the last.

a certain christmas-day approached. on the morning of the day preceding, will garvie—looking as broad and sturdy as ever; a perfect man, but for the empty sleeve—stood at his post near his sentry-box. his duties that day were severe. at that season of the year there is a great increase of traffic on all railways, and you may be sure that the grand national trunk railway had its full share.

on ordinary occasions about three hundred trains passed will garvie’s box, out and in, during the twelve hours, but that day there had been nearly double the number of passengers, and a considerable increase in the number of trains that conveyed them, while goods trains had also increased greatly in bulk and in numbers.

garvie’s box abutted on a bridge, and stood in the very midst of a labyrinth of intricate crossing lines, over which trains and pilot-engines were constantly rushing and hissing, backing and whistling viciously, and in the midst of which, will moved at the continual risk of his life, as cool as a cucumber (so bob garvie expressed it), and as safe as the bank.

although thus situated in the midst of smoke, noise, dust, iron, and steam, will garvie managed to indulge his love for flowers. he had a garden on the line—between the very rails! it was not large, to be sure, only about six feet by two—but it was large enough for his limited desires. the garden was in a wooden trough in front of his sentry-box. it contained mignonette, roses, and heart’s-ease among other things, and every time that will passed out of or into his box in performing the duties connected with the station, he took a look at the flowers and thought of loo and the innumerable boys, girls, and babies at home. we need not say that this garden was beautifully kept. whatever will did he did well—probably because he tended well the garden of his own soul.

while he was standing outside his box during one of the brief intervals between trains, an extremely beautiful girl came on the platform and called across the rails to him.

“hallo! gertie—what brings you here?” he asked, with a look of glad surprise.

“to see you,” replied gertie, with a smile that was nothing short of bewitching.

“how i wish you were a flower, that i might plant you in my garden,” said the gallant william, as he crossed the rails and reached up to shake gertie’s hand.

“what a greedy man you are!” said gertie. “isn’t loo enough for you?”

“quite enough,” replied will, “i might almost say more than enough at times; but come, lass, this ain’t the place for a palaver. you came to speak with me as well as to see me, no doubt.”

“yes, will, i came with a message from mrs tipps. you know that the railway men are going to present father with a testimonial to-night; well, mrs tipps thinks that her drawing-room won’t be large enough, so she sent me to ask you to let the men know that it is to be presented in the schoolroom, where the volunteer rifle band is to perform and make a sort of concert of it.”

“indeed!” said will.

“yes; and mrs tipps says that captain lee is going to give them what she calls a cold collation, and brother bob calls a blow-out.”

“you don’t say so!” exclaimed will.

“yes, i do; won’t it be delightful?” said gertie.

“splendid,” replied will, “i’ll be sure to be up in good time. but, i say, gertie, is young dorkin to be there?”

gertie blushed, but was spared the necessity of a reply in consequence of a deafening whistle which called will garvie to his points. next moment, a passenger-train intervened, and cut her off from further communication.

according to promise, will was at the schoolroom in good time that evening, with some thirty or forty of his comrades. loo was there too, blooming and matronly, with a troop of boys and girls, who seemed to constitute themselves a body-guard round john marrot and his wife, who were both ignorant at that time of the honour that was about to be done them. john was as grave, sturdy, and amiable as ever, the only alteration in his appearance being the increased number of silver locks that mingled with his black hair. time had done little to mrs marrot, beyond increasing her bulk and the rosiness of her countenance.

it would be tedious to comment on all our old friends who assembled in the schoolroom on that memorable occasion. we can only mention the names of captain lee (alias samuel tough), and mr abel, and mrs tipps, and dr noble, and mr sharp, and david blunt, and joe turner, and mrs durby, with all of whom time seemed to have dealt as leniently as with john marrot and his wife. sam natly was also there, with his invalid wife restored to robust health, and supported on either side by a blooming boy and girl. and edwin gurwood was there with his wife and son and three daughters; and so was joseph tipps, looking as if the world prospered with him, as, indeed, was the case. and, of course, netta tipps was there, and the young curate, who, by the way, was much stouter and not nearly so stiff as when we first met him. he was particularly attentive to netta, and called her “my dear,” in a cool free-and-easy way, that would not have been tolerated for a moment, but for the fact that they had been married for the last three months. bob marrot was there also—as strapping a young blade as one could wish to see, with a modest yet fearless look in his eye, that was quite in keeping with his occupation as driver of the “flying dutchman.”

there was there, also, a tall, slim, good-looking youth, who seemed to be on very intimate terms with bob marrot. he was well-known as one of the most rising men at the clatterby works, who bade fair to become an overseer ere long. bob called him tomtit, but the men of the line styled him mister dorkin. he had brought with him an extremely wrinkled, dried-up old woman, who appeared to have suffered much, and to have been dragged out of the lowest depths of poverty. to judge from appearances she had been placed in a position of great comfort. such was in truth the case, and the fine young fellow who had dragged her out and up was that same mister dorkin, who may be said to have been all but stone-blind that evening, because, from first to last, he saw but one individual there, and that individual was gertie. he was almost deaf too, because he heard only one voice—and that voice was gertie’s.

