poems_, by Richard Realf. Copyright, Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1898. By special permission.) 63 THE MAN WHO RODE TO CONEMAUGH