\ 
 
 I 
 
 H 1! 
 
 HH \ 
 
 {HnSl 
 
 Utt 
 
 1 1
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
 
 "Here, Stub, shine up this ere hoss !" Page 86.
 
 ON THE 
 MOUNTAIN DIVISION 
 
 By 
 
 KIRK PARSON 
 
 It 
 
 NEW YOUKS EATON & MAINS 
 CINCINNATI: JENNINGS & GRAHAM
 
 \ 
 
 Copyright by 
 
 EATON &. MAINS, 
 
 1903.
 
 TS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 "J-w-VRUTH is often stranger than fiction." On 
 
 the Mountain Division is no story; it is 
 
 * fact. Every important railroad incident 
 
 herein narrated has come within the bounds of the 
 
 author s knowledge. The characters portrayed are 
 
 old friends. 
 
 The author will be satisfied if the reader is stimu- 
 
 ^ lated to a better life and the rough, warm-hearted, 
 
 "? grimy railroader is given a place a little nearer the 
 
 ^ heart of other classes; if the simple, sturdy, honest 
 
 country-folk are held in higher esteem by their urban 
 
 cousins; and if this book hastens the day 
 
 J\> "That man to man the world o er 
 
 Shall brithers be for a that" 
 
 ri K. P.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. BOYHOOD. PAGE. 
 
 I. FIRST RECOLLECTIONS 7 
 
 II. THE ORPHANAGE 10 
 
 III. INDENTURED 16 
 
 IV. SUNDAYS ON THE FARM 22 
 
 V. AT SCHOOL 30 
 
 VI. I GO A-FlSHING 42 
 
 VII. WANDERING WILLIE 50 
 
 VIII. THE SUMMERFIELD HOME 63 
 
 IX. SPRINGTIME 75 
 
 X. THE FEVER 81 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 XI. A WIPER 85 
 
 XII. ON THE ROAD 92 
 
 XIII. AWRECK 97 
 
 XIV. CONVALESCING 106 
 
 XV. FLAGGING 112 
 
 XVI. THE STRIKE 126 
 
 XVII. THANKSGIVING 133 
 
 XVIII. LONG HOURS 139 
 
 XIX. MARRIAGE 1 50
 
 6 Table of Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER. PACK. 
 
 XX. LEFT 162 
 
 XXI. SUNDAY RAILROADING 169 
 
 XXII. A RUNAWAY 179 
 
 XXIII. ACHANGE 188 
 
 XXIV. ANOTHER CHANGE 197 
 
 BROTHERHOOD. 
 
 XXV. ACLEW 205 
 
 XXVI. SUSPENSE 211 
 
 XXVII. MORE HOPEFUL 221 
 
 XXVIII. A PHILADELPHIA HOME 231 
 
 XXIX. MY ELDER BROTHER 238 
 
 XXX. His STORY 246 
 
 XXXI. Au REVOIR 250
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN DIVISION. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 First Recollections. 
 
 Y first recollections are of a fleshy woman, 
 not handsome, not particularly clean ; of a 
 dingy, denuded room, and of a super 
 abundance of clawing from numerous dirty fingers. 
 As days passed the great woman became to me a 
 good woman; the dingy room became home; the 
 greasy fingers so many goads that urged me to 
 begin fighting my own battles. All my victories, 
 however, were defeats. The owners of the goads 
 were three other children somewhat larger than my 
 self. They often planted me in the dirt by the door 
 step. It was all fun to me until my eyes were har 
 rowed. That was too harsh treatment. I resented. 
 Somehow or other I did not grow very rapidly. 
 Perhaps it was because I ate my peck of dirt too 
 soon. I was quite old when I began to walk.
 
 8 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Not long afterward I became very sick. For 
 days and days everything seemed dark. There was 
 no noise in the room except an occasional heavy 
 step of the woman I had learned to call "Mam." 
 Then I felt her rough hand with a loving touch. 
 How my flesh burned! She fanned me; tied my 
 hands in rags and rocked me hour after hour in an 
 old, creaking chair. The pain ceased. Better days 
 dawned. My strength returned. Her thick lips 
 again touched my cheek. The children were play 
 ing with me. Times were as of yore. 
 
 One day I was cleaned up pretty thoroughly and 
 attired in better garments than usual. I felt proud. 
 A stranger came to our door. He was very kind. 
 Mam carried me out to the buggy. How I did want 
 to ride! She hugged me to her great bosom and 
 buried me in the oily wrinkles of her face and neck. 
 Tears fell upon me, but I brushed them off, all the 
 while squirming to get into the wagon. A last kiss 
 and hug, that almost smothered me, and I was re 
 leased. Mam said "By-by" very sadly. I could see 
 nothing sad about having a carriage ride that fine 
 morning. I gleefully waved a by-by, with my face 
 toward the horse as I was driven away. 
 
 I never saw the woman again. I knew not who 
 she was even certainly not my mother, though as 
 good as a mother. I did learn afterward that she 
 was a widow with three children of her own. She 
 was poor. By the pockmarks on my skin I learned 
 that I had had the smallpox. She had nursed me
 
 , First Recollections. 9 
 
 through ; watched over me as over a son. I would 
 I might now reward her for her kindness and self- 
 sacrifice, but I cannot. God has not forgotten the 
 good woman. Her dingy home and her best care 
 were but a widow s mite, yet it was all she had. 
 They were freely given to me, a helpless orphan. 
 The weary and ill-proportioned body has, no doubt, 
 long ago returned to dust, but the soul is a gem that 
 will glow with an eternal luster. Some day a crown 
 will be placed upon that brow. Mam was a queen.
 
 10 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Orphanage* 
 
 AFTER several hours of fast driving our car 
 riage ride came to an end. We stopped in 
 front of an immense building. I was 
 handed out into kind motherly arms, taken to a bath 
 tub, cleaned, and dressed in beautiful kilts. From 
 the dressing room to the playroom I was escorted. 
 How my heart danced for joy ! Think of it, reader, 
 a nursery full of little folks, most of them larger 
 than myself, a few smaller, and I to be one with 
 them. All the boys of my size wore gowns just like 
 mine. I was timid at first, but that soon wore away, 
 and I was as much at home as anyone. Time passed 
 rapidly with an occasional "scrap" among us to 
 break the monotony. Somehow or other I had to 
 take a back seat in times of trouble. Some months 
 after my advent into the new life a kind nurse took 
 me up in her arms, told me who I was, and that I 
 was "picked up up-country a ways." My name was 
 William Barson. Up to this time I had known no 
 other name than Willie. It was a great revelation to 
 me, yet it did not hinder my young heart from cud 
 dling up close to nurse s breast and feeling perfectly 
 at home. The good woman informed me further 
 that I was an orphan, and that the big house in
 
 The Orphanage. 11 
 
 which we lived was an orphanage. My father and 
 mother had never been known to the authorities of 
 the institution, nor could any trace of them be 
 found. My only possession was myself; my only 
 inheritance, my name. It impresses me now when 
 I think of it that I was alone; then it made no differ 
 ence with me. As long as nurse was good to me, 
 and I received all the food I wanted, plenty of sleep, 
 and lots of play, it was all right. 
 
 One day my kilts were taken off and in their 
 stead was placed a pair of knickerbockers. Every 
 boy can recall the day when he owned the world for 
 the first time and it all hung by a pair of suspenders. 
 But a new world came into my existence; instead 
 of all play, it seemed as if it were all work. I had 
 to drill, then study, and frequently to do odd jobs 
 of some minor importance. It was awful at first. 
 .When the pencils and slates came around it was good ; 
 when the picture books appeared it was better ; and 
 when I began to read it was best. It is certain that 
 a child enjoys learning as well as growing. God 
 pity a boy who does not like books ! I was dull but 
 not a fool. I did not advance rapidly, but I ad 
 vanced, and it was for this reason that I was kept so 
 long at the orphanage. My face was against me, 
 as well as my size and actions. But my turn to 
 leave came at last. 
 
 One bright June morning I was called to the 
 reception room by one of the teachers. A stranger 
 sat awkwardly athwart one of the chairs. He im-
 
 12 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 pressed me at once. I had seen him the day before 
 looking at us while at play and afterward at work. I 
 was not much of a sport, but quite a worker. No 
 doubt this musty guest had an eye to business. He 
 measured a man, and a boy too, not by his outward 
 appearance, but by what there was in him and how 
 much could be got out. 
 
 "Waal, Willie, how d ye like tew go home with 
 me an help me take care o my hosses an cattle? I 
 want jest sech a youngster s yew tew dew odd 
 jobs huntin hens eggs, waterin the colt, feedin 
 the hogs, an gittin the cows. Shouldn t wonder n 
 yew could help quite some on the farm an save me 
 an the ole woman quite a number o steps." 
 
 As he spoke he drew me toward him with a kindly 
 smile and took my hand in his. There was some 
 thing about him that I did not just like, though I 
 did not know what it was. His left eye was a squint 
 eye or something of that sort. It opened occasion 
 ally, but most of the time was very nearly shut, and 
 all the while twitching. His paper collar straddled 
 over his vest, and the threadbare bow hung aslant, 
 one end over and the other end under the collar. 
 There was a forward sag effect in the set of his 
 coat, top buttons of his vest unfastened, pantaloons 
 three inches too short, and his extremities were cov 
 ered, the nether ones with cowhide boots, and the 
 upper one by a greasy felt hat, which now hung 
 over his left knee, while his head and long hair 
 looked like a crow s nest after a storm. Yet I
 
 The Orphanage. 13 
 
 rather took to him, perhaps on account of the farm 
 he possessed and its beauties that he placed before 
 me, the crowning feature being. the Newfoundland 
 dog, Shack. 
 
 "I think we can run things fur fair when we git a 
 leetle used t each other. Our good milk 11 make 
 ye look diffenter n ye dew now, an the sunshine an 
 air o New Dover 11 make yer cheeks s brown s 
 a russet." 
 
 Jake Stoneman took me home with him, and I 
 must confess I was glad to go. The monotonous 
 life at the orphanage and its rigid rules had begun 
 to chafe me. I was an eight-year-old boy, and hence 
 the freedom of a farm was very attractive. My 
 knowledge of human nature was limited, and per 
 haps I did not read as deeply into Mr. Stoneman s 
 character then as I might have done to-day under 
 similar circumstances. It would, however, have done 
 me no good if I had known all about him, for the 
 inevitable was before me. This was my first bid, 
 and the asylum, no doubt, was glad to be rid of me. 
 There is plenty of sympathy in the world for an 
 orphan, but, as a rule, very little charity or real as 
 sistance. Sometimes a fellow is blamed for the man 
 ner of his birth and held responsible for the death 
 of his parents long before he knew them from any 
 body else s parents. In fact, I had to leave the or 
 phanage, though I did not know it, and the good 
 Lord had already tempered my will to go gladly. 
 The trip meant a ride in the cars. My heart was
 
 14 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 already leaping with wildest anticipation. I had 
 never enjoyed that luxury, though I had often 
 watched the flying trains. 
 
 We walked to the little station, less than a mile 
 away. My cup was running over. Mr. Stoneman 
 pushed me ahead of him into a seat of leather up 
 holstering and, sitting down, drew from his pocket 
 a brier-root bowl half burned away, filled the re 
 mainder with black tobacco, lighted it, shoved his 
 hat onto the back of his head, placed his knees 
 against the back of the seat in front, and entered into 
 the blissful realms of a smoker s repose. He was not 
 the only one in the car enjoying the same elysium. I 
 wondered then if ladies ever rode on railway trains, 
 for there were none in our coach. It is strange, isn t 
 it, men, that a boy should have such an idea flit 
 through his mind? Innocence is often called 
 foolishness. 
 
 But what cared I for the blueness within. The 
 blueness without was pure and the window was 
 open. The incoming air filled my lungs. The pass 
 ing scenes filled my mind. I was busy, consequently 
 happy, save, now and then, when I jerked my head 
 back from the window for fear of being decapitated 
 by a passing locomotive. 
 
 The train ran out onto a fill. A broad river came 
 into view. The next instant I dodged a girder as 
 we entered the iron bridge. I jumped so vigorously 
 into my smoking companion that he aroused from 
 bis reverie ajad looked out.
 
 The Orphanage. 15 
 
 Mr. Stoneman again lapsed into silence while the 
 train sped in and out of the short tunnels so charac 
 teristic of Trenton. The train stopped. There were 
 the customary changes of passengers, and we moved 
 on. My companion went off to talk with an ac 
 quaintance. Curiosity was wearing away. There 
 was a sameness of sights and sounds. Everything 
 seemed to be whirling and blending until sweet Mor 
 pheus closed my eyes. 
 
 I was aroused by a punch in the side that made 
 me jump as I heard the voice of my master, saying : 
 "Come, boy, no more o this. We git off now." 
 
 He hauled me out of the car, like a lamb to the 
 slaughter, more asleep than awake. It was twilight. 
 The freshness of the evening air could hardly arouse 
 me, and I followed, half walking, half running, to 
 keep up with the walking machine about two strides 
 ahead of me. The two miles traveled, the dimly 
 lighted room, the supper, and a woman were all a 
 hazy indistinctness to me, and, completely tired out, 
 I tumbled into bed to dream of a brother and a big 
 railway conductor with brass buttons two ideals 
 never lost sight of.
 
 . . V 
 
 16 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Indentured. 
 
 INDENTURED ! I did not know what the word 
 meant, but it came at me across the breakfast 
 table like a cannon ball. Its effect upon my 
 sensibilities was similar to the above-mentioned 
 missile. I did not know what had hit me. 
 
 Jake Stoneman, his two-tined fork in one fist and 
 a thin steel-bladed case knife in the other, resting 
 "thumbs up" on the table at either side of his loaded 
 plate, his mouth half filled with warmed-up potatoes, 
 and with his left eye a-quiver, began: 
 
 "Neow, my young feller, the time s come when 
 we must have an understandin atween us, so s not 
 to have no trouble hereafter. Yew re indentured." 
 
 He swallowed what was on hand and masticated, 
 shifted his position so as to make an acute angle of 
 his right side and the table, and where he could look 
 me square in the face, took a swallow of hot tea 
 from his saucer, filled in more potatoes, and con 
 tinued : 
 
 "Me an th ol woman here," pointing to Mrs. 
 Stoneman at his left, "have lived tewgather nigh on 
 to twenty-five years, an we know bout what s what. 
 She s not as spry s she onct was, an I have the 
 rumatiz occasionally. So we thought a boy bout
 
 The time s come when we must have an understandin ." Page 16.
 
