MOUNTAIN GRADES

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 6, 1 March 1903, Page 472

MOUNTAIN GRADES

The big-wheeled rig whose head-light Cuts light from darkness clean, Blows long at every red light, And drives when lights show green The long, grey plaiu-lands meet her With scornful nonchalance, And nothing built can beat her That ever has the chance. Across the silent levels By day and night she reels, As though a horde of devils Were howling at her heels. Hers is the speed and glory — The glitter and the praise — Ours is a duller story Who work the mountain ways. Who work the lonely ranges (Oh ! hear the short curves squeal) With groaning rods and flanges, Where steel meets stubborn steel — Who scarcely know what change is, And yet have hearts to feel. The sullen mountains wonder What shakes their hoary walls, And when the tunnels thunder And strident whistle calls, The hill-gales swoop to wreck us, The echoes shout " Begone '" But never wind can check us Who tramp and blunder on. With belching funnel thrashing The blackened bricks and lime, And golden head light flashing Against the cliffs we climb ;

Up. toiling up, untiring, With shovel all a-clang, For everlasting firing To give her steam to hang. We'll lift our load of cattle And take it down again, With couplings swung to rattle, And btiffers on the strain, Then back she'll heave and battle, And so from plain to plain. The racer's bogie chatters, And tells her driver lies, The rjountain engine scatters Her soot-grits in his eyes ; : And neither imp nor devil Would ever dare deride When she is holding revel Along the mountain side, With angry funnel running, With scarlet flaming light, And smoke shot skyward stunning The very soul of Night. But spite of reek above us, We are not mountain gnomes, We toil for hearts that love vs — As men should — for their homes. With sweat streams on our faces, And cinders in our eyes, We check her when she races (She curses engine-wise), We drive at easy places, And nurse her round a rise.

The cars behind us glisten With life that laughs and throngs, And often when we listen We hear men singing songs Of girls whose smiles are winning, Whose lips are all a-glow . . . Such songs may do for spinning Along the plains below. But when in inky fountains The smoke roars high and fades, And Night has seized the mountains And hidden all the grades, The songs of laughing maideus Are vain ; the clanking rods, With rythmic, solemn cadence, Make music for the gods. The coast towns do not know us ; The white towns nestled in The valleys far below us Have never heard our din ; When grades conspire to show us, How we must strive to win.

With cheery boastful " tootles " The racer brings us loads, And leaves them at the foot-hills — We work the mountain roads. For though the graceful flyer Outstrips the mountain rig, This "tank " can lift loads higher, And keep them all a-jig. Up where the white star-hosts line The clear-cut mountain crest, We join the plains and coast line, We link the East and West ; And where there are no levels Our funnel snorts and swears To set hell's wildest devils A-tremble in their lairs. The big hills hear and wonder What shakes their solid wall ; The little towns a\>um under That hear our whistle call, Have never heard our thunder Nor seen our black smoke-pall. Quilp K