What does the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, Content that from enjoyment springs, A heart that in his labour sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it; A fellow feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. Oh! rich man's son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whitens, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state, There is worse weariness than thine-- In being merely rich and great; Work only makes the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last-- Both, children of the same dear God. Prove title to your heirship vast, By record of a well-filled past! A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. _THE ENGINEER'S STORY._ (_From the "Denver Post."_) Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story-- I would it could not be recalled. The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured night Is the cause of my head bein' bald. I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir, On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line. An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear, As the growth of a field pumpkin vine. My run was a night one, an' nights on the Yank War as black as the coal piled back there on the tank. We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station, A day and almost a-half late, An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steel At a wildly extravagant rate. My fireman kept pilin' the coal in The jaws of the ol' 94, Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hose An' splashed 'round his feet on the floor, As we thundered along like a demon in flight, A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night. As we rounded the curve on the mountain, Full sixty an hour I will swear, Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' fright Would have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair. The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin', The flames shootin' up in their glee; My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemed Like the fiery-tongued imps on a spree-- Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowed I'd make my next trip on a different road.