 Indentured. 17 
 
 your size d help us long fur quite some time yit. 
 You re eight neow, an we expect tew have yew till 
 yer sixteen. Guess yer able tew earn yer keep, an , 
 if ye don t, why, ye ll haf tew, that s all. Won t e, 
 Sue?" turning to his wife, who nodded modestly 
 toward him, at the same time turning her small 
 black eyes on me with a look that penetrated me like 
 an X-ray. "Y understand, don t ye, Will?" he con 
 tinued. "We ain t no tyrants, an don t mean tew mis 
 use ye ny, but know right here n neow that we run 
 things here an that yew ll dew s we say. There s 
 yer room up there," pointing out of the window to a 
 small room over a shop and corncrib combined, four 
 or five rods from the kitchen, "where yew can dew s 
 ye like, an I expect yew tew be there, tew, when 
 night comes an not be out gaddin round the coun 
 try nuther. F I ketch ye into any funny business, 
 yew ll know it. As I hinted afore, yew ll have 
 nough t eat, tew drink, an tew wear, but I sha n t 
 lose a cent on ye, an I don t want no doctor bills 
 tew pay nuther. Guess we understand each other 
 neow," he continued, taking the remaining swallow 
 of tea, shoving back from the table, and wiping his 
 mouth with his shirt sleeve. "An neow fur work. 
 There s some weedin out yender in the veg tables. 
 Try yer hand at that this forenoon." 
 
 He rose from his chair, went to his box of tobacco 
 on the kitchen mantel, filled a stub clay pipe, lighted 
 it, and went out to the barn. I immediately went to 
 
 the garden. The old dog bounced out in my path. 
 2
 
 18 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 He startled me, but after a "Good old fellow" or 
 two, and finally a pat on the head, Shack and I were 
 made fast friends. 
 
 I had weeded onions and lettuce before, and was 
 perfectly at home. The day was warm. I began 
 work before seven o clock. The sun climbed very 
 slowly during the last two hours before noon. I 
 worked on faithfully, determined that my master 
 should not lose anything on me, and also thinking 
 that if I pleased him at first my chances for leniency 
 in the future would be increased. My back was al 
 most broken. I had been hurrying a little to get the 
 weeds all out before noon, and just as I pulled the 
 last one, and straightened up, Mr. Stoneman, who 
 was standing close to me, spoke: "Waal, Will, 
 yew ve done a good job. I guess yew know what yer 
 at. Come neow an have a bite." 
 
 Dinner was coarse but plenty, and I did justice to 
 it. I liked the hospitality, so far, though perhaps 
 it was on account of its novelty. When I was told 
 that I could ride a horse to cultivate corn my eyes 
 opened with delight, but the work I had done and 
 the amount of food I had eaten made me drowsy 
 and lazy. Once on the horse, however, going back 
 and forth between the rows, I was wide awake. 
 
 "But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
 You seize the flow r, its bloom is shed." 
 
 After a couple of hours of fun the riding became 
 grievous. I hitched first one side and then the
 
 Indentured. 19 
 
 other. A rest of a few minutes relieved me a little, 
 but matters soon became worse than ever. Yet I 
 stuck to it like a hero without a murmur. By five 
 o clock the field was cultivated. I am glad that in 
 these days, except in heathen countries, the farmers 
 drive the horses between the rows instead of tortur 
 ing innocent boys by making them ride the animals 
 before the plow or cultivator. 
 
 When supper was over I was told to fetch some 
 wood into the kitchen, feed a half-peck of corn to 
 the chickens (it was fun to run the sheller), and 
 carry swill to the pigs. The pails were large, and 
 after I had bathed my legs in buttermilk concluded 
 to go oftener with less load. While I did this Mr. 
 and Mrs. Stoneman did the milking. As I passed 
 near them on the way to the pigpen I overheard him 
 say to his wife that I had done a big day s work, 
 but he was afraid that I had been so good that it 
 would not last long. He was going to keep a sharp 
 eye on me. 
 
 When they appeared at the house I had done all 
 that was required of me, and lay on the grass with 
 Shack licking my hand. My master asked no ques 
 tions "Yew c n tie up the dog yender," pointing to 
 the kennel, "an go tew bed, Will. Guess yew ve 
 done nough." I arose and, as I walked away with 
 my hand on Shack s head, quietly said, "Good night, 
 Mr. Stoneman." He looked at me in astonishment 
 as he answered, "G d-night." 
 
 I could hardly climb the narrow steps into my
 
 20 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 room. Every bone in my body ached. The board 
 walls were veneered with burnished gold leaf, beaten 
 by the rays of the setting sun that streamed in 
 through the only window. The atmosphere in the 
 chamber smelled hot and stifling. Presently I found 
 a small door fastened on the inside by a hook and 
 staple; this I opened to let in the evening air. I 
 leaned a moment on the doorsill, that was per 
 haps a yard above the floor. I was happy, but O, so 
 tired. The sun shone down through the corn rows 
 and the breeze filled the air with the fragrance of 
 fresh earth. Shadows deepened. Lightning bugs 
 signaled with their lanterns to the croaking orchestra 
 in a sluggish stream winding along at the foot of 
 the hill. In the east smiled the full, friendly moon. 
 I looked at Shack. "Good-night, old fellow," 
 I said. Sitting on his haunches, he smacked his 
 mouth and yawned, the yawn diminishing to 
 a happy whine as his tail swept a semicircle of the 
 ground. 
 
 I turned to my bed. It was low and small. The 
 slats were covered with a well-filled straw tick. The 
 bedding was clean then. A small box standing on 
 end, with a newspaper for a spread, was my table. 
 A piece of broken mirror and part of a half-toothless 
 comb constituted my toilet outfit. A chair without a 
 back stood in the corner, and a picture of George 
 Washington on the wall completed my furniture and 
 ornaments. I was not long losing myself in the 
 soporific qualities of the bed. It was delightful. I
 
 Indentured. 21 
 
 have since thought of that little room and the first 
 night I spent in it. 
 
 The last sounds I heard were the whistle of the 
 engine that brought me in the night before and the 
 rattle of Shack s chain as he crawled into his kennel.
 
 22 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Sundays on the Farm* 
 
 "T T 7 ILL! Will! Wi-ill!" were the first 
 \l \l sounds I recognized the next morn 
 ing. " S time yew s up, boy." 
 
 I scrambled out of bed as quickly as possible, 
 though not very supplely, for my joints were stiff 
 and my muscles sore with a burning reminder that I 
 had ridden a horse the day before. I could scarcely 
 dress. The sun was just rising when I appeared at 
 the kitchen door. 
 
 "Git the cows, an don t be all day bout it," said 
 Mr. Stoneman the moment he saw me. I immediate 
 ly started down the road toward the bars. The cows 
 were at the farthest end of the pasture, and more 
 than half an hour had passed before my return. I 
 was wet to my knees with the heavy dew. Shack 
 trotted at my side. 
 
 "Yew re a purty-lookin youngster," said my 
 overseer. " F yew d mind the cattle an not go gad- 
 din off after woodchucks with the dog yew wouldn t 
 be s wet. Next time yew go fur the cows leave the 
 cur t home. I didn t get yew tew hunt rabbits an* 
 play dog. D ye mind what I say? Yew c n keep 
 yer soppy duds on tew pay fur runnin round the 
 lots fur fun when I s waitin fur ye all the time."
 
 Sundays on the Farm. 23 
 
 By tHe time he had finished his oration I was 
 trembling from head to foot, posing like a chicken 
 just removed from a bath in a swill-barrel. I started 
 away to feed the pigs, when Shack attempted to play 
 with me by catching my hand tenderly in his mouth. 
 No sooner did this happen than Mr. Stoneman s 
 cowhide boots kicked him yelping halfway across 
 the yard. The dog hustled for his kennel ; I hurried 
 toward the hogpen; the kicker growled, "I sha n t 
 have tew rompin pups bout my premises; no, sir!" 
 
 The sense of humor was far from me about that 
 time. In fact, affairs wore a serious aspect. I be 
 came indignant, and concluded in my own mind 
 that my master was a scapegrace. I was conscious 
 that I had got the herd as quickly as I could and, 
 furthermore, I was asked for no explanation con 
 cerning the length of my absence. 
 
 Breakfast was eaten in silence. No milk was on 
 the table except a very little for coffee, which was 
 denied me. I was hungry, nevertheless, and ate 
 nearly everything within reach. 
 
 The day passed gloomily. The clouds obscured 
 the sun. My clothes kept damp until nightfall. Hoe 
 ing potatoes was hard work. At four o clock it 
 began to rain, but we worked on till nearly six. The 
 soil became too wet then to continue. My room had 
 gathered dampness, but I was soon warm and asleep 
 when I got a chance to go to bed. The next night 
 was hot and muggy. The mosquitoes sang around 
 me in swarms. Their songs I could endure, but the
 
 24 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 awful suspense and perforation of my epidermis be 
 came unbearable. I did not dare ask for netting. 
 My lord did not seem to notice the blotches and 
 bloodstains on my face and hands. Perhaps he 
 thought my blood so thick that the hummers could 
 not suck sufficient of it out to weaken me, or else it 
 was so thin that it would do no harm to drain my 
 capillaries. Anyway, I was food for the fowls of 
 the air Jersey mosquitoes. 
 
 Sunday morning dawned. I wondered what 
 would happen. I had awakened without assistance. 
 Hearing no stir outside, I remained quiet and rested. 
 My body was full of aches and stiffness. The sun 
 had already peeped in through the knot-holes of my 
 dormitory. Rolling over, I dropped into a Sunday 
 morning doze, so customary among lazy people. 
 Again I awoke, but there was no stir yet. I yawned, 
 counted the rafters in the roof, then the cracks be 
 tween the boards, and finally the spots of sunlight 
 that streamed through them. Dressing and descend 
 ing to the ground, Shack was the only individual to 
 greet me. Patting his head for a moment, I strolled 
 toward the pasture. The sun was high, and the dew 
 nearly gone. Just as I drove the cows into the barn 
 yard Mr. Stoneman appeared with the milk pails, 
 yawning and moping along as if the day belonged to 
 the chief of laziness, instead of to God. The chores 
 were finished and breakfast eaten in the same slug 
 gish manner. It was after nine o clock when I came 
 out of the kitchen from the morning meal. For the
 
 Sundays on the Farm. 25 
 
 first time since my arrival I felt lonesome. At the 
 orphanage I had learned something of the Sabbath 
 day and religious services, and could tell a Bible 
 when I saw one. At my new home, however, no 
 book had, as yet, appeared. I had not been permitted 
 to tread the sacred precincts of the front room, there 
 fore was not competent to judge whether or no the 
 Book was there. I had not been off the premises 
 since I came onto them in the darkness. My horizon 
 of observation was therefore limited. No visitors 
 had entered our front gate, for few travelers passed. 
 Whether a church or schoolhouse stood within forty 
 miles of the farm was more than I knew. One thing 
 I had learned, namely, to ask no questions. 
 
 I lay on the grass with Shack at my side. About 
 ten of the clock visitors arrived. The horse was 
 poor, the wagon rickety, harness tied up with bag 
 strings, and the husband, wife, and three children 
 correspondingly slovenly in appearance, language, 
 and, I afterward learned, in morals. This was my 
 introduction to Sunday visiting. Since then I have 
 seen much of it. Men living in towns, pressed with 
 business during the week, of a Sunday morning ride 
 out to see their tenants on rural property and to over 
 see their interests. No time to visit the farm offered 
 itself to them except that day. Such landlords I 
 have known to leave their church, Sunday school, 
 and other religious services, Sunday after Sunday, 
 to pat their tenants on the back and say "You re 
 doing well here this year," I have also wondered
 
 26 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 how much welldoing lay credited to their account 
 in the ledger of the Lord s vineyard. They are like 
 the man I once read of who, when asked to attend 
 a great supper, said, "I have bought a piece of 
 ground, and I must needs go and see it; I pray thee 
 have me excused." 
 
 But Nat Walker did not come to look at the farm. 
 He came to talk over the bargain made between 
 him and Stoneman a few days previous concerning 
 the horse that he drove. He had made a glaring 
 discovery of a slight blemish on its near hind leg 
 and thought a little "boot" of some sort ought to be 
 allowed him. I paid little atention to their bickering, 
 which was carried on in a friendly spirit. Every 
 thing passed off smoothly. Dinner was served 
 about three o clock. Bounteous culinary art graced 
 the table, though the visiting children disgraced it. 
 The parents had no control over the youngsters. 
 Fork, knife, spoon, or hand carried food to their 
 face, some entering the mouth, the rest missing. 
 The men conversed in subdued tones. Mrs. Walker 
 scolded and cuffed. 
 
 Mrs. Stoneman apoligized for the scanty dinner 
 and urged the children on in their depredations by 
 saying, "O, never mind the tablecloth, let the chil 
 dren have a good time." They had it, together with 
 everything in reach. In the confusion I attended 
 strictly to supplying the wants of the inner boy. 
 I marveled also, as some children do, if these 
 people ever attended church, and if youngsters
 
 Sundays on the Farm. 27 
 
 could possibly perform pranks of this sort when ac 
 customed to the religious instructions of a Christian 
 home. 
 
 But the hours wore on, and about five o clock, 
 when Nat Walker drove out into the road, I noticed 
 the handles of an old discarded flat-land plow pro 
 truding from under the rear seat of his wagon. I 
 concluded that Stoneman had settled the horse trade 
 with the old plow "to boot." 
 
 As the first week and Sunday passed, so passed 
 the following days of work and of rest, but the 
 monotony was broken one afternoon by the appear 
 ance of a young man coming cross-lots into the 
 field where I was raking buckwheat. "Hello, my 
 boy!" was his friendly salutation. "What is your 
 name? Isn t this pretty hard work for a lad of 
 your size?" 
 
 The kindly words and smiling face of the speaker 
 startled me at first. Regaining my composure, I 
 answered as best I could, feeling all the while that I 
 had found a friend in somebody. He took my rake 
 from me, raked a bundle, set it up, and, sitting down 
 on a stone, continued his questions. I told him 
 nearly everything I knew and all about myself. 
 Nothing was kept back. We were having a splendid 
 time when Mr. Stoneman came into the field with a 
 jug of water he was water boy. My friend ad 
 vanced to him with outstretched hand, saying: 
 "How do you do, Mr. Stoneman? My name is 
 Leeder, pastor of the little Methodist church over
 
 28 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 at New Dover. I have not seen you out to our 
 services yet." 
 
