"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express; Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion that's less." "But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half sighed. "What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he replied. "Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but submit Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit. "Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real? "Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist--you shall follow-- this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay? "My wife, Mr. Rapid-- Eh, what! Why, he's gone--yet he said he would come. How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb!" WHAT THE BULLET SANG O joy of creation To be! O rapture to fly And be free! Be the battle lost or won, Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love,--the one Born for me! I shall know him where he stands, All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his godlike front and grace; I shall hold him for a space, All my own! It is he--O my love! So bold! It is I--all thy love Foretold! It is I. O love! what bliss! Dost thou answer to my kiss? O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold? THE OLD CAMP-FIRE Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling, And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring: We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide. Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride, And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire, Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire. Yes, twenty years! Lord! how we'd scent its incense down the trail, Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear would fail, And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, to rest, Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, abreast. Ay! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think he's nigher, Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old camp-fire.