You will not see from the railroad ridge
The olden village of Christeen Bridge,
Nor hear from the remnant that there dwell
The fairy story of Cinderell.

She came from the days when the creek Christeen
The route of travel and freight had been
Twixt the Head of Elk and the busy North,
And daily packets and teams went forth.

A boatman then had cast his spell
On the fair young Springtime of Cinderell,
And pledged his heart to her trusting hand,
But vanished lang syne in a foreign land.

A lady's age let us not reveal:
Steamboats had gone and the routes of steel
Left Christeen sleeping down in its dell,
With an old, old woman, Cinderell.

" My Prince will come for me some day! "
She cheerily said, as the years grew gray:
" Don't pity me! For I've done my part
And keep for him young my constant heart! "

Her old house bent with the tooth of time,
But not the inmate with spirit prime;
" My Prince is coming a dance to claim!
There's a coach for me in my fairy name. "

And travelers took for many a mile
That dear old witch's sunrise smile,
Which welcomed others on their approach,
Like the bright footmen of the Prince's coach.

She was left alone but she did not flinch,
Yielding her fire inch by inch,
Ripening sound, like a golden quince,
Ever looking to see her Prince.

He came at last with a noiseless wheel —
Golden coach of an automobile —
Outriders of grandchildren rode
Up to the dear old virgin's abode.

" Cinderell, I have kept my truth
Out of the ashes of time and youth:
These, your children, will love you still,
Come to your Prince in the last quadrille! "

" I am ready and long have been;
Love still clings to the route Christeen.
Our old houses are falling down,
But Life is the coach and Love is the crown! "