 By that time I was out of hearing, for I imme 
 diately resumed the rake when my superior came. 
 Mr. Leeder talked a long time with Mr. Stoneman, 
 and when he passed me on his way out of the field 
 told me that he had made arrangements for me to 
 come over to church and Sunday school every Sun 
 day after that at half-past ten. With a warm grip 
 of the hand and a hearty "Good-bye," and a "God 
 bless you, Willie," he was gone. 
 
 I had something now to live for. The day came 
 at last. I was not so crippled as in former times, for 
 I had got used to my fare. Before the appointed 
 hour I was on the steps of the little church, nestling 
 behind two tall pines and almost obscured by maples 
 and elms. While I stood there several persons 
 passed in, but none spoke to me. I saw Mr. Leeder 
 coming down the road. Would he know me? As 
 he sprang lightly out of the carriage he grasped me 
 by the hand warmly with a "Good-morning, Willie ! 
 I am glad to see you. Just come right inside." 
 
 In less time than it takes to tell it I was comfort 
 ably seated within and waiting. I do not remember 
 much of the sermon, but the text, "Inasmuch as ye 
 have done it unto one of the least of these, my 
 brethren, ye have done it unto me," is indelibly 
 written on my memory. 
 
 By the manner that the pastor looked after me, 
 I was his special guest. Placed in a class of boys of
 
 Sundays on the Farm. 29 
 
 about my age and under the instruction of Miss Rey 
 nolds, I seemed at the very gate of Beulah. I re 
 ceived a "lesson quarterly." That, with a copy of 
 the Sunday School Advocate, was the nucleus of my 
 private library and reading room. It seems little 
 enough now, but it meant wonders to me then. 
 
 That evening the cows seemed to drive easier; 
 the words of Mr. and Mrs. Stoneman were like 
 music ; old Shack seemed the only dog in the world, 
 and my attic was a palace. The weeks passed. They 
 were tedious, but I could endure all so long as I had 
 the Sunday coming as a reward. 
 
 "Day of all the week the best, 
 Emblem of eternal rest." 
 
 Mr. Leeder never came out to see us again. He 
 was yet a student in theology and unable to be on 
 his charge except during vacation and over Sunday. 
 But I saw him every Sabbath. That was sufficient 
 for me. Yet I did wish that he might be my brother 
 my elder brother. He had already proven himself 
 a spiritual brother, over and over again. 
 
 One day a Mr. Ambrose preached in his place. I 
 did not like him, because I understood little that he 
 talked about. His not speaking to me did not exalt 
 him in my estimation. The congregation, however, 
 liked him, on account of his culture and oratory, 
 which they said were fine. Perhaps they were; 
 nevertheless I was not so impressed.
 
 30 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 At School. 
 
 IT was a cold November twilight. I had come in 
 from work wet to the skin and shivering. The 
 east wind, so penetrating in New Jersey, had 
 pelted mist and rain at me all day. The late after 
 noon added sleet. While drying my clothing by the 
 kitchen fire and resting a few minutes before supper, 
 Mr. Stoneman, removing the clay stub from his 
 mouth, said kindly, after he had blown a quantity 
 of smoke from his face that would have done credit 
 to a volcanic crater, "Waal, Will." I looked up in 
 surprise. "Yew ve ben a purty good worker this 
 summer. Me an the ole woman s ben talkin bout 
 yew this afternoon, an I concluded tew send yew 
 up t Oak Tree tew school this winter. Injin sum 
 mer s over, an I guess farmin s bout played out fur 
 quite some time yit. Yew might s well git s more 
 learnin s tew lay round here. It s a mile n 
 a half up there, an yew c n walk it in twenty 
 minutes. Don t yew let me ketch ye leavin the 
 house fur school sooner n that time afore nine. Yew 
 c n begin Monday." Wheeling his chair from the 
 stove round to the table, he began eating. I needed 
 no invitation to follow his example. 
 
 Supper over and the chores all done, I sat by the
 
 At School. 31 
 
 stove until thoroughly dry and warm. It was still 
 storming when I went to my sleeping room. Ice 
 covered the ground. Shack shivered and whined 
 as I passed him. A happy thought struck me, 
 though the result a few days later was not so pleas 
 ant. Unsnapping the chain from the dog s collar, I 
 let him follow me to my chamber. Before many 
 minutes I was in bed and Shack on it a guest of 
 honor. I had shivered enough that day and am sure 
 the dog had, and, thus mutually agreed, dog and 
 boy slept till morning as cozy as "two bugs in a 
 rug." The storm continued at daylight. The fields 
 in which I had toiled all summer lay beneath a cover 
 ing of snow while I snoozed under the warm cover 
 let canis boni. It was Sunday. Turning my back 
 on my friend, comfort was mine in a morning nap. 
 But Mr. Stoneman had better staying qualities than 
 I had, for I had nearly completed the chores at the 
 barn when he came stalking in with the milk pail. 
 
 Promptly at eight-forty the next morning I left 
 the house for school, with my dinner in a two-quart 
 pail. I was happy all over, snuggled up in a new 
 coat, manufactured out of my master s old one. A 
 pair of new cowhide boots, a secondhand cap over 
 my head and ears, and a pair of Mrs. Stoneman s 
 cast-off mittens, into which my hands were loosely 
 tucked up, completed my wardrobe. The wind was 
 biting, and blowing almost a gale, yet I faced it 
 with the ease of a giant. 
 
 Nearing the schoolhouse,, I heard a burst of
 
 32 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 laughter from a group of boys standing in the door 
 way and hall. One voice exclaimed above all others, 
 "Well, if here don t come Jake Stoneman s kid." 
 Entering the door I said, "Good-morning." Only 
 one boy whom I had met at New Dover Sunday 
 school answered me. The others stood back to right 
 and left as I entered the inner door, hearing behind 
 me something like these remarks: "Old Jake s 
 gettin liberal with is clothes, ain t *e?" "Guess 
 stony Sarah ll have cold fingers now." These were 
 the first intimation I had heard that the Stonemans 
 passed in the neighborhood as penurious. That ac 
 counted for me not getting into society any and very 
 few ever coming to my abiding place. Stingy souls 
 seldom get large enough to be noticed, even in a 
 sparsely settled community. 
 
 Miss Sadie Colder, the teacher, bell in hand, just 
 opening the door to call school, met me. Her genial 
 manner and inviting face, like veritable sunbeams, 
 penetrated me in an instant. It was worth facing a 
 north wind a dozen times. "Good-morning," she 
 said, with a sweetness that fell over me like an 
 evening breeze sifted through a bank of blooming 
 lilacs. While I answered she asked my name and 
 whence I came. Learning all the facts in the case, 
 she seemed the more pleased to see me and to help 
 me to select a good, comfortable seat in the middle 
 of the room and near the stove. I did not know 
 much, but what I knew, I knew. She was surprised 
 that an urchin like me should want to read in the
 
 At School. 33 
 
 National Second Reader, but when she heard me 
 read she was more surprised. No wonder, for her 
 mind had been flooded with all manner of gossip 
 concerning me, my origin, and my present environ 
 ment. Too great-hearted to be prejudiced and too 
 generous to be partial, Miss Colder took me into 
 her confidence at once. I was boyish enough to tell 
 her one day how I liked her, and that she was as 
 good as Mr. Leeder, who preached down at the 
 Methodist church. "Did you ever see him?" I 
 asked, looking up from my book to her sunlit face. 
 Her countenance changed instantly to a crimson in 
 stead of pink. The snickers of the larger boys and 
 girls around the stove made her blush all the more, 
 and finally caused her to rise and leave the group to 
 do some work on the blackboard. I was innocent 
 then, and am yet, for that matter though I have 
 since learned that the ones we most love and the 
 names we like best to hear spoken, if mentioned in 
 nocently, are like darts hurled from a sure hand. I 
 am no Cupid, but I shot an arrow that day that went 
 straight to the heart. 
 
 Time flew too rapidly. Winter came on, cold and 
 bleak. Shack and I kept each other nocturnal com 
 pany. One morning Mr. Stoneman rose sooner 
 than usual in order to get an early start to Rahway. 
 Coming up into my room to waken me, he caught 
 my friend on the bed. The devil was let loose, sure. 
 Holding the lantern up before his face, he looked 
 first at me, shivering like an aspen leaf, and then at
 
 34 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the dog, whose head rested between his forepaws 
 upon the counterpane, his ears hanging limp at the 
 sides of his head and eyes blinking at the light and 
 more flaming master, as if expecting an immediate 
 earthquake. It came. Seizing the cur by the nape 
 of the neck, Stoneman hurled him from the bed with 
 the force that made the bones crack, and as the poor 
 fellow staggered to his feet with a ki-yi he kicked 
 him down the steps, end over end. Turning down 
 the bedclothes, with the flat of his hand he fetched 
 me out of bed standing. At this particular exigency 
 he found his speech, a part of which I will omit. 
 "Neow, boy, onct an fur all, I want no more o 
 this blasted nastiness. F yew want tew sleep with 
 the dog, go tew is kennel, but," raising his voice to 
 a scream, "don t yew never fetch that dirty whelp 
 on this clean bed no more." Mrs. Stoneman had 
 washed the sheets before I came there, six months 
 before. "By George Harry, ye ain t fit tew live," he 
 howled, as he shook me by the shoulder as a terrier 
 would shake a rat. Dropping me at last, as if I 
 were a hot iron, he stamped down the stairs. 
 
 The weather continued cold. School furnished 
 my only relief. Returning home that evening, Shack 
 did not meet me at the top of the hill as had been 
 his custom. Mr. Stoneman had not yet returned, 
 so I ventured to go to the kennel. The poor brute 
 shivered from the cold and was too lame to come 
 out of his nest. There had been no food given him 
 that day; at least, no tracks in the snow indicated
 
 At School. 35 
 
 it. I ventured a few consoling words and hurried 
 on to the barn. Night came on, and still no Stone- 
 man. Under cover of darkness I carried some clean 
 straw to the kennel, hung a piece of old carpet at 
 the door, and, finding some food at the table, on the 
 sly, of course, and in the slop pail, fed the starving- 
 animal, trusting the wind and snow to cover my 
 tracks before daylight. 
 
 Just as I was about to retire the belated man came. 
 His delay was on account of being obliged to wait 
 his turn for his horseshoeing. I had done all the 
 chores and met him at the barn with a lantern. Tak 
 ing the light from my hand as we left the barn, he 
 bade me go to bed. My feet were cold and my body 
 was chilled from holding the light for him to unhitch 
 the team. Hours passed before I fell asleep. When 
 I awoke I was stiff with cold. I appeared pinched 
 and blue. Not until I had run halfway to school 
 and sat in the warm schoolroom an hour was I 
 thoroughly comfortable. 
 
 That day I did not eat all my dinner; the rem 
 nant I left in the pail. The following day my luncK 
 consisted of what I had not eaten the day before, 
 with slight additions. This, however, did not occur 
 many times. Strange to say, I had a hankering for 
 fresh victuals. Across the road, on my way to 
 school, ran a brook that told no tales. The wooden 
 bridge that spanned the stream furnished an excel 
 lent position for feeding the fishes. I fed them. 
 They told no tales either. But the day of which I
 
 36 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 write the surplus provisions, together with some I 
 really wanted myself, I saved for Shack. He met 
 me as was his wont, but lame and crestfallen. It 
 took him but a moment to devour the contents of 
 my dinner pail. Almost his entire supply of pro 
 visions for the remainder of the winter came from 
 the above-mentioned source. 
 
 Shack was not much of a dog, measured by a 
 standard of breed and manners, though he did know 
 a friend when he found one, and knew enough to 
 appreciate friendship, too. I suppose that, accord 
 ing to philosophical dogma or humanitarian caprice, 
 only human beings are capable of friendship. Never 
 theless, I have seen dogs manifest more affection 
 toward their kind, and unkind as well, than some 
 animals who passed for humankind. 
 
 The cold snap and cold bed told on my constitu 
 tion. The other members of the family noticed the 
 change. The night will never be forgotten when I 
 was told I could sleep in the garret over the kitchen. 
 The room was real cozy. The same old bed graced 
 it, with some of its staleness removed by soap and 
 water. Home life grew better. I dried my boots 
 and stockings about the stovepipe, if, perchance, I 
 had played in the snow too much at school. All I 
 lacked in those days was my dinner, but the satis 
 faction and appreciation of Shack as he gulped it 
 down, sometimes a whole biscuit at once, more than 
 compensated me for my self-denial. 
 " One morning, while waiting for Mrs. Stoneman
 
 At School. 37 
 
 to put up my dinner, she remarked, "Willie, ain t 
 there any bottom to your stomach?" The empty 
 pail every night had excited her curiosity, for all 
 the while she had been increasing the quantity and 
 really meant to give me enough to eat. 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Stoneman," I answered, "perhaps 
 there isn t, but I don t waste a bit. Every crumb is 
 eaten up, slick and clean." 
 
 My veracity was never questioned, and, when as 
 sured that none was wasted, she was content. So 
 also was Shack. Even he showed signs of improve 
 ment. 
 
 My diligent work at school and the supposed par 
 tiality of the teacher toward me naturally brought 
 on jealousy. I was the innocent party, of course, 
 and suffered the consequences, as I will relate. 
 
 Joe Thomas, a good-looking young man, though 
 not a bookworm, by any means, somehow or other 
 took a dislike to me. He had twin brothers, just a 
 little older than I, and considerably larger. Joe 
 quietly kept those boys tantalizing me whenever he 
 got me out of sight from the teacher. One nooning 
 all the boys went over the knoll to a clay pit, where 
 a small area of ice made excellent skating. I came 
 on the ice the last one. As I drew near I received 
 this greeting: "Here comes Jake s brat!" one of 
 the twins bawled out ; "he s the teacher s spot," re 
 ferring to my pockmarked face. "Hello, spotty! 
 come, spot ! come, spot !" ending with a whistle com 
 monly given to call a dog. But I did not call.
 
 38 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Not long afterward the twins kept sliding nearer 
 to me, each pass attempting to trip me. I did 
 not mind the fall two or three times, but when 
 it came to a half dozen or more my anger began 
 to rise. 
 
 "Will you please stop tripping me?" I respectfully 
 asked them. Instantly they sent up a cry, "Hear 
 Jake s brat!" and with it a punch in my ribs. My 
 little nine-year-old body bristled. 
 
