The journals this morning are full of a tale Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail; And people are called on to note and admire How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire, Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives-- Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives. But of him who performed such a notable deed Quite little the journalists give us to read. In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold There is nothing except, in few syllables told, His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew. Away in Nevada--they don’t tell us where, Nor does it much matter--a railway is there Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines, With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes: Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread, Now shooting past cliffs that impend o’er the head, Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din; And ran every day with its train o’er the road An engine that steadily dragged on its load, And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train, While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain. As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight, And, peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then. Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire-- The farther extreme of the tunnel on fire! And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled, Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still, And his nerves felt a jar, but no tremulous thrill; And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes, And his lips--not with fear--took the color of ashes. “If we falter, these people behind us are dead! So close the doors, fireman; we’ll send her ahead! Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings! Open the throttle-valve! give her her wings!” Shouted he from his post in the engineer’s room, Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death; On, on through the horrible cavern of hell, Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell, Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire. With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest’s blast, To the free air beyond them in safety they passed; While the clang of the bell and the steam-pipe’s shrill yell Told the joy of escape from that underground hell Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.