MARY ELLEN’S TRAIN.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2431, 20 February 1909, Page 12 (Supplement)

MARY ELLEN’S TRAIN.

Mary Ellen had fed her chickens, but lingered outside. Her plain cotton dress did not mar the glow and beauty of youth, nor the sweet, halfmelancholy dark eyes. She bent forward, listening for a far off whistle. On the hillside she discerned a billowy smoke. Day after day found her at the same hour, watching. The railways had lately cut across the farm, bringing fortune to the man who had felled forest trees to rear a home in the wilderness. Mary Ellen scarcely knew why she watched. It was her romance. It brought fancies .on its shining rails to lighten stern realities. She could not have voiced the thoughts that came, as the wondrous creature, freighted with life, came within her vision and passed onward, into the busy haunts of men. Her mother was city horn; had her homesicklongings lingered with her child ?

The smoke lost itself behind forest trees only to reappear lower down. The whistles came nearer; louder tho roar and rumble. Two short, shrill whistles, the locomotive turned the bend, of the mountains, gained the level, and the long express thundered past.

Sometimes Mary Ellen made stories about those of whom she caught a fleeting glimpse. Occasionally some one. spying the lone figure beside the backwoods dwelling, wared a greeting, which was timidly returned. As the train disappeared a stillness seemed to brood over the peaceful country. Going into the kitchen, Mary Ellen found her mother, a thin, dark-haired woman with big- sorrowful eyes. Speech was difficult now, but in girlhood she could chatter with the best. Silence had grown upon her in the early days in the forest, when troubles pressed heavily, and she had seen her first-born die. “Sit down, mother. Rest till father

comes.”

The mother smiled as Mary Ellen took a clean checked apron from the big dresser drawer, put the kettle on and set to work. When ham, eggs and pancakes were done to a turn Robert Walker came in, sandy-haired, sturdy, in weather-worn coat of ancient cut. Genial and full of love- for every living creature was Robert. He had learned to talk in those sad days when his wife grow silent; when to cheer her became a passion, to bring her diversion made him almost a gossip, gleaning as he did trifling bits of news from village store and market

place. “Well, wife,” he cried, “the stuff s off to Eastern. Would have missed getting your butter on the express but for as decent a young feller as ever I see. ‘Hurry, if you want to catch her!’ he yelled from his ongine. Run I did—popped in the crock and off she 'went. He ’minded me of our Bob, mother,”.with a sigh for the only-son, away in a city factory. ' - A raiuy week followed. Mary Ellen watched her train from the window. An afternoon brought sunshine. Snatchiug up a red shawl, the girl went out. Afar she heard the faint whistle. On the hillside the trees bent heavily with rain-soaked foliage. Surely the wind did not make that great tree toss and sway. Ah, the jrain had done its work on the crumb-

ling clay, for, as she looked, the big pine plunged downward, carrying with it a mass of rock. The track was piled high with debris. Swiftly Mary Ellen crossed the field —beyond the curve —up the track — faster and faster. To her keen ears came the vibration —tho rush and rumble.—then the warning whistle. From the track she waved the red shawl fiercely and furiously. Onward came the puffing monster —-on the down grade, with no sign of slowing. With the frenzy of desperation the shawl waved higher and faster. Ah,, she is seen at last! Thank God! The engine driver sees and understands. Then and then only, Mary Ellen jumped for her life. Still the train moved onward. It was agonizing! Then with a terrible jar, crash and jolt the long train came to a standstill. Not aii instant too soon, for tho engine grazed the barrier that but for the girl’s warning would have hurled the train to destruction. But —as though fate would not he cheated of a victim —at the moment that safety came to the many, a loosened stone struck tho engineer, knocking him senseless. A wild scene followed—as the frightened passengers jumped out. They were loud in their praises of Mary Ellen, who stood silent and abashed, till pity stirred for tho injured man. The company’s doctor bent over him. Willing hands cleared the track. Robert Walker and his wife joined the crowd, looking sorrowfully at tho sufferer, whom Robert recognised as his friend of the express. The doctor, with professional interest, studied their faces. “Will he live, doctor?” the quiet woman asked. “We’ll hope so,” he answered, shaking his head. “Is it safe to take him on?” “We must risk it.” “Better leave, him with us,” pointing to the house. “He’s welcome.” The husband and daughter listened in surprise at the sudden speech and tone of command.

“Bring him,” she said. “Come, Mary Ellen.” They hurried acrusp. the field. When the men reached tho house with their burden they found the benroom beside the kitchen ready with fresh, clean linen. Open windows let in the pure, sweet air. Slowly the stranger struggled hack to life and health, the doctor marvelling at Martha’s gift of healing. As Gordon Graham found' himself he learned -chat he was in the hoart of a home where love —though undemonstrative—was strong; where simplicity, reverence and dignity reigned. He learned that the silent woman was a reader and a thinker. From the little room his eyes followed Mary Ellen in the kitchen, as sho moved about her tasks. Tie noted order and cleanliness, from snowy floor to shining tins; touches of grace, too, in the geraniums in the window. Martha tended him like a child. Like a child, t-00, they amused him. Mary Ellen would bring in a basketful of chickens or ducklings—a rare sight for a city man—or kittens or even the pet lamb. How he loved the homely things and the sweet flowers. It was going back to childish joys. His was a true, noble soul, started in the right path by parents who had left him no better legacy. If he learned to lean upon these gentle women in the utter dependence of invalidism is it strange that they let the passion to heal pain possess them —let gentler feelings grow?

Wlien convalescence came Robert or the woman folk led Gordon out. It became Mary Ellen’s task to teach him country lore; learning herself — all unconsciously—the “old, old story.” She told him of her fancies of the train folk and cities _far away. At last the day of parting came. Then the days were desolate for the women at Forme farm. Gordon was again on his train. “Our train,” Mary Ellen called it, blushing alone. Now, when she watched, a handkerchief waved from the engine. The hand that returned the greeting trembled, for dreams were coming true. One October day the train slowed up to let Gordon visit his friends. “Come into the woods, please,” he said. “Come, show me the squirrels, as you promised.” And Mary Ellen went. It is doubtful if they saw the squirrels—all unafraid—busily gathering their winter’s store: or the glories of the warm, iiazy autumn day and the rich colors of maple, oak and sumach. Beneath a canopy of yellow leaves they walked in a golden world. They sat on a mossy log—-sweet scents and sounds about them. Gordon reverenced the girl into whose life a kindly fate had thrown him. In his helplessness her pity had turned to love. Now he would fain take her into a lifelong keeping. A boy at heart, he was homesick for affection.

“Mary. Ellen,” ■ho stammered, “I came to tell you —my pay is raised. The railway people have given me a big present besides for that day’s doing (your work, my girl—they know that well). I can make a home now, if some one will share it with me. Will you, dear? I’ll try—oh, so hard —to make you happy.” In his shyness he did not look in her face. She was dumb as silent as her mother, though her cheeks were crimson. Gordon’s heart sank in utter dejection.

“Gordon,” she whispered. He turn-

ed, and her sweet eyes made answer. A small brown-hand reached out to be clasped closely and tenderly. Unrest had gone from Mary Ellen’s heart. Her fate had come to her on the shining rails. Hand in hand they went to. seek a mother’s blessing. The trees seemed to sing a song of joy. There were no melancholy notes in the whispering pines, and as if to salute them the sharp whistle of the “express” sounded clearly from the hillside.