 "Two can play at that game, if you please," I 
 replied, knowing that they with the help of Joe could 
 paralyze me in about a minute, but I determined to 
 be game to the last, depending somewhat on the 
 sympathy and assistance of some of the other boys 
 who were my friends, and more afraid of the trio 
 than I was. 
 
 The only answer was, "Look out for Jake s Billy ! 
 Billy goat is coming look out!" And I did come, 
 too, landing on Tommy s jaw. He immediately 
 sprawled off howling toward Joe, who at once 
 skated up to me with, "You young brat, just lay 
 hands on one o my brothers again and I ll break 
 every bone in your body," at the same time cuffing 
 me over the ice. I struck on my face, but soon re 
 gained my feet, the blood spurting from my nose. 
 
 The smell of gore completely aroused the tiger in 
 me. I seized a loose stone from the bank and hurled 
 it at him with all my might. It missed its mark. 
 He skated near me again to slap me, but I was off 
 the ice enough to dodge his long swing from the
 
 At School. 39 
 
 shoulder. This was my opportunity, and I seized it. 
 Grasping a scraggly root from the shore I slipped it 
 between his legs and threw him headlong sprawling 
 all over the ice. At that juncture the twins jumped 
 onto me. The battle had begun in earnest. Joe 
 scrambled to his feet and rushed at me like a mad 
 bull. Charlie Lumm leaped in front of him, shout 
 ing, "Hold on, Joe! Fair play! Two s enough!" 
 The words were cut short by Joe s fist. Charlie 
 reeled, and before he really knew what hit him half 
 a dozen other lads were on Joe. 
 
 In the meantime, the twins and myself rolled and 
 tumbled down the bank and onto the ice, leaving be 
 hind a trail of crimson. By that time I was not the 
 only one bleeding. One of the boys had got away 
 from me, running for the schoolhouse and yelling 
 at every jump; the other one I still held down. Joe 
 lay begging for mercy from his captors, when we 
 were all startled by the kind voice of Miss Colder, 
 who had stood by, a silent spectator, long enough 
 to know all about the war, its causes and results. 
 
 "There, boys, that will do. I am very sorry you 
 cannot play together like gentlemen." 
 
 We followed her to the schoolroom like dogged 
 prisoners of war. I was in the worst plight of any 
 one. My nose was swollen, my face and hands 
 gory. Taking an old apron from the closet and 
 putting it around her, Miss Colder washed and 
 rubbed my face as tenderly as a mother. I was al 
 most glad to be battered up that I might receive such
 
 40 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 v 
 kindness, even though I was ashamed enough to 
 
 hide my face. 
 
 After the others had gone home Charlie and I 
 remained to apologize for our insubordination. She 
 had forbidden fighting. 
 
 With tears in her eyes she replied : "I think I can 
 trust you, boys, and tell you that you did right. 
 You were not in the fault, and only defended your 
 selves, yet I m sorry it happened. We won t have 
 any more such battles, will we?" and she bowed her 
 head on the table. 
 
 Charlie and I stood there for a minute in silence. 
 Without a word he went out of the room and home. 
 In a moment the teacher raised her head, put out 
 her hand, and drew me to her arms. I was only a 
 lad of nine, but that one hug and warm kiss on my 
 swollen and spotted face has kept me from many a 
 snare. My little heart was broken, yet what a pleas 
 ant break it was as my feelings burst out in a flood 
 of tears. 
 
 She talked to me until my loneliness left me. I 
 realized that I had found a mother, a sister, a friend, 
 all in one. Her kind words and parting benediction 
 gave me courage. There was something in the 
 world now worth living for, and I determined to 
 live for it I would always be on the side of right. 
 
 Another fight at Oak Tree school never occurred 
 while I attended it, and as long as Miss Colder 
 taught it. I walked borne on air that night, and 
 would have taken delight in giving forty dinners to
 
 At School. 41 
 
 Shack had they been mine to give. I thought my 
 home as good as any. I knew my teacher was the 
 best in the world, for she lived "pure religion and 
 undefiled before God." I lacked but one thing a 
 brother to whom I might confide all my joys, sor 
 rows, and triumphs.
 
 42 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 I Go a-Fishing. 
 
 ORE than a year had passed since the battle 
 at the clay pit. I longed to visit the scenes 
 of the fray, for the boys told me "there 
 were slathers o bullheads in the old hole." I had 
 never been a-fishing, and a desire to go had grown 
 into a burning passion. The opportunity arrived 
 at last. 
 
 Mr. Stoneman had been called to New Bruns 
 wick for a week to serve as traverse juror during 
 the May term of court. He went away on Monday, 
 with instructions for me to attend to the chores, 
 help his wife plant in the garden, and, what spare 
 time I had, to clean out the shed where the sheep 
 had wintered. This last task was enough for any 
 one boy to do, but you, reader, know how much a 
 boy can do in a very short time provided he be 
 privileged to sit a few hours in the rain on the bank 
 of a pool and hold a fishpole. 
 
 On Tuesday the plan of a fishing excursion was 
 conceived. I boyishly prayed for propitious weather. 
 I was unable to work in the shed for the first two 
 days. The garden received all my attention, and 
 that of Mrs. Stoneman s as well Wednesday she 
 was unable to be out in the sun on account of over-
 
 I Go a-Fishing. 43 
 
 exertion the day previous. That was my golden 
 opportunity. If ever a boy worked in his life Stone- 
 man s Billy tugged and sweat and jerked and pulled 
 that day. By chore time the job was done. My, 
 but I was lame and tired! What of that compared 
 with the coming gala day ! 
 
 "If it will only rain to-morrow," thought I, "there 
 is a certainty that by nightfall few bullheads will 
 remain in the clay pit." But it didn t rain. The 
 garden absorbed all my time. In the afternoon, how 
 ever, a shower, followed by a slight haze, indicated 
 a storm. Instead of going to bed direct in the even 
 ing, I took a roundabout path to our next neigh 
 bor s and quietly borrowed fishing tackle against 
 the coming Good Friday so it seemed to me, at 
 least. 
 
 When I awoke Friday morning the sweetest 
 music that ever floated into a boy s ears floated into 
 mine. It was raining. The gentle drizzle on the 
 roof and the sloppy drip of the eaves told me that it 
 was no passing shower. One thing was settled al 
 ready : I could not work in the garden that day. I 
 had to churn in the forenoon, but as soon as my 
 cold lunch was swallowed (I always lunched at noon 
 when the proprietor was away from home) I 
 hastened to the barn with an intimation to Mrs. 
 Stoneman that the shed would be clean that after 
 noon. It was. 
 
 In less time than it takes to tell it, Shack and his 
 youthful master, equipped with all the necessary
 
 44 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 piscatory paraphernalia, sallied into the barn, 
 through it into the meadow beyond, and through 
 the meadow and the rain into the woods. The 
 old coat that Mr. Stoneman used about the barn 
 served me as an extra covering. I knew that if 
 asked by the aforesaid gentleman why it was wet 
 the fact that I had worn it in a shower the night 
 before while after the cows would be sufficient 
 explanation. 
 
 The drip from the foliage, the gentle showers 
 upon me as I tripped and stumbled into a sap 
 ling or bush, and the novelty of the sport, to say 
 nothing of the numerous briers, were certainly ex 
 hilarating. 
 
 Once at the water s edge, the real fun began. The 
 angle-worms wriggled and corkscrewed. I jabbed 
 at the squirming coil, only to puncture my thumb. 
 At last I transfixed one amidship and threw off shore 
 for a catch. I caught, or rather my hook caught, into 
 a snag. Endeavoring to get it loose, and while 
 leaning far out over the water, pulling and twisting 
 the pole and line hither and thither lo! I was lift 
 off the ground on the toe of a boot. I struck the 
 water about halfway to the line. While soaring 
 through the air, like a flying squirrel for my great 
 coat flapping on my outstretched arms must have 
 made me appear as such the gentle words of Stone 
 man fell upon my ear: "Go t the bottom fur yer 
 hook, yew blasted brat !" 
 
 But I did not find the hook. The bottom of the
 
 I Go a-Fishing. 45 
 
 pit was quite hard, and when my feet touched it, 
 involuntarily, I kicked. My head shot out of water 
 as I spouted like a whale. Before the limpid liquid 
 was all discharged my head was submerged again. 
 I had found a little more than my depth. My head 
 must have bobbed up and down like a huge cork 
 with a darting bass on the hook. I danced around 
 the clay pit spouting, blubbering, yelling, and gasp 
 ing, all at the same time, the water just about to my 
 ears if I had stood on tiptoe. In the meanwhile, 
 when nearly exhausted, unconsciously waltzing near 
 my tormentor, he hit me a tunk on the head with a 
 pole, remarking, " F ye think ye c n stay where ye 
 b long, take holt o this ere." 
 
 Snapping at the pole for life, I proved to be the 
 first bullhead landed that day according to Stone- 
 man s opinion. Lying in the wet bushes a few mo 
 ments, I had an opportunity to consider what 
 "fisherman s luck" was, that Good Friday was no 
 more, and, above all, that I had fished enough. An 
 other conclusion at which I arrived without the aid 
 of logic was that I was mad. I have since learned 
 that 
 
 "Ef you feel like bein blue, 
 
 Better laugh; 
 Sighs won t bring sunshine to you 
 
 Better laugh. 
 
 You can t conquer fate with frowns 
 In a fight of fifty rounds : 
 So in all yer ups and downs 
 Better thing to do, by half, 
 Is jest to laugh.
 
 46 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "When you think uv cussin , don t ! 
 
 Better smile. 
 When skeeters bite and fishes won t, 
 
 Better smile. 
 
 Ef yer hook an line get stuck 
 On the limb, ur some bad luck, 
 Only way ter show yer pluck, 
 Stead uv grumblin all the while, 
 Is jest to smile." 
 
 It never occurred to me before that my treatment 
 at the hands of Stoneman was other than just. At 
 that particular moment it was unbearable. I might 
 have lain there in the bushes till now had not the sun 
 burst through the clouds, mottled the wet ground 
 with patches of silver, and trimmed the leaves with 
 crystal beads. Nevertheless, it was not very "clear 
 shining after rain." 
 
 Stoneman had gone. Followed by Shack, with 
 his tail between his legs, I journeyed on toward the 
 place whence I had come, as wet as wet could be, 
 but rapidly drying from internal heat. I had worked 
 two years for him, I cogitated, as best I knew how, 
 and had never lost any time from sickness, play, or 
 visiting. It was strange to me now that I could 
 not have a few hours respite from toil when it 
 rained so hard as to render work on the farm im 
 possible and when I had already completed what I 
 was expected to do under shelter. Please remember, 
 reader, that I fished no more in the clay pit. 
 
 That night my heart ached. I dried my clothing, 
 sitting behind the kitchen stove. I thought more
 
 I Go a-Fishing. 47 
 
 mean things that evening than I had in all my pre 
 vious life, Stoneman being at one end of a bare 
 cherry table, his head wreathed in a cloud of smoke, 
 and his wife at the other end counting the money he 
 had received from the county. The amount was 
 little. To them it was big; to me, then, inestimable. 
 Going to their bedroom, Mrs. Stoneman brought 
 out an old stocking which received the precious coin 
 and which already jingled with gold. My heart 
 said : "You old, stingy misers, here you have lots of 
 money, while I go barefoot, with clothes unfit to go 
 to a stone frolic or a logging bee. You make me 
 earn three times what I cost, and then don t treat me 
 decently." 
 
 In my anger I left them with their household 
 gods of silver and gold. If ever I believed in a just 
 God it was then. He seemed to console me, though 
 I cried myself to sleep with a strange feeling that 
 time only is necessary to right all wrongs and brush 
 away all clouds. Some day I should find my elder 
 brother whose affection and love would more than 
 compensate for my many troubles. 
 
 The next morning a small bucket of water and a 
 piece of dry bread sat on the floor of my room. 
 Trying to open the door, I found it fastened. The 
 fact dawned upon me that I was a prisoner. That 
 was the longest day I ever lived, except the next, 
 which was a glorious Sunday in May. Monday 
 morning brought liberty. The only consolation I 
 had during those two days of imprisonment was to
 
 48 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 see Stoneman after the cows, feeding the pigs, and 
 toting in wood. 
 
 Down in a little lot by the house a calf ran at will. 
 The chore boy for those two days knew nothing 
 about its peculiarities. I did, and watched for de 
 velopments. Bossy habitually drank about ten swal 
 lows at first and then bunted for all he was worth. 
 This maneuver, if not closely watched, overturned 
 the pail or drove the milk into the air like a playing 
 geyser. The mistress had fed it the first morning 
 of my imprisonment. Sunday morning, after he 
 had done all the chores, got on his clean clothes, 
 eaten his breakfast, lighted his pipe, and settled 
 down to real comfort, Mr. Stoneman came out of 
 the back door with a pail of milk and leisurely 
 walked down toward the calf lot. The innocent 
 creature stood with its head through the fence. Now 
 and then the little fellow darted his head and 
 shoulders forward and swayed his caudal appendage. 
 Imagine how I felt about then ! 
 
 The quiet man placed the bucket under the calf s 
 nose and let one side of it set upon his toes. He 
 leaned his arms on the top board of the fence, 
 stooped over and looked down upon the spotted head 
 beneath him, and smoked away as calmly as you 
 please. 
 
 Presto ! The white tip at the extreme of the little 
 creature s tail lifted to a level with its back ; at the 
 same instant, with a slight tremor of the body, its 
 nose struck on the same horizontal. A column of
 
 I Go a-Fishing. 49 
 
 milk shot up straight into the burning crater of 
 Stoneman. Don t tell anybody, but he was a sight. 
 His face was filled with fire, ashes, tobacco, and 
 milk, the mixture trickling down through his 
 whiskers in rivulets, onto his shirt, and dripping 
 from his best pantaloons and coat sleeves in grayish 
 streamlets. Standing for a moment, facing my way 
 in a half-stooping posture, arms at half mast, he re 
 minded me of the big Shanghai chicken I had res 
 cued from the swill barrel the week before. 
 
 Just at this point the pent-up volcanic fires 
 erupted. He seized the pail by the bail, jerked it 
 from the feasting one. The head of the calf disap 
 peared through the fence like the head of a turtle 
 into its shell. It scented war. Poising the pail 
 above his head for a good aim, his majesty, Mr. 
 Stoneman, turned the last quart of bossy s break 
 fast down the back of his own neck. That was the 
 last straw. The bucket hissed through the air and 
 exploded near the opposite fence. Solid shot, in the 
 form of stones, followed in rapid succession, while 
 the enemy, banner in air and flaunting victory, 
 capered back and forth and up and down the lot with 
 an occasional bawl of calf pleasure. He evidently 
 enjoyed the exercise, inasmuch as no evil came near 
 his "blasted hide," as Stoneman remarked when he 
 withdrew his forces and beat a retreat for the house. 
 4
 
 50 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Wandering Willie. 
 
