But we can say God bless you, and we do say it, Miss Barton, from the bottom of our hearts, one and all.
Some bard, whose name I do not know, but whose sad, lovely words frequently recur to me, has commemorated the disaster of the Conemaugh in the following beautiful poem, which, I think, is worthy of preservation:
I tarried in Conemaugh Valley One beautiful morning in spring, And loveliness mantled the mountains, The meadows and everything. The breezes were laden with odor Akin to the blossoming rose, And happiness brightened the faces Of people refreshed by repose.
But death, the remorseless destroyer, Looked down on the valley, so green, Beheld the quaint homes on the hillsides, The towns nestled snugly between, And, hungry for awful disaster, For grief, lamentation and tears, Death paused where a lake in the mountains Had shimmered untroubled for years.
The water grew dark in his presence, Grew dark in the presence of death, And shrank from the terrible visage, Away from his poisonous breath. A tempest came forth in its fury And soon with an ominous flow The overcharged lake in the mountains Plunged into the valley below.
A rumble, a roar, and destruction Came down with the pitiless flood To stifle the cry of the wicked To silence the prayer of the good; Like straws in a bubbling cauldron These homes in the valley were tossed Away on the hurrying waters, Along with the dying and lost.
There brother was taken from brother, The false were destroyed with the true. There lovers were torn from each other With never a parting adieu. Confusion wrought havoc so wanton That mercy grew deaf for a while, And beings, half demon, made merry On Conemaugh's funeral pile.
But Heaven will surely remember The names of the noble who died To rescue their perishing brothers From death in that horrible tide. For some of the noblest heroes That ever calamity saw, Repose uninterred in the valley Where wanders the dread Conemaugh.
The incidents attending a field of relief--some pathetic and sorrowful, others laughable and ludicrous--so loom up in the memory when the subject is opened, as almost to encumber the pen as one writes. Referring to our landlady at Locust Street Hotel, Mrs. Henrie, one recalls her wonderful experience during the night of the flood. By some means, entirely alone, she floated down the stream, not only through Johnstown, but miles below in the darkness of the night, until some time next day perhaps she managed to stay herself in a tree-top, where she clung among the branches, her clothing torn from her in shreds during her struggle for life, until discovered and taken away.