The Iron Horse.

He stands big-shouldered and august,
This genius of Wanderlust.
His mane now blue, now gray, now white,
And streaked and freckled with fire at night.
His glance, a mile-long broom, avails
To sweep the darkness off the rails.
Behind him, knocking at his heels,
A row of cars, a town on wheels.
He has his trysts with buttes and mines,
With streams and shacks within the pines.
Far hills, half substance and half air,
Reset themselves to meet him there.
And he is coming to his own
In cities chiseled out of stone.
What horse has borne as great a pack
Of civilization on his back?

—J. R. Hastings.

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