 "Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ! 
 
 Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, 
 And tell me thou bring st me my Willie the same." 
 
 THE years passed. My lot remained the same. 
 Stoneman s habits were not in accord with 
 my notions. He made Sunday a day of 
 lounging and occasional visiting, but he neither 
 visited nor entertained unless there was a little busi 
 ness deal somewhere in the complication. He never 
 worked on that day, simply because he was too lazy, 
 as most Sunday visitors are. He never entered the 
 church but once while I lived with him, and that was 
 when old Uncle Tommy Henway died. Uncle 
 Tommy was the hermit bachelor of the neighbor 
 hood, and was found dead one day in his apology for 
 a bed. The poormaster had the funeral in charge, 
 and Mr. Stoneman was asked to be "one o the 
 bearers." He accepted the honor with solemnity. 
 It was the only time I ever saw him really "dressed 
 up," except when he brought me away from the or 
 phanage two historical epochs in my life. He 
 seemed as much out of place in the church as the 
 corpse, for Uncle Tommy had not been in a church 
 before in fifty years.
 
 Wandering Willie. 51 
 
 It has always been a query with me why all the 
 Sunday visitors, loafers, workers, and sports, who 
 seemingly have no regard for church services, ex 
 cept ten-cent suppers and free entertainments, want 
 to be buried from the church, and their friends, too, 
 have all the ministers in the village present and the 
 best choir in the vicinity. I write this not because 
 Uncle Tommy was a pauper, but because he was a 
 godless American heathen. If the church was of 
 any value to him it was while he lived. 
 
 Stoneman sat in the pew, listened, and wiped his 
 eyes, appearing as solemn and ridiculous as on the 
 day he saved me from drowning in the clay pit. The 
 whole scene was as good as a circus to me. In the 
 procession we rode in solemn state, I on some straw 
 in the one-horse spring wagon, he and Mrs. Stone 
 man doing the part of the aristocracy, on the only 
 seat of the vehicle. 
 
 After the services at the cemetery we drove to 
 Rahway, to do some trading, an unheard-of event 
 for the Stonemans. For the first time in my life I 
 was on the streets of a town of any size, and over 
 the threshhold of an up-to-date store. I guess I was; 
 green as grass, for constantly the boys kept me 
 turning and gaping for something, I knew not what. 
 On our way home, along by the tracks of the Penn 
 sylvania railway for two miles, I feasted my eyes, 
 vowing that as soon as I was big enough a railroader 
 I would be. 
 
 Thirteen years old. I did as much work as any-
 
 52 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 one at the Stoneman homestead. There had been 
 little to break the monotony until after our visit to 
 Rahway. A new pair of shoes, the tops of which 
 connected within a half inch of the lower extremi 
 ties of a shop-worn pair of pants, a new hat and 
 coat were then purchased for my special use. The 
 large outlay, three dollars and seventy- four cents, 
 had chaffed the commercial heart of my lord, who 
 endeavored to force me into works of supereroga 
 tion in payment of the debt of gratitude I owed him. 
 Complaint there was none, nevertheless the yoke 
 galled. Shack was poorer than ever, and I had be 
 gun to share my food with him again, occasionally 
 swiping an extra from the table into my pocket. 
 Sitting for a moment one day behind the corn house, 
 just after dinner, quietly disgorging my pockets and 
 gorging the dog s stomach, to the surprise of all 
 concerned I was caught. Slapping me side of the 
 head with the flat of his hand, Stoneman picked up 
 a piece of bean pole that chanced to be near and laid 
 it over the back of my only friend. With a howl of 
 pain the animal made for the kennel, followed by 
 the brute. On my way to the field, rubbing my left 
 ear, I heard other blows from the cudgel. The 
 ear did not hurt half as much as my heart. I felt 
 myself a coward to run when a friend was in dan 
 ger. I prayed for the courage of Gideon. 
 
 When I passed the kennel at chore time Shack still 
 remained inside. He could not come out. At bed 
 time, dark as pitch, I stooped down at the door and
 
 Wandering Willie. S3 
 
 reached in. The poor fellow trembled like a leaf. 
 His soft tongue feebly licked my hand. I heard the 
 faint pounding of his tail in the straw. He deserved 
 a supper that he had not received. I determined he 
 should have it, too, even if a battle had to be fought 
 for it. My spunk was daily increasing. Feeling 
 around in the darkness, I found the old basin used 
 for dipping swill. I washed it in the brook, stole 
 over the fence into the cow pasture, and filled it with 
 milk. Shack lapped it all down with a relish. I 
 patted a good-night on his head and went to bed. 
 
 During the night I was awakened by the rattle of 
 his chain and a dull thumping against the sides of 
 the dog house. Hastening down, I found him in 
 agony, apparently in convulsions. The old moon 
 had just risen, so that I was able to see quite dis 
 tinctly. Speaking to the dog in an undertone, he 
 whined faintly and bounded out upon me, but fell 
 faint and quivering. He rested contentedly with his 
 head in my lap. After a few moments of silence he 
 began to shiver. Then, turning his cold nose up 
 ward, he licked me gently in the face, shuddered, 
 stiffened and all was over. I sat on the ground 
 for an hour or more holding the head of my dead 
 friend and crying like a booby. It might have been 
 weakness, but I am not ashamed of it. I was alone 
 then. 
 
 Out in the back pasture the next night I officiated 
 at a solemn funeral, acting as chief mourner, grave- 
 digger, undertaker, and parson. Beneath a graceful
 
 54 h On the Mountain Division. 
 
 cedar on a sandy knoll Shack at last found rest. The 
 moon again lighted me to my room just as faint 
 shafts of light began to bespangle the east. I was 
 more dead than alive the next day, but I worked 
 faithfully. However, I drew my full allowance of 
 rations, a part of which went into my stomach, and 
 the dryer portion into my pocket, for I was too sick 
 at heart to eat. I bade Mr. and Mrs. Stoneman 
 "good-night" and went to my room. I dared not 
 drop off to sleep for fear of not waking till morning. 
 After nodding and dozing about an hour and seeing 
 that the light in the house was extinguished, I stole 
 down the stairway, shoes and stockings in hand. 
 Once beyond the house I turned into the road. After 
 a few minutes walk I stopped, dressed my feet, and 
 trudged on. I soon left the Oak Tree schoolhouse 
 behind and hastened on into a strange land. Home 
 less, friendless, and alone, I strode on in the night 
 with all my possessions on my back, except the dry 
 bread, gingerbread, and johnnycake I carried in my 
 hand, wrapped in a Sunday School Advocate. The 
 streets of Plainfield were deserted and silent. I made 
 not a halt, but kept straight on up the mountain 
 toward Bernardsville. 
 
 Stars shone through a warm haze when I set out ; 
 now clouds began to roll up in the west. Lightning 
 played and quivered along the horizon. It was inky 
 blackness all around me. A flash of lightning re 
 vealed a barn standing in a field alone, some distance 
 from the highway. I realized that I was fagged out.
 
 Wandering Willie. 55 
 
 Loss of sleep, sorrow, overexertion, and the excite 
 ment of the moment completely exhausted me. Be 
 tween the flashes I made for the fence, over it into 
 the field, reached the shelter, gained an entrance, and 
 found a comfortable resting place on some new- 
 mown hay. After eating a part of my lunch by 
 heaven s electricity and amid peals of thunder, I lay 
 down to sleep. My reader, do you know the soporific 
 luxury of a bed in new hay while the rain patters on 
 the roof? Heaven s artillery could not awaken the 
 .Wandering Willie on such a cot. 
 
 When I did awake my bones ached and my 
 stomach gnawed. Rising and becoming cognizant 
 of myself, it was impossible for me to tell whether 
 it was morning or afternoon. Sunrise or sunset, I 
 knew not which. It proved to be the latter. In five 
 minutes my remaining rations were eaten. In the 
 twilight I crept to a meadow brook close by, slaked 
 my thirst, bathed my face, got my bearings, and re 
 turned to my bed. 
 
 When I awoke it was dark and still. Crawling 
 from my comfortable quarters and getting into the 
 highway, I journeyed on toward the north. At 
 daybreak another friendly hay barn appeared, but 
 not the luxurious bed. Yet I manufactured a fairly 
 good one and cuddled up for the day. 
 
 It was nearly noon when my eyes opened. Surely, 
 thought I, I must be a tramp now anyway. Hunger 
 seized me in earnest. It occurred to me just then 
 that my commissary supplies were cut off, and that
 
 56 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 I must either forage or die. I would neither starve 
 nor go back to Jake Stoneman s, that was settled; 
 beg or steal was out of the question; work I could 
 and would if an opportunity offered yes, I would 
 make an opportunity. Thus determined, I entered 
 the road and walked straight for the first farmhouse. 
 The haymakers were just out from dinner, lounging 
 and joking on the porch and under the trees. There 
 was no alternative; I must have food. I was 
 ravenous. The men sighted me while yet a great 
 way off. On coming nearer such remarks as, "What 
 show have we here ? Lost, strayed, or stolen ? Let s 
 have some fun with it!" greeted me. 
 
 I made directly for them and immediately said, 
 "How do you do?" They were completely bewild 
 ered, and no wonder. I was a pitiable specimen of 
 the turf. My hair was long, pants short, and coat 
 shorter, all, more or less, flecked with hayseed and 
 chaff. Dust covered my shoes, spots my face, and 
 dirt my hands. 
 
 "Is the gentleman of the house about ?" I asked. 
 
 "No! He s gone to Morristown to-day," re 
 spectfully answered one of the men, "but his wife is 
 inside." 
 
 "Lookin fur a job?" haughtily asked a youth. 
 "Goodwin don t hire tramps." 
 
 "Shet up, Tip !" said another. " Y ought tew be 
 civil even tew a dog, much more tew a kid like him." 
 
 "Yes, I want a job," said I, moving toward the 
 door.
 
 Wandering Willie. 57 
 
 The man who first answered me called Mrs. Good 
 win, who came to the door inquiring what was 
 wanted. 
 
 "Here s a chap lookin fur a job an wants to see 
 the gentleman o the house." 
 
 The woman was a large, good-natured lady. 
 Standing in the door she looked me over from head 
 to foot, partly in disgust, partly in pity. I awaited 
 my first sentence. 
 
 "Looking for a job!" she half mused to herself. 
 "Well, I never ! Where did you come from, young 
 ster ? Are you a runaway ?" 
 
 She settled down to business, and her eyes read 
 me like a book. I hesitated, stammered, and shifted 
 my body onto the other foot and my hat into the 
 other hand. The unexpected had happened. To lie 
 would be wrong. To tell the truth might send me 
 back to Stoneman. To Stoneman s I would not re 
 turn, and I never dreamed of lying. 
 
 "Come ! out with it ! Are you a runaway ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma am, I am," shifting uneasily to my 
 former position. 
 
 "From home?" 
 
 "No, ma am." 
 
 "Haven t you any home?" 
 
 "No, ma am." 
 
 "Haven t you ever had a home?" 
 
 "Not much of a one, ma am." 
 
 "Haven t you any parents?" 
 
 "Not that I know of, ma am."
 
 58 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 At this the men burst into laughter, but Mrs. 
 Goodwin continued: 
 
 "Where had you been staying before you began 
 tramping ?" 
 
 "Down near New Dover." 
 
 "Who were you living with?" 
 
 "A man by the name of Stoneman." 
 
 "What, Jake Stoneman, that squint-eyed old skin 
 flint down there? Are you that boy at s been stayin 
 there for the past four or five years?" interrupted 
 one of the men who had not yet spoken. Jumping 
 to his feet and turning to Mrs. Goodwin, he con 
 tinued : "If he s that boy he ll never go back to New 
 Dover if I c n hender it. I worked near there las 
 summer an know all about this Stoneman an his 
 meanness. I wouldn t blame the boy f e d stole 
 the money the old woman keeps tied up in a stockin . 
 I for one ll stand by the boy an sock my fist into 
 old Jake s ribs f he comes snoopin up round here." 
 
 Finishing his plea, my pettifogger sat down again 
 on the porch and chewed at his toothpick with a 
 vengeance. 
 
 "Is Lew right about you?" asked Mrs. Goodwin, 
 pointing toward my defendant. 
 
 "Yes, ma am." 
 
 "What s your name?" 
 
 "William Barson, ma am." 
 
 "How came you at Stoneman s ?" 
 
 "He took me from an orphanage five years ago." 
 
 "How old are you?"
 
 Wandering Willie. 59 
 
 "Thirteen, ma am." 
 
 Half musing she went on : "Thirteen ? Why, you 
 look older, but your size is of a boy much younger. 
 Want a job? You look as if you need something 
 to eat more than work. Go round to the trough at 
 the back door, wash up, come into the house, and 
 we ll see if we can t give you a bite to stay your; 
 stomach." 
 
 In a half hour I came out of the front door a new 
 boy. No doubt they expected me to move on. I 
 had no such intention. I immediately volunteered 
 to "rake after." It was not new work. No one said 
 anything when Tip began "bunching up" and I took 
 the rake. My work was satisfactory. When Mr. 
 Goodwin arrived, made inquiries into my case, and 
 watched me work he admitted that I was just the 
 boy he wanted for a couple of months, provided I 
 continued as well as I had begun. 
 
 It was no trick at all to suit my new master. He 
 did not expect a lad of thirteen to do the work of a 
 man. The time flew by on wings of pleasure. 
 
 A short distance beyond my new home lived a 
 boy two years older than myself. We became inti-* 
 mate friends. My desire for a brother grew as our 
 friendship ripened. We spent the Sabbaths to 
 gether. He attended the little New Vernon chapel 
 Sunday school and, as a matter of course, I went 
 along. 
 
 Two months passed before I realized it. Septem 
 ber came, and with it a request from Mr. Goodwin
 
 60 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 that he would like me to remain a few weeks longer. 
 I remained. During those weeks I spent much time 
 on the truck wagon, holding the horses and driving 
 them, while my employer huckstered along the 
 streets of Morristown from house to house. 
 
