looks straight down six stories to the street;
Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade,
But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.

Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain
To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane;
Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway,
And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way;
Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim,
And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him;
But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late
For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.

And then the morning paper may have half a column filled
With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed";
And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead,
And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed
And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall
On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball;
But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame,
Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.

* * * * *

LITTLE BARE FEET

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,
Patterin', patterin' up and down,
Dancin' over the kitchen floor,
Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,--
Right on the go from morn till late,
From the garden path ter the old front gate,--
There hain't no music ter me so sweet
As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea,
Them little bare feet trot there with me,
And a shrill little voice I love'll say:
"Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."
And I know when my dory comes ter land,
There's a spry little form somewheres on hand;
And the very fust sound my ears'll meet
Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed
Yer prints of love in my worn old breast!
And I sometimes think, when I come ter die,
'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by;
That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear
That little child's voice, so sweet and clear;
That even there, on the golden street,
I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.

* * * * *

A RAINY DAY

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,--
Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin',
And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rain