and nanny stocks was there, with “the baby,” but not the baby marrot! that baby—now a stout well-grown lad—was seated beside his mother, paying her all sorts of delicate attentions, such as picking up her handkerchief when she dropped it, pushing her bonnet on her head when, in her agitation, it fell back on her neck, and beating her firmly on the back when she choked, as she frequently did that evening from sheer delight. no doubt in this last operation he felt that he was paying off old scores, for many a severe beating on the back had mrs marrot given him in the stormy days of his babyhood.

the baby of whom nanny stocks was now the guardian was baby gurwood, and a strong resemblance it bore to the old baby in the matters of health, strength, fatness, and self-will. miss stocks was one of those human evergreens which years appear to make no impression on at all. from her shoe-latchet to her topmost hair-pin she was unalterably the same as she had been in days gone by. she treated the new baby, too, as she had treated the old—choked it with sweetmeats and kisses, and acted the part of buffer to its feet and fists.

it would take a volume to give the full details of all that was said and done, and played and sung, on that christmas-eve. we can only touch on these things. the brass band of the volunteers surpassed itself. the songs—volunteered or called for—were as good as songs usually are on festive occasions, a few of them being first-rate, especially one which was sung by a huge engine-driver, with shoulders about a yard broad, and a beard like the inverted shako of a guardsman. it ran thus—

song of the engine-driver.

oh—down by the river and close by the lake

we skim like the swallow and cut though the brake;

over the mountain and round by the lea,

though the black tunnel and down to the sea.

clatter and bang by the wild riven shore,

we mingle our shriek with the ocean’s roar.

we strain and we struggle, we rush and we fly—

we’re a terrible pair, my steed and i.

chorus—whistle and puff the whole day round,

over the hills and underground.

rattling fast and rattling free—

oh! a life on the line is the life for me.

with our hearts a-blazing in every chink,

with coals for food and water to drink,

we plunge up the mountain and traverse the moor,

and startle the grouse in our daily tour.

we yell at the deer in their lonely glen,

shoot past the village and circle the ben,

we flash through the city on viaducts high,

as straight as an arrow, my steed and i.

chorus—whistle and puff, etcetera.

the norseman of old, when quaffing his mead,

delighted to boast of his “ocean steed;”

the british tar, in his foaming beer,

drinks to his ship as his mistress dear.

the war-horse good is the trooper’s theme—

but what are all these to the horse of steam?

such a riotous, rollicking roadster is he—

oh!—the iron horse is the steed for me!

chorus—whistle and puff, etcetera.

the collation also, or, according to bob marrot, the “blow-out,” was superb. joseph tipps declared it to be eminently satisfactory, and the men of the line evidently held the same opinion, if we may judge from the fact that they consumed it all, and left not a scrap behind.

the speeches, also, were excellent. of course the great one of the evening was the best being, delivered by mr abel, who not unnaturally made a remarkably able oration.

when that gentleman rose with a beautiful silver model of a locomotive in his hand, which he had been deputed by the men of the line to present as a mark of their regard, admiration, and esteem, to john marrot, he took the worthy ex-engine-driver very much by surprise, and caused mrs marrot to be seized with such a fit of choking that the baby (not the new one, but the old) found it as hard work to beat her out of it, as she had formerly found it to beat him out of a fit of wickedness. when she had been restored, mr abel launched off into a glowing oration, in the course of which he referred to john marrot’s long services, to his faithful and unwearied attention to his arduous duties, and to the numerous instances wherein he had shown personal courage and daring, amounting almost to heroism, in saving the lives of comrades in danger, and in preventing accidents on the line by coolness and presence of mind.

“in conclusion,” said mr abel, winding up, “let me remark that the gift which is now presented might have been of a more useful character, but could not have been more appropriate; because the wish of those who desire to testify their regard for you this evening, mr marrot, is not to give you an intrinsically valuable or useful present, but to present you with a characteristic ornament which may grace your dwelling while you live, and descend, after you are gone, to your children’s children (here he glanced at loo and her troop), to bear witness to them that you nobly did your duty in driving that great iron horse, whereof this little silver pony is a model and a memorial. to perform one’s duty well in this life is the highest ambition that any man can have in regard to temporal things. nelson, our greatest naval hero, aimed at it, and, on the glorious day of trafalgar, signalled that england expected every man to do it. wellington, our greatest soldier, made duty his guiding-star. the effectual and earnest performance of duty stamps with a nobility which is not confined to great men—a nobility which kings can neither give nor take away—a nobility which is very, very difficult to attain unto, but which is open alike to the prince and the peasant, and must be wrought hard for and won—or lost with shame,—for, as the poet happily puts it—

“‘honour and shame from no condition rise;

act well your part,—there all the honour lies.’

“for myself i can only say that john marrot has won this nobility, and i couple his name with a sentiment with which all here, i doubt not, will heartily sympathise.—prosperity to the men of the line, and success to the iron horse!”

reader, we can do no better than echo that sentiment, and wish you a kind farewell.