 The middle of October came. Mr. Goodwin in 
 formed me rather coldly that my services were no 
 longer needed. There had been some crooked work 
 done of late, and circumstantial evidence pointed 
 toward me as the guilty perpetrator. The wages 
 coming to me were twenty-five dollars, but my lord 
 claimed that at least fifteen dollars had been taken 
 from his till little by little, and that that shortage 
 must be deducted from the twenty-five. In vain did 
 I plead my innocence. I begged him to search me, 
 my room, and all my belongings. He would not 
 listen to me. I have always believed Mr. Goodwin 
 sincere in his decision against me. He was shrewd, 
 honest, and upright to the last degree, but having 
 concluded that some one was deceiving him, that 
 person was dropped. Perhaps he formed opinions 
 too quickly and based his judgment upon too slight 
 evidence, as is often the case with honest, moral men. 
 He never would think of giving a fellow another 
 chance. One fall, or what he supposed to be a fall, 
 broke off communication. 
 
 Nevertheless, I had not taken the money. It is 
 true that he had trusted me with quite large sums, 
 and often allowed me to pay small bills and to take 
 receipts for the same. The place of the money
 
 Wandering Willie. 61 
 
 drawer I knew perfectly, having often been sent 
 there for change. 
 
 Tip had more money than usual. Cigars and 
 candy were common luxuries with him. Where his 
 spending money came from was a guess to me, but 
 if I could only have the chance of a few days I was 
 sure I could ferret out the source. The opportunity 
 was not granted, and I knew better than to accuse 
 anyone of a crime without sufficient evidence to con 
 vict. There remained but one thing to do go. The 
 Goodwin home closed to me forever. My labor 
 satisfied. Wages cheerfully paid so far. I had been 
 picked up from tramping, and given a good home 
 and decent treatment, all of which I appreciated. 
 They took me into their confidence and trust and, 
 according to their opinion, I had betrayed both. 
 Now I must take my ten dollars and go and go 
 forever. 
 
 In vain did I lay my claim before Mr. Goodwin. 
 Would he only let me stay till I proved myself hon 
 est, and until my wages would repay the lost money ? 
 I wanted to leave him the ten dollars rather than 
 depart with a stain on my reputation. 
 
 I wept and begged and went. The servant girl 
 said I was innocent. Tip whistled and remarked 
 that it was good enough for me. Mrs. Goodwin used 
 her apron about her eyes and nose, as if she had 
 taken an overdose of snuff, while her husband gritted 
 his teeth. He was "sot in his way." 
 
 I slept with Ned that night and poured out my
 
 62 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 troubles to him. He, too, believed me innocent. 
 Then I cried and blurted out that "there s no use 
 trying to be good." I talked of my elder brother, 
 "and, Ned," said I, "I have a brother, too, and some, 
 day I ll find him." 
 
 I planned to write to Ned when I settled in a new 
 place, and he would report to me the outcome of the 
 burglary at Goodwin s. The next morning, with a 
 little bundle under my arm, I set my face toward 
 the north for a second time. This time my heart 
 was heavier than before, for I went under criminal 
 accusation. 
 
 Trudging along the road that morning, Mr. 
 Goodwin and Tip passed me, the former paying no 
 attention to me, while the latter shouted, ".Wander 
 ing Willie, again! " 
 
 "I ain t got no reg lar place that I can call my home, 
 I don t get no fond embrace as o er this world I roam ; 
 Portland, Maine, is just the same as sunny Tennessee, 
 For any old place I hang my hat is Home, sweet home, to 
 me."
 
 The Summer-field Home. 63 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 The Summerfield Home. 
 
 "Loud though the winter blew cauld at our parting, 
 Twas na the blast brought the tear to my e e: 
 
 Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to me." 
 
 " T ANE, I wish you d bathe my foot with that lini 
 ment again. I guess this rheumatism ll kill 
 J me." So spoke Joseph Horton to his wife while 
 he sat in a comfortable rocker, a pillow at his 
 head, and his right foot well bandaged, resting on a 
 chair. The room represented the coziness of a well- 
 to-do farmer. Several straight-backed, splint chairs, 
 three wooden rockers covered with double-quilted 
 calico, a large lounge, and a table constituted the 
 furniture, which was arranged about a sheet-iron 
 stove. A striped rag carpet mantled the floor, and 
 in one corner a high, wooden clock reached from 
 carpet to ceiling. The ceiling consisted of wide pine 
 boards painted red. A pan partially filled with late 
 pippins and parings sat on the hassock near the fire. 
 Annie, a girl of twelve, the only child for Frankie, 
 a brother two years her senior, had been sleeping in 
 the cemetery but three months and Aunt Phoebe, a 
 maiden sister of Mrs. Horton, constituted the re 
 mainder of the family. The odor from the room
 
 64 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 smelled strongly of boneset, vinegar, liniment, and 
 slowly sizzling apples. The illumination came from 
 a hanging lamp over the table, the glow from the 
 roaring fire and Annie s radiant face. 
 
 "I miss Frankie so much these days," continued 
 the patient, as his wife sat down and began bathing 
 the painful member. "It was all I could do to finish 
 the chores to-night. It ll be quite some time fore 
 I can get round well again, and I do wish I had a 
 chore boy. We ve always worked h^rd, Jane. Now 
 we re gettin old, and I m rheumatic. But we ve a 
 little ahead and can t complain Och ! E-e-e ! Rub 
 a leetle careful there that stuff takes right holt. 
 iYes, as I was goin to say, if we only had Frankie 
 now our family circle would be complete and our 
 cup of blessin full. God has been good to us just 
 the same, Jane, and I m not the one to find fault." 
 
 A hush fell upon the company as the conversation 
 ceased. Mrs. Horton continued rubbing the foot, 
 while her husband sat back in the chair with his eyes 
 closed. To a careful observer several tears chased 
 leach other at intervals down his wrinkling cheeks, 
 while the good wife drew her sleeve across her eyes, 
 as if the pungent odor of the liniment affected them. 
 Both their minds dwelt on the little mound up the 
 hill, that was now receiving its first snow covering. 
 The storm had begun in the early afternoon when 
 the air was damp and biting. First came a fine ice- 
 dust which, as the temperature rose, turned to large, 
 fleecy snowflakes. The wind rose and howled
 
 The Summer-field Home. 65 
 
 around the buildings and roared through the moun 
 tain forests. Darkness shut in with a blustering, 
 blinding storm* 
 
 "What matter how the night behaved ? 
 What matter how the north wind raved? 
 Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
 Could quench our hearth fire s ruddy glow;" 
 
 "That was a good story, Aunt Phoebe, Said 
 Annie, with a long breath, rising from her cozy 
 corner where she had listened to one of auntie s 
 favorite tales. "Good-night !" 
 
 She stood hesitating by her father s side. Placing 
 an arm around his neck and leaning against him lov 
 ingly, she remarked with a yawn, "I m sleepy, papa, 
 but the wind blows so I don t want to go to bed. 
 O, dear!" as a violent blast struck the dwelling, 
 "how the house shakes at every gust! Hark! was 
 that some one knocking? Who can be out such a 
 night as this? Shall I open the door?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, and be spry about it, for whoever it 
 is e ll perish if e don t get under shelter soon." 
 
 Annie seized the latch and opened the door. A 
 gust of wind freighted with snow rushed into the 
 room, half extinguishing the light and hissing 
 against the hot stove. Nothing could be seen. 
 Annie cheerily shouted, "Come in, quick, or we ll all 
 be snowed under!" 
 
 An object entered, and the door closed. When 
 the flurry had subsided a small boy, shivering, be-
 
 66 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 wildered, blue with the cold, and covered with snow, 
 stood inside the door. There was a moment of 
 silence, while every eye was fastened on the lad. 
 
 "Come up by the fire, my boy !" said Mrs. Horton, 
 who pushed a chair in the direction indicated. 
 
 The youth sat down shivering and speechless. The 
 red-hot stove drove the snow out of sight, while the 
 water gathered in little pools on the oilcloth. The 
 good woman took one of the little hands in hers. It 
 was cold as ice. Lifting his cap, the ears showed 
 white rings on the outer cartilage. "Get a basin of 
 cold water, Annie, quick, for the poor fellow is nearly 
 frozen." 
 
 They removed him to the couch, away from the 
 heat of the stove, and, taking off his leather boots, 
 bathed his feet and hands with cold water. In 
 a few minutes the chill had passed from them and 
 they were removed from the cold bath and rubbed 
 briskly with a rough towel. They gave him a drink 
 of hot ginger tea and again brought him to the fire 
 side. While the little fellow sat silently looking into 
 the bright coals several tear drops coursed down his 
 face. They did not fall unnoticed. Friendship 
 germinated, grew, and bore fruit at once. Not a 
 word had yet passed between the hospitable hosts 
 and the strange little guest. The silence was golden. 
 
 Mr. Horton was the first to speak: "Well, my 
 boy, you were purty near froze, did you know it? 
 Guess you ve had a purty tough time of it, haven t 
 you?"
 
 The Summerfield Home. 67 
 
 "Yes, sir!" came faintly and with a shudder. 
 
 "Have you come far to-day?" 
 
 "I don t know" another shiver "how far, sir." 
 
 "Where is your home, my lad?" 
 
 "I haven t any home, sir. I m not a tramp 
 nor a beggar neither. I only want a place where I 
 can earn my way, but no one seems to to want 
 me around. I worked for Mr. Goodwin down at 
 New Vernon, and he liked my work well enough, 
 he said, but finally sent me away twitting me of 
 stealing but, sir, I didn t. Since then I ve tried to 
 find work, but I can t I ve spent all my money. I 
 don t know what to do or where to go. I feel as if I 
 had an elder brother somewhere, yet I don t know. 
 I never saw my parents Oo-oo-oo!" as a chill 
 passed over him making his teeth chatter. "If I 
 could only find my brother, or a friend even, I would 
 be all right." 
 
 By this time I had friends around the Horton 
 hearthstone. I have had severe exposure to the ele 
 ments since that night, but never came so near giving 
 up in my life. I prayed for deliverance. It came 
 through the blinding gale and drifting snow in the 
 form of a light in the window. Providence had 
 favored me. I must have a mission on earth or the 
 Lord would have then let me freeze to death. You 
 may have sometime felt that there was no place in 
 the world for you except in the potter s field. If 
 you have never realized that condition you are to be 
 pitied. Just at the point of despair the good Father
 
 68 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 of us all flings open the gate leading into a state of 
 consciousness and knowledge of world-ownership 
 and all heaven, besides. "All mine are thine, and 
 thine are mine." 
 
 It need not be mentioned that I had found a home. 
 They informed me that they were sorely in need of 
 a chore boy, but that I was too small. When they 
 knew my real age and allowed me to try my hand 
 at work the bargain was closed. Mr. Horton s rheu 
 matism increased until he was unable to get out of 
 doors. All the chores fell on me. But what of it as 
 long as such a fireside blazed for me, and such com 
 pany as was there included me also. Books and pa 
 pers lay before me. My food was sumptuous. In 
 the nightime I rolled in fluffy feathers. 
 
 By holiday time Mr. Horton recovered sufficiently 
 to be around again, and I was permitted to go to 
 school. What school days ! Were you, my reader, 
 ever at Summerfield, New Jersey, away up on the 
 mountains? To the northwest is Mount Minsi, on 
 the west side of the Delaware Water Gap, while on 
 the east the Jersey side the mountains stretch 
 away to the horizon with a summit as level as the 
 ocean. These for the background; the meander 
 ing Delaware, patches of woodland and farms at 
 our feet, the foreground, became the everyday 
 picture that gratified Annie and me as we went 
 to and from school. And such dinners as we 
 carried in our basket, and the pleasure of eating 
 them! I can taste them yet. My chief joy, how-
 
 The Summer-field Home. 69 
 
 ever, was breaking roads through the snow for my 
 schoolmate. 
 
 I had gained parents, sister, and a dear old auntie. 
 Brother s place in my heart was yet vacant. My con 
 dition would not have been so happy had not their 
 misfortune left an aching void, to be filled in part 
 by me. Why Frankie was taken and Willie left 
 remains a question to be answered in the here^ 
 after. The wisest of us stand as children before 
 our heavenly Father. 
 
 After everything in the barn, kitchen, woodhouse, 
 and cellar was done for the night we gathered in the 
 sitting room to spend the evening. The apple pan 
 sat among us as a permanent entertainer. Uncle 
 Joe all the neighbors called Mr. Horton by that 
 name, and his good wife, Aunt Jane spent most 
 of his time reading; Aunt Jane, knitting or mend 
 ing; Aunt Phcebe, knitting or telling stories; and 
 Annie and I, listening or playing dominoes or fox 
 and geese. Sometimes we were elfish and tormented 
 Aunt Phoebe. She had the fashion of knitting and 
 nodding, the needles, as if adhering together, going 
 slower and slower, down to the sticking point, while 
 her body went over and over until her head dropped, 
 awakening the sleeper with a start and setting the 
 whole knitting machinery in motion faster than ever. 
 We used to tickle her nose with a straw, occasionally 
 of course, just before the nod. When she jumped, 
 we shouted, "There, Aunt Phcebe, we caught you 
 napping that time!"
 
 70 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "No, you didn t !" she asseverated every time. "I 
 ain t as near asleep as you think I be." But she was 
 asleep, yet one of the best old souls that ever lived. 
 However, I have seen folks who were eternally 
 asleep before they were twenty years of age. They 
 would talk in their sleep and yet declare their wake- 
 fulness. They could not always be wakened, either, 
 by the jab of a bodkin. It is so strange how some of 
 us sleep, and even die, and yet escape burial for half 
 a century. Aunt Phoebe never slept except physic 
 ally. Mentally and spiritually, she was wide-awake 
 and very much alive. 
 
 This dear old dame spent most of her life at 
 Dingman, on the Delaware, between Port Jervis and 
 the Water Gap, and was steeped in Indian lore. The 
 air along that portion of the noble river has never 
 yet been disturbed by a steamboat whistle or the 
 puffing locomotive, and still has the flavor of tradi 
 tion. The sluggish stream, many islands, the tall 
 cliffs, and sandy flats, must have been the ideal fish 
 ing waters, hunting grounds, and home of the noble 
 red man. Where the lithe warrior paddled his canoe 
 among the rushes, there the nimble limbs of the deer 
 bathed and its graceful neck stooped to drink. 
 Where the Meadow King now drops the timothy 
 and clover, the squaw once hoed the maize and 
 pounded the grain with a stone pestle and mortar of 
 her own make. Here, too, the boys raced, threw the 
 tomahawk, shot their flint-headed arrows, and 
 bathed and fished in the limpid water. Where are
 
 The Summerfield Home. 71 
 
 now the lover s nook and tryst, there the Indian 
 hunter once wooed his dusky mate and led her 
 thence to his lonely wigwam. 
 
