| January/February 1962

The Iron Horse now silent stands,
Among the towering forest trees,
Like an aged man whose tired hands
Enjoy the days of rest and ease.

Its days of youth and manhood past,
Its beauty and its glamour gone,
Its fiery nostrils cold at last,
No more is heard the whistle's tone.

In bygone days its handsome form,
With matchless energy endowed,
Has trodden fields and highways long
And labored honestly and proud.

Around it now the children play,
Without a thought of pain or harm,
The birds and squirrels feel no dismay
Nor view it with undue alarm.

For many years its power has made
The thresher do its noble work,
And drove the saw-mill's shining blade
Thru massive logs and ne'er a shirk.

The boiler shell is old and weak,
The fire sheets are patched and frail,
The aged flues are full of leaks,
The furnace crown is decked with


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