All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last―― The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed, And so she come tearin’ along that night―― The oldest craft on the line―― With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.” Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word, And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell―― And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren’t no saint; but at judgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He seen his duty――a dead-sure thing―― And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men. ¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. * * * * * HOW IT HAPPENED.¹ I PRAY your pardon, Elsie, And smile that frown away That dims the light of your lovely face As a thunder-cloud the day, I really could not help it,―― Before I thought, it was done,―― And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, Like an icicle in the sun. I was thinking of the summers When we were boys and girls, And wandered in the blossoming woods, And the gay wind romped with her curls. And you seemed to me the same little girl I kissed in the alder-path, I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas! I have roused a woman’s wrath. There is not so much to pardon,―― For why were your lips so red? The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold From the proud, provoking head. And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes And played round the tender mouth, Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind That blows from the fragrant South. And where after all is the harm done? I believe we were made to be gay, And all of youth not given to love Is vainly squandered away, And strewn through life’s low labors, Like gold in the desert sands, Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows And the clasp of clinging hands.