 With bated breath we listened to the tale of the 
 battle at Death Eddy. The Indians overpowered the 
 whites, drove them from the settlement over the 
 bluff, down the mountain, and into the river, and 
 massacred men, women, and children under the 
 tomahawk until the stream ran red with blood. We 
 could almost imagine the whistle of the wind around 
 the corner of the house to be the moaning of the vic 
 tims under the gleam of the scalping knife. Since 
 those days I have visited the scenes of the story, 
 and from far up in the forest nearly to the top of the 
 mountain floated down to, and over, the river the 
 sweet, plaintive notes of the mourning dove. The 
 Indian war whoop has long since died away in its 
 last echo, but the minor strain continues from the 
 throat of a dove of peace. 
 
 The story of the fray at Minisink thrilled us. 
 There scores of warriors, white and red, fought for 
 mastery and possession of the soil. There, too, 
 scores returned to the dust whence they came; the 
 white man s soul to the judgment, "to render an ac 
 count of the deeds done in the body," and the red 
 man s soul to its happy hunting ground. May the 
 just Father of us all judge between them. 
 
 Many were the legends and yarns that clustered 
 around the life of Tom Quick, the greatest Indian 
 hunter of his time. Returning one evening to his
 
 72 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 cabin, he found it in ashes and his parents, brothers, 
 and sisters, lying in their blood, while their scalps 
 dangled from the belts of the bloodthirsty braves. 
 There in the dusk, with his family dead about him, 
 he looked up to the evening stars and vowed before 
 God to avenge their butchery before he died by slay 
 ing one hundred Indians. He slew ninety-nine, so 
 the story goes, and died regretting that but one had 
 escaped. Will you blame him who had the privilege 
 of reading, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith 
 the Lord" ? Can you blame the Indian who had not 
 that opportunity and lived consistently as he read 
 the word of his God from Nature s book? 
 
 Rafting on the Delaware was perfectly familiar 
 to our story-teller. There was little rafting between 
 "Port an the Gap," but raftsmen from up river often 
 landed at Dingman for the night the eddy being 
 frequently filled with rafts and the farmhouses with 
 rugged, healthy lumbermen, who, too often, inclined 
 toward drinking and boisterous carousing. Their 
 jollity was not so apparent until they had passed 
 "through the Gap;" then their lower nature was let 
 loose, and appetite and passion ran wild, for above 
 Port Jervis they must be cool and sober. Here the 
 river flows in a narrow channel, frequently thrown 
 into a tumult of rapids, such as at Cochecton and 
 Mongaup falls, Lackawaxen dam,* Big and Little 
 Cedar, and at Butler s and Sawmill rifts. Below 
 
 * The dam has been removed since the Delaware and Hudson Canal was 
 abandoned.
 
 The Summer-field Home. 73 
 
 the Port the river widens, flows quietly, and for 
 hours at a time only the light "paddlin o the hind 
 hands" and the close watch of the steersman are 
 necessary. At night the raftsmen had everything 
 their own way. When "layin over" for high or 
 low water or high wind they sometimes ate and 
 drank everything in sight, occasionally resorting to 
 the destruction of property. Many hard-contested 
 battles they had with the canalers. Fists were al 
 ways used. Often the canalers brought into play 
 loaded whips and clubs. If the lumbermen were 
 likely to be worsted they used their crank augurs 
 and sometimes axes. 
 
 Many were the stories told us of the Lords, the 
 Coles, the Geers, and the Lakins of the Upper Dela 
 ware, among whom were excellent steersmen and 
 powerful men, while on the lower waters were such 
 men as "Old Joe Coogler," who could "run a raft 
 from Black s to Trenton without dippin a far d oar." 
 Summerfield was not very far from the Delaware. 
 Often Annie and I walked to the brow of the moun 
 tain and looked down upon the serpentine waters 
 pounding along over the bars and rifts and smoothly 
 lapping along through the rush-fringed eddies. Dur 
 ing a "fresh" we frequently saw rafts floating lazily 
 down the stream, all of which increased the vivid 
 ness of the oft-repeated stories of Aunt Phoebe. 
 
 But the smoky trail of the locomotive and the 
 snakelike train following attracted my attention 
 more. It would not be many years, I then thought,
 
 74 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 before I would join the great army of railroaders. 
 My plans were made, for nothing but a "life on the 
 rail" would for me produce contentment. Those 
 were the halcyon days of my boyhood; the silvery 
 and gold-embroidered rifts in the clouds, letting 
 through the genial sunlight of the time when I 
 should be a man.
 
 Springtime. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Springtime* 
 
 "At last young April, ever frail and fair, 
 
 Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, 
 
 Chased to the margins of receding floods, 
 
 O er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, 
 
 In tears and blushes sighs herself away, 
 
 And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May." 
 
 YES, May had come. My heart could contain 
 no more happiness without enlargement. 
 The peach orchards were great, pink sun- 
 bonnets bent over the sandy hilltops. The green 
 patches of winter grain gave a touch of beauty to 
 the mountain sides, fringing the woodland or the 
 fields that had been plowed for later grain. The first 
 warm, blue haze of early spring had cleared from 
 the atmosphere. In its stead came the dry, bright 
 air, floating on the west wind and freighted with the 
 fragrance of May. 
 
 The spring work was well along, and Uncle Joe 
 became anxious to know more about me. His 
 natural disposition led him to seek information con 
 cerning my former character. He was a cautious 
 man, shrewd, intelligent, and fair in judgment. My 
 work and conduct pleased him, yet he was too wary 
 to allow me to lay a trap for him. All this he kept 
 to himself and pondered it in his heart.
 
 76 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 O, how it rained ! Some fences had to be repaired 
 along the pasture next to a clump of second-growth 
 timber. Patches of bushes, here and there, kept me 
 wet to the skin all the time I was working. At five 
 in the afternoon the job was done. When I entered 
 the kitchen, my clothes dripping, Annie handed me 
 a letter. It was from Ned Thraner. Surely this 
 brings good news ! Opening the missive, my heart 
 bounded with joy as I read that Mr. Goodwin had 
 found the thief, and he knew me to be innocent. 
 Still I felt sad to learn that Tip now lay in jail 
 awaiting trial for stealing. 
 
 Taking the letter to Uncle Joe, who sat in the sit 
 ting room reading his paper, I exclaimed, Here s a 
 letter that will show you that I have told you the 
 truth about Mr. Goodwin and his accusation against 
 me." 
 
 "That s all right, Willie," he coolly replied, push 
 ing my letter back to me and laying his hand over 
 another one on the table, "here s one from Mr. Good 
 win himself which tells the whole story, and a check 
 for fifteen dollars to boot," handing me the paper. 
 "You re an honest boy and may stay here s long s 
 you like. Better go now and find the sheep and see 
 there s no lambs in trouble. T rains hard enough 
 to drown a sheep." 
 
 He turned to his reading, and I plunged into 
 the rain again as light as a feather, although the 
 water slushed and gurgled in my boots at every 
 step.
 
 Springtime. 77 
 
 A home and friends, an honest boy, 
 Enough to fill my soul with joy ! 
 
 The summer passed like a continual picnic. Of 
 course I worked, for there is no pleasure in idleness. 
 When one s heart is in the task, fatigue vanishes, 
 time flies, and life pleases. The very air breathes 
 freedom. 
 
 I was alone much of the time; not lonesome, but 
 in periods of meditation. More and more the con 
 viction that I had an elder brother grew upon me. 
 Sometime and somewhere, I was confident, we would 
 have a happy union or reunion, I knew not which. 
 
 Summerfield Methodist Episcopal Church had 
 been supplied for years by students from Drew Theo 
 logical Seminary. Occasionally the pastor brought 
 along a fellow-student or classmate to preach for 
 him and share with him the bounteous board of the 
 mountain farmers. It was a rare treat for "the boys 
 from Drew;" to dine with the farmer girls and 
 there are none better to chat round a home fire 
 side, and to sleep in a downy bed were sharp con 
 trasts to the monkish life at the seminary. 
 
 Harry Blessner preached for us. Just before holi 
 days he began revival meetings, to continue through 
 vacation at least. A week passed. Every night 
 found me at the church with Annie, Uncle Joe, and 
 usually Aunt Jane. Family prayers became more 
 personal and genial, though Mr. Horton always 
 prayed for results and from the heart. Never hav 
 ing opportunities of Bible study or Christian train-
 
 7$ On the Mountain Division. 
 
 ing, the home that opened to me was a revelation as 
 well as a benediction. The teaching in the orphanage 
 had done wonders for my habits. At Stoneman s 
 there was no opportunity to use tobacco or intoxi 
 cants. Even if there had been, the nicotine that 
 coated Stoneman s mouth, smoked his visage, and 
 scented his clothing was sufficient to disgust any 
 ordinary person. By the way, tobacco is like a snail 
 anyway, "slow but sure," leaving a slimy trail. 
 
 Well, at the opening of the revival I was moral 
 in the strictest sense of the word perhaps as good 
 as I ever have been since, although I was neither 
 saved by grace nor useful to the church. One even 
 ing the Gospel in John third chapter and sixteenth 
 verse was preached by a classmate of Blessner. The 
 fountain of my soul then began to play. What a 
 sprinkling of conviction I received ! The next night 
 the witness of the Spirit came from the eighth of 
 Romans. The good brother dwelt long on Father, 
 sons, and Jesus our elder brother. I am no theolo 
 gian or homilist, and till then I thought I was no 
 great sinner, but the truth came home to me like a 
 vision from heaven. When the invitation to the 
 altar came I was too weak to stand. Men and 
 women wept on account of their sins. I wept 
 with them. 
 
 "Come, ye sinners, poor and needy," just touched 
 my case. A hand lay on my shoulder as the kind 
 voice of my pasfcor said, "Come, Willie, now is 
 your time,"
 
 Springtime. 79 
 
 The way from the pew to the altar was long and 
 the burden heavy. When I dropped at the railing 
 there seemed never such a case of fallen humanity 
 and total depravity in all the world. That posi 
 tion and its consciousness, together with a vow and 
 faith to do better, proved to be very near glory 
 for me. 
 
 The sermon had cut me all to pieces. "O, Father, 
 help !" I cried, but I had known no father, and could 
 not get light. Sonship had no more effect. I longed 
 for an elder brother. Here I held fast. "Jesus, my 
 elder brother," I groaned. 
 
 My eyes opened. The dimly lighted room was 
 mellowed by celestial brightness. The faces in the 
 audience shone. My tears dried. My burden was 
 gone; my sorrow gone; homesickness gone; self 
 gone. A new boy with an elder brother stood in 
 my stead. The clothing, spotted face, and diminu 
 tive body were identical with myself, yet self was 
 gone. Nevertheless I lived, yet not I, but Christ 
 lived in me; "and the life which I now live in the 
 flesh I live by the faith df the Son of God, who 
 loved me and gave himself for me." 
 
 The congregation were singing "Praise God, 
 from whom all blessings flow." I arose and lustily 
 joined with them. The quiet moment of benediction 
 calmed my soul and nestled it in the bosom of the 
 Almighty. I went into the church that evening an 
 orphan and came out a son ; I went in a beggar and 
 came out an heir.
 
 80 On the Mountain Division* 
 
 "O happy are they, 
 
 Who the Saviour obey, 
 And have laid up their treasure above! 
 
 Tongue can never express 
 
 The sweet comfort and peace 
 Of a soul in its earliest love. 
 
 "That sweet comfort was mine. 
 
 When the favor divine 
 I received through the blood of the Lamb; 
 
 When my heart first believed, 
 
 What a joy I received, 
 What a heaven in Jesus s name !"
 
 The Fever. 81 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Fever. 
 
 YOU know how silly and sentimentally a boy 
 acts when he begins the ascent of the hill 
 so famous in legend and practice. We all 
 climb it. Most of us reach the summit at twenty- 
 one, some before, some later, and others never. It 
 is the era of climbing, anyway. Yet some label that 
 plastic period the epoch of transition, others the 
 years of pliability, and still others the saphead age. 
 Whatever may be the correct term to use, cer 
 tainly it is not sapiency. It may be the "ascent of 
 man," but the man does not appear until after the 
 ascent. 
 
 You know How a boy works on the third of July. 
 The enthusiastic patriot washes the old buggy, 
 cleans the harness, and slicks up in general, in order 
 to be spick and span on the Fourth. As I write I 
 stop to smile at how that rig appeared after that 
 awful day of dust, heat, driving, drenching, and 
 mud. 
 
 Annie and I drove to Washington to celebrate. 
 The brass band, the marching throng, the patriotic 
 speeches, and lemonade hawkers bewildered me. 
 The ragamuffins* parade completely took away my 
 senses. Yes, and we had peanuts and candy galore.
 
 82 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 It was a glorious event ! I know I grew sentimental 
 coming home that evening, but I could not help it. I 
 was dead in earnest. We understood each other and 
 had the sense to be patient. We were allowed to 
 spend the day together, because I was sort of guar 
 dian brother to Annie, but of course we considered 
 matters a little more seriously, as sixteen-year-old 
 lads and lasses do, you know. 
 
 Thus the summer passed. The health of Uncle 
 Joe was excellent. The crops turned out well and 
 were snugly stored in the barns. Several straw and 
 hay stacks showed the abundance of harvest. We 
 were rilling the cellar. The bins were bursting with 
 smooth potatoes and blushing apples. Then came 
 on a cold rain in October. It seemed oppressive to 
 me. A sense of dissatisfaction crept over me, where 
 before had been unalloyed happiness. I went after 
 the cows in the late afternoon. From either side of 
 the mountain came the shrill whistle of the locomo 
 tives and their heavy breathing. The long sup 
 pressed desire for railroading burst out anew. The 
 startling whistle of a bobwhite, coming up from the 
 rail fence, increased the longing. Manhood was 
 covering my boyish notions and sentiments. The 
 boy may have been a good farmer; the man never 
 could be. Standing beneath a large tree, under 
 which I had taken shelter from a passing shower, I 
 concluded, finally and forever, that railroading 
 should be my lifework. My education was from the 
 common schools, with two terms in a high school,
 
 The Fever. 83 
 
 certainly sufficient, I thought, for an ordinary rail 
 roader. 
 
