But a change had come over the force, and instead of the good-natured chaffing and bantering with which the engineers and conductors greeted each other as they passed to and fro from their work, there was now only a quiet word, and the look on all faces betokened something unusual in the atmosphere.

This had its effect on Bob; for instead of being allowed to clamber around and fool with the engines as heretofore, he was peremptorily ordered to keep his hands off and stay where he belonged. Puzzled and grieved, he hung around, an observant listener, hoping to catch some explanation of the strange state of affairs,

fair warning, and they have refused to even hear our demands, much less accede to them. You, Jim Delong and John Belden, pass the word among the others that when the six o'clock whistle blows every man quits work, not to return until some agreement is reached between the officers of the road and our union."

"But," spoke a small, quiet-looking man who had been an attentive listener, "can't this be postponed until to-morrow? There are twenty-five cars of perishable fruit and live stock on the yard to-night, and its not going out means a dead loss to somebody besides the railroad, to say nothing of the suffering of the stock."

and his persistence finally had its reward. A group of engineers and firemen were holding a conference in an out-of-the-way corner of the yard, and did not notice the small black figure crouched near them.

"Are all of the men with us?" asked one who seemed to be in the lead.

"Yes," was the reply. "The minute you say the word every man on the place, except the office force, will walk out, and without the train crews they are helpless to move a pound of freight."

"Listen!" The leader's voice was low and tense, "We have given the officials

"Not another hour," replied the leader. "It is not our fault, and the road has had fair warning."

With this the conference broke up and the men returned to their posts of duty, grave with the import of the crisis that lay before them; for this was the beginning of the strike of 1890 on the SRoad, when the wheels of traffic were completely blocked for six weeks, with the exception of one fast freight that went out that night after the six o'clock whistle sounded the strike on. The fast through freight, loaded with fruit and live stock

for the Northern markets, was due to leave the terminal at 6:15, and when the six o'clock whistle sounded it was standing on a siding made up and all ready for its onward journey. But no conductor or engineer came to the yard office to sign the time register or to receive the package of way-bills covering the contents of the train, and, getting impatient, the yardmaster started out to investigate, as it now lacked only five minutes until leaving time, and this train of all others must go out to the minute in order to make its Northern connections. The men, however, had disappeared almost as if by magic, and a Sunday quiet pervaded the yard, instead of the usual hurry and bustle that reigned at this time of the day. The fires in the engines had been banked and the firemen and engineers had evidently gone to stay.

The yardmaster knew at once the cause of the trouble, and knew too the uselessness of trying to get others to take out the train; but he also realized that something must be done and done at once, or he would in a measure be held accountable by the officials for the heavy less that must ensue if the fast freight did not get out in time to make its connection.

A small black figure crept near and regarded anxiously the look of trouble and perplexity on the yardmaster's face. "Marse Sam, whut you gwine ter do? De men dun struck, ca'se I heayrd dem giv' de word erwhile ergo." There was no reply, and the small voice began again. "Marse Sam, I tell you whut. Dis here train sho' is got to go out; en' ef you will just fire for me I kin run her, ca'se dase got old 76 hitched onto her, en' I know every bolt en' screw en wheel erbout her. I sho' kin run her, ef you'll jes' go wid me en' fire fur me."

The idea seemed so ridiculous and preposterous that even in his perplexity the yardmaster found time to smile, and advised Bob to seek some warmer climate, as he didn't have time to fool with him. But the black shadow dogged his footsteps and followed him upstairs and down, from telphone to telegraph instrument, while messages flew in every direction in his efforts to meet the crisis.

Seven o'clock and no engineer in sight, and the train must leave in thirty minutes or lose connection. What should he do?

Again a persistent voice pleaded: "Marse Sam, please let's try. I know I kin do hit ef you'll jes' fire fer me."

By this time the yardmaster was ready to take desperate chances, and after looking earnestly for a moment in the little, eager, intelligent, black face, he started for the train, saying: "Well, Bob, come on, It won't be any worse to wreck the

train than to let her stand here."

Some of the clerks offered to go with Bob and take the risk; but the yardmaster refused, and, after giving orders to the train dispatcher to give them as clear a track as possible he followed his small, black satellite downstairs, feeling, it must be confessed, a little foolish about the risk he was running in taking the train out with such an engineer, as he himself knew nothing about the handling of an engine.

Not so with Bob. He recognized that the opportunity of his life had come, and, with "Marse Sam" to back him, felt that he could carry the train not only to the Northern terminal, but to the ends of the earth, if necessary. His small black figure was trembling with eagerness and excitement as, after fires had been rekindled and the steam began to rise, he opened the throttle and, grasping the lever, started on the run of his life. The engine yielded to his guidance, at first with jerks and jolts; but gradually settled down to her work with the long, easy strides of a race horse as the hand on the lever grew steadier and its owner's nerve came back to him. A grim fireman, whose stern face was already streaked with soot and dust, kept ceaseless watch on the engineer and the steam gauge, not, however, remitting any of his own self-appointed duties, but shoveling the coal in like one accustomed to the work as they moved faster and ever faster through the darkness.

An hour or two of steady running was broken by the engineer saying: "Marse Sam, dat's de siding where we's got ter wait fur de passenger. You get out en' throw de switch, en' wave your han' when de tail end ob de train is clean in on de side track." Such was the engineer's first order, which was explicitly obeyed by his one-man crew. The lumbering train was guided to its place of safety, while the down passenger glided swiftly by, little dreaming that the force on the siding, manning their crack through freight, consisted of only two men, and one of them a fourteen-year-old negro boy.

