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 | A thousand more verses |  |
Still, life has its curves unexpected, and bridges to trap you and me;
And that was a terrible winter—of eighteen and eighty and three:
Two years we had been the star-sprinters, in sunshine, and starlight, and shade,
And compliments gemmed us like roses, 'most all of the journeys we made.
And that night, we scrapped with a blizzard, that everything ugly contained!
But the “Belle of the New Year” kept working, and never one second complained;
Not an inch could we see from the pilot; but still we was bound to “make good”;
And work to our time-card as nearly as, battling that snow-storm, we could.
And that was a terrible winter—of eighteen and eighty and three:
Two years we had been the star-sprinters, in sunshine, and starlight, and shade,
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And that night, we scrapped with a blizzard, that everything ugly contained!
But the “Belle of the New Year” kept working, and never one second complained;
Not an inch could we see from the pilot; but still we was bound to “make good”;
And work to our time-card as nearly as, battling that snow-storm, we could.
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