HE preached but little; argued less; But if a girl was in distress, Or if a kinchen came to grief, Or trouble tackled rogue or thief, There Father John was sure to be, To blunt the edge of misery; And somehow managed every time To ease despair or lessen crime. That corner house was allus known Around these parts as Podger's Own, Till two pals in a drunken fight Set the whole thing afire one night; And where it stood they hypered round, And blasted rocks and shovelled ground To build the factory over there -- The one you see; and that is where Poor Father John -- God give him rest! -- Preached his last sermon and his best. One summer's day the thing was done; The workmen set a blast and run; They ain't so keerful here, I guess, Where lives ain't worth a cent apiece, As in the wards where things are dear, And nothink ain't so cheap as here; Leastwise, the first they seed or knowed, A little chick had crossed the road; He seemed to be just out of bed -- Bare-legged, with nothink on his head; Chubby and cunnin', with his hair Blown criss-cross by the mornin' air; Draggin' a tin horse by a string, Without much care for anything; A talkin' to hisself for joy, -- A toddlin', keerless, baby boy. Right for the crawlin' fuse he went, As though to find out what it meant; Trudgin' toward the fatal spot Till less 'n three feet off he got From where the murderin' thing lay still, Just waitin' for to spring and kill -- Marching along toward his grave, And not a soul dared go to save! They hollered -- all they durst to do; He turned and laughed, and then bent low To set the horsey on his feet, And went right on a crowin' sweet! And then a death-like silence grew On all the tremblin', coward crew, As each swift second seemed the last Before the roaring of the blast. Just then some chance or purpose brought The priest. He saw, and quick as thought He ran and caught the child and turned Just as the slumberin' powder burned, And shot the shattered rocks around, And with its thunder shook the ground. The child was sheltered! Father John Was hurt to death. Without a groan, He set the baby down, then went A step or two; but life was spent. He tottered, looked up to the skies With ashen face, but strange, glad eyes. "My love, I come!" was all he said, Sank slowly down, and so was dead! Stranger, he left a memory here That will be felt for many a year: And since that day this ward has been More human in its dens of sin. |