‘Tippy! oh, Tip! are you dead?’ . . .
Never a sound or a sigh!
Tuck held his breath, his heart heavy as lead:
Then: ‘Tuck! where are you? I've hurted my head!’
Came up the quav’ring reply;
And a cry:
‘Oh, Tuck! don't go ’way, or I’ll die!
‘Tuck! It’s so dark; I’m afraid!’ . . .
He drew down his eyebrows and frowned
Up the creek, down the creek, somewhat dismayed.
Miles to go home; but, again, if he stayed,
How would they ever be found
Underground
In that cavern that swallowed all sound?
‘Tuck, I'm all covered with blood!'
Sobbed the small voice without cess.
‘Why don't you help me up out of the mud?’
Tuck foraged out a long length of pine wood;
Stripped off his little print dress,
And—just guess!
Rigged a white flag of distress!
Truly the depth was not great—
That, though, the babe did not know;
Lowering himself till the whole of his weight
Hung on the fingers that clutched the blue slate . . .
‘Please God!’ . . . he let himself go;
And I trow
That angel hands caught him below.