Önce more on a clear track they speeded toward their destination, both fireman and engineer too intent on their task to speak unless necessary. With marvelous precision Bob, who had been over the route once or twice before, remembered the exact location of the sidings, and never failed to have his train in a place of safety in time for the passage of other trains. But as the hours stretched out the little arms grew tired of the intense strain, and in the dim light of the cab the yardmaster could see that the engineer's black face was growing gray with fatigue and the red lips, so often parted in a

happy grin, were compressed into a mere thread across his face. But the hand on the lever was still steady and the light in his eyes unquenched, when just as dawn was glowing in the east, they pulled into the yard at Chattanooga.

With a last spurt of strength, Bob brought the engine alongside of the freight house, and, dropping from his perch into the outstretched arms of his fireman, managed to say before overcome by faintness and fatigue: "We done hit, didn't we, Marse Sam?"

[The Children's Visitor containing this nauseating mess was sent in by one of our members who has two children attending Sunday school, where it is supposed they

trend of the matters which are or at least ought to be intended, to teach truth, or, if fiction, involve a high moral lesson. If it has a good moral it cannot have a lie for the basis of the story. The statement of the yardmaster subjecting himself to the mental faculties of a twelve-year-old negro boy ought to have been enough to condemn the story, besides there was no occurrence upon which such statements could be based.-EDITOR.]

Where Would the Ball Stop?

"Now, what I want to know is this," he said. "If a train of flat cars is running sixty miles per hour and on the last

are to learn truths and such morals as Christ taught, and our Brother is naturally disgusted that such lies, without the slightest foundation for the story, and absolutely void of a moral lesson, should be fed to the minds of his children. We are charitable enough to believe that the church officials had not analyzed what this edition of The Children's Visitor of September 3 contained, for we do not believe they would willingly feed the minds of their Sunday school scholars with Dick Turpin stories. But we cannot be so charitable to the editor of that paper. The paper is not so large that at least enough attention could not be given to know the

car is a cannon. Suppose the cannon was to be fired and the projectile travels exactly sixty miles per hour. If the cannon be pointed at the engine, what I want to know is whether the ball would hit the engine, whether it would drop just in front of the cannon, or whether it would drop back of the train?" Having propounded this conundrum, the man hooked his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest and looked wise.

It happened at Porter's hotel and there had been various riddles asked, including that antique one concerning the tree and the squirrel and whether a man who went around the tree also went around

the squirrel. This had sharpened the guessing proclivities of the crowd, and the new riddle was hailed with much acclaim.

"It would hit the engine," said one. "It would drop on the cannon," said another.

"It wouldn't do either," said a third. "It would fail to come out of the

cannon.

"How the dickens do you make that?" asked the first and second.

"Well, the explanation is simple. The train would be traveling the same speed at which the cannon ball would go and this would prevent the can"on ball from leaving the cannon."

"It would hit the engine," said the first," because the cannon would be a stationary object while the ball would be traveling.'

"That's just what I maintain," said the second, "that it would drop in front of the cannon. The shot would be fired all right and the projectile would leave the cannon, but by the time it had made its way to the engine the last car would be there, since both are traveling sixty miles per hour, and so the ball would drop just in front of the cannon after having traveled all the way to the engine just in time to be received on the last flat car."

Before the discussion closed there were some hard names called and one or two remarks concerning dunderheads in general and these particular puddin' heads. Each maintained that he was right and the balance couldn't tell the difference between prairie straw and breakfast food. Figure it out yourself-where would the cannon ball strike?-The Mexican Herald.

Whichever way the weather turned 'twas jest

what he was wishin'

The flood filled up the cistern, an' the drought improved the fishin'.

So, wet or dry, Ab al'ays went his calm, contented way,

An' seven times a week he had a real Thanksgivin' day.

I mind the time he broke his thumb above the middle j'int

He 'lowed it was a blessin' that it broke at jest that p'int.

An' when it healed as crooked as ole Brindle's crumpled horn

He said that how it made a handy hook fer shuckin' corn.

You might as well have tried to stop the earth from rollin' round

As try to down his spirits, fer he wouldn't have 'em downed.

No matter what misfortune came, he al ays made it pay

An' turned the sad occasion into glad Thanksgivin' day.

chose

To spend his time in bed an' save the wear an' tear o' clo'es.

Then when the doctor fia'ly said the end was drawin' nigh

There came a beam of happiness in Abner's dimmin' eye

Which seemed to them who saw it as if he would like to say

That dyin' was the climax of a glad Thanksgivin' day.

I dreamed a dream the other night in which I seemed to see

The soul of Abner Aiken lookin' calmly up at me, An' I heard the voice of Satan in a long continued wail

As he beat his breast in anger an' in fury switched his tail.

Then I woke an' lay a-wonderin' if it possibly

BY CHARLES STELZLE.

Here comes the editor of a Western Socialist paper, who accuses me of trying to "swing the workingmen into the church," and immediately declares that I am insincere in my motives.

I do not expect to make every reader believe that I am perfectly sincere. I do not propose to try it; but there is nothing like plainly telling another man just what you believe and why you believe it.

Recently I declared with emphasis that I stand for organized labor, and I gave my