Poem by Alexander Anderson

Blood on the Wheel

"BLESS her dear little heart!" said my mate, and
            he pointed out to me,
    Fifty yards to the right, in the darkness, a light
            burning steady and clear.
"That's her signal in answer to me, when I whistle,
            to let me see
    She is at her place by the window the time I am
            passing here."

I turn'd to look at the light, and I saw the tear on
            his cheek—
    He was tender of heart, and I knew that his love
            was lasting and strong—
But he dash'd it off with his hand, and I did not
            think fit to speak,
    But look'd right ahead through the dark, as we clank'd
            and thunder'd along.

They had been at the school, the two, and had run,
            like a single life,
    Through the mazes of childhood up to the sweeter
            and firmer prime,
And often he told me, smiling, he had promised to
            make her his wife,
    In the rambles they had for nuts in the woods in
            the golden autumn time.

"I must make," he would add, "that promise good in
            the course of a month or two;
    And then, when I have her safe and sound in a
            nook of the busy town,
No use of us whistling then, Joe, lad, as now we
            incline to do,
    For a wave of her hand, or an answering light as
            we thunder up and down."

Well, the marriage was settled at last, and I was to
            stand by his side,
    Take a part in the happy rite, and pull from his
            hand the glove;
And still as we joked between ourselves, he would say,
            in his manly pride,
    That the very ring of the engine-wheels had something
            in them of love.

At length we had just one run to make before the
            bridal took place,
    And it happen'd to be in the night, yet merry in
            heart we went on;
But long ere he came to the house, he was turning
            each moment his face
    To catch the light by the window, placed as a beacon
            for him alone.

"Now then, Joe," he said, with his hand on my arm,
            "keep a steady look-out ahead
    While I whistle for the last time;" and he whistled
            sharply and clear;
But no light rose up at the sound; and he look'd
            with something like dread
    On the white-wash'd walls of the cot, through the
            gloom looking dull, and misty, and drear.

But lo! as he turn'd to whistle again, there rose on
            the night a scream,
    And I rush'd to the side in time to catch the flutter
            of something white;
Then a hitch through the engine ran like a thrill,
            and in haste he shut off the steam,
    While we stood looking over at each with our
            hearts beating wild with affright.

The station was half a mile ahead, but an age seem'd
            to pass away
    Ere we came to a stand, and my mate, as a drunken
            man will reel,
Rush'd on to the front with his lamp, but to bend
            and come back and say,
    In a whisper faint with its terror—"Joe, come and
            look at this blood on the wheel."

Great heaven! a thought went through my heart like
            the sudden stab of a knife,
    While the same dread thought seem'd to settle on
            him and palsy his heart and mind,
For he went up the line with the haste of one who is
            rushing to save a life,
    And with the dread shadow of what was to be I
            follow'd closely behind.

What came next is indistinct, like the mist on the
            mountain side—
    Gleam of lights and awestruck faces, but one thing
            can never grow dim:
My mate, kneeling down in his grief like a child by
            the side of his mangled bride,
    Kill'd, with the letter still in her hand she had
            wish'd to send to him.

Some little token was in it, perhaps to tell of her love
            and her truth,
    Some little love-errand to do ere the happy bridal
            drew nigh;
So in haste she had taken the line, but to meet, in
            the flush of her fair sweet youth,
    The terrible death that could only be seen with a
            horror in heart and eye.

Speak not of human sorrow—it cannot be spoken in
            words;
    Let us veil it as God veil'd His at the sight of His Son
            on the cross.
For who can reach to the height or the depth of
            those infinite yearning chords
    Whose tones reach the very centre of heaven when
            swept by the fingers of loss?

She sleeps by the little ivied church in which she had
            bow'd to pray—
    Another grave close by the side of hers, for he died
            of a broken heart,
Wither'd and shrunk from that awful night like the
            autumn leaves in decay,
    And the two were together that death at first had
            shaken so roughly apart.

But still, when I drive through the dark, and that
            night comes back to my mind,
    I can hear the shriek take the air, and beneath me
            fancy I feel
The engine shake and hitch on the rail, while a
            hollow voice from behind
    Cries out, till I leap on the footplate, "Joe, come
            and look at this blood on the wheel!"

1. The Open Secret
2. In Rome
3. Look to the East
4. John Keats
5. Agnes Died

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