9
"THE BATTAEION.
With short pants, the sergeant with my big
valise. I brought up the rear with the
bull’s-eye.
“The depot is closed now, and you don’t
know if the train’s on time until it’s gone.”
So we waited out in the still night.
“Sergeant, where were you born?’’
“In good ould Dublin.”
“ And raised ?”
“In Baltimore, Md., on Eee street. Do
you know the city?’ ’
“It’s my home, and the best city on
earth.’ ’
“Barring Dublin, now; but it is the
Monumental city and the home of the poet.
Crouch, who wrote ‘Kathleen Mavourneen.’
Did you know Crouch?”
“Not personally, but I heard him sing
‘Kathleen’ one night at Eehmann’s Opera
House. Mr. John T. Ford brought him
out on the stage and introduced him.” .
“Do you know ‘Kathleen Mavourneen?’ ”
“Indade I do.”
“Will you sing it for me?”
“I am no singer, but listen.”
And in the still night he whistled the
plaintive tune.
Five miles down the road we heard the
train whistle for Bryan.
“You will see the headlight three miles
from here in a minute now.”
“Now,” I said, “sing ‘Kathleen.’ ”
“No, niver ; but I will repate a verse.”
Three miles away the bright gleam of
the electric headlight came like the sun.
The sergeant lifted his hat and commenced:
"Kathleen Mavourneen, the daylight is
breaking.”
Then, standing between the rails, he
waved his lantern. Two long blasts of the
whistle—one short one. The porter took
my grips.
“Good-bye, Sergeant.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Hawks. Good luck to
you. Come again.”
“Barkis is willing.”
“The Dickens he is'!” said Sergeant
Fenley.
And in five minutes I was in “lower 12.”
A. W. Hawks.
Here’s to Sunshine Hawks,
The man of mirth and laughter,
Who drives more dull care away.
Than a thousand can hereafter.
—Sergeant W. Finley.