"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Above the sea the hill-tops fair- And odors rare breathe through the air, Through burning skies the ospreys flew, "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Then prayer arose, and all the ships The white wings folded, anchors down, Fair rose the hills where Boston town "Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; "Give thanks to God with fervent lips, The anthem rose from all the ships, "Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods And summer hills and solitudes The Red Cross flag of England blew While Shawmut's triple peaks in view "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, The anthem rose from all the ships The Arabella leads the song- "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, That psalm our fathers sung we sing, And while the nation finds a tongue "Twill ever sing the song they sung That first Thanksgiving Day! "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" Our fathers' prayers have turned to psalms Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide To this Thanksgiving Day! We pray to God with fervent lips, As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. AS THE PIGEON FLIES. [Rapid rate-great intensity.] MONSTER of iron, steel and brass stands on the slim iron rails which shoot away from the station for half a mile and then lose themselves in a green forest. Puff-puff! The driving wheels slowly turn, the monster breathes great clouds of steam and seems anxious for the race. A grizzly-haired engineer looks down from the cab window, while his fireman pulls back the iron door and heaves in more wood--more breath and muscle for the grim giant of the track. The fire roars and crackles-the steam hisses and growls; every breath is drawn as fiercely as if the giant was burning to revenge an insult. Up-up-up! The pointer on the steam-gauge moves faster than a minute-hand on a clock. The breathing becomes louder the hiss raises to a scream-the iron rails tremble and quiver. "Climb up!" It is going to be a race against time and the telegraph. S-s-s-sh! The engineer rose up, looked ahead, glanced at the dial, and as his fingers clasped the throttle he asked the station agent: 66 Are you sure that the track is clear?" "All clear!" was the answer. The throttle feels the pull, the giant utters a fierce scream and we are off, I on the fireman's seat, the fireman on the wood. The rails slid under us slowlyfaster, and the giant screams again and dashes into the forest. This isn't fast. The telegraph poles danced past as if not over thirty feet apart, and the board fence seems to rise from the ground, but it's only thirty-five miles an hour. "Wood!" The engineer takes his eyes off the track and turns just long enough to speak the word to his fireman. The iron doors swing back, and there is an awful rush and roar of flame. The fire-box appears full, but stick after stick is dropped into the roaring pit until a quarter of a cord has disappeared. "This is forty miles an hour!" shouts the fireman in my ear as he rubs the moisture from his heated face. Yes, this is faster. The fence posts seem to leap from the ground as we dash along, and the telegraph poles bend and nod to us. A house-a field-a farm-we get but one glance. A dozen houses-a hundred faces that was a station. We heard a yell from the crowd, but it had scarcely reached us before it was drowned in the great roar. Nine miles in fourteen minutes-we've lost time. The engineer takes his eyes from the rail, makes a motion to his fireman, and the sticks drop into the roaring flames again, to make new flames. Seven miles of clear track now, and the engineer smiles a grim smile as he lets more steam into the giant's lungs. Ah! Not a mile a minute yet, but how we shake from side to side, how the tender leaps and bounds! Is there a fence skirting the track? There is a dark line keeping pace with us, it may be a fence. Where are the telegraph poles? Where are all those trees falling toward the track as we dashed through the bit of forest? A yell-houses-faces that was another station. Word had gone down the line that a "wild" locomotive is rushing a journalist across the country to catch the lightning express on another road, and the people gather to see us dash past. Seven miles in eight and a half minutes,—that's better, but we must run faster! The finger on the dial creeps slowly up, we want a reserve of steam for the last twelve miles of road-the best track of all. The noise is deafening, the swaying and bumping is terrible. I hang fast to the seat-clutch, cling, and yet it seems as if I must be shaken to the floor. Every moment there is a scream from the whistle; every two or three minutes the engineer makes a gesture which calls for the iron door to be opened and the roaring, leaping flames to be fed anew. Houses-faces-a yell! That was another station. We made the last five miles in six minutes. Did you ever ride a mile in one minute and twelve seconds ? But we are to beat it. We pas Like a bird-like an arrow-like a bullet almost, we sped forward. Half a dozen men beside the track,section men with their hand-car. They lift their hats and yell, but their voices did not reach us. them as lightning flashes through the heavens. was a farm-house. We saw nothing but a white objecta green spot-two or three apple trees where there was a large orchard. Scream! Hiss! Roar! Shake-quiver-bound! That We are going to stop,-going to halt for an instant at a station to see if the track is clear for the rush, for a mile a minute, and faster! Scream! Scream! The station is a mile ahead-it is beside us! The fireman leaps down with his oil-can, the engineer enters the telegraph office. Both are back in fifteen seconds. Twelve and a half miles to go, twelve minutes in which to make it. "We can do it!" said the engineer. "Hold fast now! We have been running-we are going to fly!" Scream! "Good-bye!" As a mad horse runs, as an arrow is sent, as a carrier pigeon flies! Yes, this is a mile a minute! Fences? No-only a black line, hardly larger than my pencil! Trees? No-only one tree, all merged into one single tree, which was out of sight in a flash. Fields? Yes |