Did the passengers get up a service of plate? Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate? Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his knees? Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze? And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee? Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short? Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort. And all that they give us about him to-day, After telling the tale in a commonplace way, Is--the man’s name is Johnny Bartholomew. THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. (By special permission of the author, and of Harper and Brothers.) 65 HIS NAME O, the billows of fire! With maelstrom-like swirl, Their surges they hurl Over roof, over spire, Mad, masterless, higher, Till rumble--crack--crash-- Down boom with a flash, Whole columns of granite and marble: see! see! Sucked in as a weed on the ocean might be, Or engulfed as a sail In the hurricane-riot and wreak of the gale! Ha! yonder they rush where the death-dealing steam, Over-pent, waits their gleam To shudder the city with earthquake! Who, _who_ Will adventure mid-flame, and unfasten the screw, Set the fiend loose, and save us so? Firemen, you-- _You_ willing? Would God you might hazard it! Nay, The red tongues are licking the faucets now! Stay! Too late!--’tis too late! If ruin, explosion, must come, let us wait Its coming: to go is to perish.--Hold! hold! You are young--I am old-- You’ve a wife too--and children?... O God, he is gone Straight into destruction! The pipes, men! On--on! Play the water-stream on him--full--faster--the whole! And now ... Christ save his soul! I stifle--I choke-- And _he_--Heaven grant that he smother in smoke Ere the dread detonation! Hark!--hark! What’s the shout? _Is he saved? Is he out?_ Did he compass his purpose?... The hero! _One_ name This pencil of fire on the records of Fame Shall blazon, if justice is meted. Why here On my cheek is a tear, Which not a whole city in ashes could claim! His name, now,--_can nobody tell me his name_? --MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON. (By special permission of Dr. George J. Preston.) 66 OLD BRADDOCK Fire! fire in Allentown! The Women’s Building--it must go. Mothers wild rush up and down, Despairing men push to and fro; Two stories caught--one story more-- See--see--old Braddock’s to the fore, Braddock, full three-score. Like a high granite rock His good gray head looms huge and bare; Firm as rock in tempest shock He towers above the tallest there. “Conrad!” ’Tis Braddock to his son, The prop he thinks to lean upon When his work is done.