 At present I had a good home, where I might live 
 forever, as far as I knew, but it seemed more like 
 sponging than living. They had taken me in when 
 I was in need. That had put me under obligations 
 to them. I considered the obligation met. Now 
 was the time to leave. 
 
 At the fireside that evening I broke the news. 
 There was surprise, yet Uncle Joe, especially, knew 
 how to sympathize with me. He had himself 
 once been a poor, homeless boy, and began life at 
 sixteen. 
 
 "Of course, it s for you to decide, Willie," said 
 he. "We d like you to stay with us as long s you 
 like, but if you re not contented with the farm and 
 want to railroad it, why, the time s come for you to 
 begin. Remember, you go away with our best 
 wishes. I want you always to feel that this is your 
 home, and the latchstring hangs on the outside. F 
 you could stay a week or two longer, till I could get 
 my fall work done, twould be a great accommoda 
 tion; but if you think you d better go now, why, 
 that s for you to say." 
 
 I immediately promised to help on the farm till 
 cold weather set in. Annie had quietly stolen up to 
 her room when her father began to talk. When I 
 passed her open door on my way to bed I heard a 
 restless sob. Her eyes confirmed my supposition 
 when she came to the breakfast table. The same fire
 
 84 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 burned in me. To give way to it then meant yield 
 ing to sentiment rather than to reason. 
 
 Those two weeks were rather sad ones. They 
 flew by as on wings. The morning of my leave- 
 taking came. Uncle Joe placed in my hand one hun 
 dred dollars in gold. I could not take it. It was 
 too much. " T you don t want it now, Willie," said 
 he, "take part of it and leave the rest here payable 
 on demand." 
 
 I had to do it. One fourth of it I took with me, 
 the remainder I left behind. Surely I did not want, 
 for goodness and mercy had followed me all the 
 days of my life. 
 
 When Aunt Phoebe kissed me good-bye she placed 
 in my hand two pairs of thick, woolen socks knit by 
 her own hands. I felt a little guilty that I had ever 
 teased the good old soul. Aunt Jane gave me a 
 Bible and a "God bless you" with it. Annie s gift, 
 the most precious of them all, was a tear. 
 
 I choked, jumped into the wagon, and rode away 
 in silence with Uncle Joe. At the station we said 
 good-bye. With my trunk checked and myself 
 speeding along in the train, I had time to meditate, 
 to shed a few tears, and face the world alone again. 
 This time, however, I had friends and a home be 
 hind. Fortune lay before me. Again I was among 
 strangers, but with an aim. Au revoir to old Sum- 
 merfield and Summerfield friends !
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A Wiper. 
 
 IT iWAS a crisp morning in November, and 
 everything was humming in the yard of the 
 C. O. & B. Railroad at Bryson. The city was 
 the terminus of the Eastern and Mountain Divisions. 
 Inside, among the numerous offices, all were busy, 
 from the superintendent to the lowest clerk. In those 
 days the division superintendent the "old man," as 
 he was called by the boys hired the trainmen. I 
 found my way up into his office and stood timidly 
 beside him. Finishing a brief order, with a rapidity 
 that startled me, he turned his chair and with an 
 eagle eye looked me through, asking hurriedly, 
 "What can I do for you?" 
 
 "I want a job on the road." 
 
 With another roll of his eyes he turned to the 
 desk, saying, "What! a little fellow like you want 
 to go on the road? No!" 
 
 "Can t I get some position where I can work up ?" 
 
 "You might be a wiper," he added, between the 
 sentences he was dashing off with his pen. 
 
 "Will you give me the job?"
 
 86 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 After a long pause he jerked out, "Go t the as 
 sistant trainmaster. Good-morning!" 
 
 I soon found the aforesaid official and engaged as 
 wiper, assistant hostler, and boy of all jobs. The 
 roundhouse became my home; the railroaders my 
 companions. At first they all appeared about the 
 same to me, gruff, hurrying, reckless, jolly, swear 
 ing, and selfish fellows. But a week s time not only 
 revealed to me many good-natured "boys," but also 
 many a true, clean heart beneath the greasy, blue 
 blouses. The ones given to the most talk usually 
 proved to be of least account. I learned that rail 
 roads, like all institutions and machines, except wind 
 mills, cannot be run by wind. 
 
 No sooner had my work begun than my outer 
 crosses burdened me. It took all my strength to keep 
 sweet. The first afternoon while wiping one engine 
 a burly fellow ran another in from the turntable over 
 the adjoining pit, and, dropping to the floor beside 
 me, commanded in a voice that made the roundhouse 
 reecho, "Here, Stub, shine up this ere hoss, an 
 don t be all day bout it ; do it while she s hot !" 
 
 I obeyed orders, supposing that he probably owned 
 stock in the road, there being no one around just 
 then to inform me otherwise. As he passed out of 
 the roundhouse I heard him shout to the foreman, 
 "Hey, Mike! what gamin ye got over there fur a 
 wiper? He don t know an ingin from a coal jimmy, 
 and would wipe a stone boat if some ole farmer 
 hauled one in here an told im to,"
 
 A Wiper. 87 
 
 Before quitting that day I asked Mr. Rooney, the 
 roundhouse boss, who the fellow was that brought 
 in that nice clean engine. 
 
 "Sure an he s a brakesman on the Eastern Divi 
 sion an thinks he knows all bout railroodin ; an I 
 guess he do know all e iver will, fur is head gearin 
 don t be much when the hole fur s mouth s took out. 
 He s a ben on the rood bout six wakes, an I doubt f 
 e stays that much longer. Th ingine e fetched in 
 come frum the sheds over thare an didn t need 
 wipin half so bad s is ears. Look a-here, my boy," 
 continued the good-hearted Irishman, as he laid his 
 hand on my shoulder, "ye re a granehorn, an let me 
 give ye a bit o good advice. The fust thing a rail- 
 rooder must larn is who s the boss. Noo, I m 
 boss o this yer roundhouse, an if things be not doon 
 right, I m a holdin fur t all an all. F yez slight 
 yer worruk the blame cooms kerslap back to me 
 see? I ve let yez do purty much yer own way to 
 day, so I have, to see f yez d neglect yer worruk, an 
 I ve kept a mighty clus eye on yez, too, an* I find yez 
 entarely satisfact ry. Billy that s yer name, ain t 
 it? that s a fust-class recommend. Noo, rec lect, 
 yez beholdin to nobody fur nothin axcept me, an s 
 long s yez do s I say it s nobody s bizness, an it s 
 Mike Rooney, the boss, what s a-tellin yez, bedad! 
 An then whin Mouthy Anderson, er inyone else 
 yes, an th super ntindent o the road aven gives 
 yez lip, talk back s much s ye plase s long s yez be 
 respictable. Stan up fur the right, an take nuthin
 
 88 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 frum nobody. Never ye fear, fur s long s yez doos 
 what s to my liking an f yez do be inter trooble 
 an yez will, cause yez be so leetle brace up an 
 use a powker if necissity calls fur it, an* if that 
 be not enuff yez 11 find Mike Rooney cluse for- 
 ninst an behint. An doos yez understand, Billy, 
 meb y?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Rooney, I ll remember what you have 
 said and profit by your advice. Thank you for it, 
 and good-night." 
 
 I never forgot the old man s words, nor did I lose 
 his confidence or support. He was a rough man, 
 but honest, and as true as steel. His word was as 
 sure as the hills. 
 
 Strange faces greeted me every day. One clean- 
 faced, corpulent engineer came for his locomotive at 
 seven-fifteen every day with a round, cheery "Good- 
 morning, my boy. Is she neat s a pin?" I always 
 managed to be near old 444 when he came in. I 
 liked the engineer from the first. Saturday night he 
 brought in the engine himself; the fireman usually 
 did it. Swinging wearily from the lower step, he 
 approached me with a pleasant yet serious smile, say 
 ing, "Are you a stranger in Bryson ?" 
 
 I told him that I was. 
 
 "Let me see, what is your name?" as he took from 
 his pocket a little notebook. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "What you going to do to-morrow?" writing 
 clown my name and address,
 
 A Wiper. 89 
 
 "Go to church somewhere, I guess, but I don t 
 know just where." 
 
 "You re a Christian, then, I take it, and you d 
 better come over to our church, the Asbury Metho 
 dist, at ten-thirty in the morning. I ll see you there 
 and get you into the Sunday school. Then you ll go 
 home to dinner with me. In the afternoon we ll go 
 down to the Y. M. C. A. How does that strike 
 you?" 
 
 I was overjoyed. I knew I had found not only a 
 Christian man, but a friend and a church home in a 
 strange place. Orin Neely, I knew, had brought 
 the engine into the roundhouse that afternoon, tired 
 as he was, for the sole reason of making me at home. 
 I was a stranger and he took me in. Ever afterward 
 I found "Ot" Neely a diamond in the rough, the 
 roughness consisting entirely of his railroad clothes. 
 
 You may rest assured that I spent my first Sunday 
 in Bryson perfectly at home, for when I sat in the 
 Neely pew I recognized my old friend Leeder in the 
 pulpit. He, too, recognized me with a hearty wel 
 come at the close of the service. That Sabbath was 
 a twelve-hour meditation. Old faces recalled old 
 scenes. My former life passed in review. When I 
 found my warmest friend of yore, Miss Colder, to 
 be Mrs. Leeder I was still more at home. Within a 
 fortnight I was a member of the Asbury Methodist 
 Episcopal Church, of its Sunday school, and the 
 railroad Y. M. C. A., with a host of friends around 
 me. I learned that no one need go friendless or
 
 90 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 workless in a strange place if his past life Had been 
 exemplary. A church letter is the very best recom 
 mendation. Birth and poverty are easily overcome 
 by character. 
 
 The roundhouse and the work agreed with me. I 
 grew fat and happy; as Rooney put it, "quick an* 
 sassy." I whistled and sung to my heart s content. 
 The winter wore away. No. 444 had just gone out 
 into a March blizzard leaving in my soul a wake of 
 joy from its engineer. No. 963 almost immediately 
 came in, steaming from its hot jackets and cylinders, 
 and its cooler portions covered with snow. The fire 
 man had had a hard run and was tired and cross. 
 No sooner did he spy me than he began : "See here ! 
 you, young Barson, wha d ye leave the best poker 
 off the tank fur, last night? F ye ever cut that 
 caper on me agin I ll use the next one over yer 
 head. D ye hear?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, simultaneously turning on the 
 blower and my individual whistle, for I was firing 
 up 369 that was going out in a few minutes. 
 
 "Whistle, f ye want to, ye young, spotted brat. I 
 won t stan any more o* yer tomfoolery afore I re 
 port ye." 
 
 I leaned out of the cab window and replied as 
 calmly as possible: "Every poker was on 963 last 
 night, and she was popping at a hundred and forty- 
 five pounds when you took her out. As for you re 
 reporting, go ahead !" 
 
 "You re a liar, n ye know it, an I c n back it, too !
 
 A Wiper. 91 
 
 .You take it back er I ll jam yer lyin tongue clear 
 down yer gullet." 
 
 Before you could say "Jack Robinson" he was 
 into the tank and had me by the nape of the neck 
 shaking me all the way down the steps to the floor 
 of the roundhouse. But he had no sooner landed 
 than he went one way and I the other, and the voice 
 of Mike Rooney sounded between us, "I ll tache yez 
 to tech one o me b ys ! Yez don t know nuf to fire 
 Biddy s cook stove, yez don t, an Mike Rooney s 
 the man what ken bate it inter yez pate, that s what 
 e ken thar, an bad luck ter yez!" 
 
 The two-hundred-pound fireman rose on the one 
 side of the referee and I on the other, while the 
 boss of the roundhouse gesticulated with a brake- 
 stick the peacemaker of the occasion. Then the 
 cool, good-hearted Irishman went into explanations : 
 
 "Thar s yer powker, Al, what yez be blowin 
 about, an it s thar from yer own carelessness, so it 
 be. Yez powked the fire, yez did, fore ye took 963 
 out, an whin yez went off the turntable an over the 
 frog it jarred off an yer head do be so full o nuthin 
 that yez couldn t hear me spake to yez, though but I 
 yelled a lung out. Ax the b y his pardin now an 
 be a man, an no more o yez blatherskitin about 
 this place agin an agin." 
 
 The fireman extended his hand, which I grasped. 
 The misunderstanding was understood. We were 
 friends from that hour.
 
 92 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 On the Road. 
 
 BLOOMING spring matured into sedate sum 
 mer. The roundhouse was hot and stuffy 
 with the smell of gas and grease constantly 
 in the air. Nearly every railroader on the Eastern 
 and Mountain Divisions became well known to me. 
 The majority treated me kindly, though much as a 
 boy. I felt like a man. Others saw more than boy 
 hood carefulness in my work and manners. All 
 greeted me with the sobriquet "Billy Stub;" a few 
 with contempt, but most of them with affection. 
 
 The Summerneld home floated through my 
 memory many a time, and stood out a reality, almost, 
 at the receipt of a letter from Annie every fortnight. 
 My heart yearned for the familiar scenes and friends, 
 yet I felt no desire to return to the farm. The Stone- 
 man homestead remained in mind like an island 
 floating on the sea just under the rim of the horizon, 
 while the orphanage rested like a soft haze where the 
 upper and nether blues united. 
 
 "Say, Billy! d you ever think of going on the 
 road ?" said my friend Neely as he laid a broad palm 
 on my knee. We sat under a maple that shaded a 
 part of his closely mown lawn. It was a sultry Sun 
 day evening in dog days. The service at the churcll
 
 On the Road. 93 
 
 had been brief. I was whiling away a few moments 
 with a man whom I had learned to love almost like 
 a father. 
 
 "I ve had my eye on you ever since you came to 
 Bryson, and though you re small you re strong and 
 active. I know of no reason why you can t get a 
 brake if you want to. Weight don t make a man; 
 if it did I d be among the great," he concluded with 
 a muffled chuckle that shook his fat sides. "Times 
 has been slack for a spell, but in a month or so the 
 fall business ll liven up things. Some o the boys 
 have left, and there ll be some promotions, and that 
 means a place for new men. If you d like to run 
 your chances with us, why I ll see that you get a job. 
 I ve been on the road for twenty-four years and 
 ought to know a thing or two about railroading, and 
 I guess I ve got a little influence with the superin 
 tendent of the Mountain Division, for he flagged on 
 the same train I began firing on. You know 
 Brother Leeder, this morning in his sermon, com 
 pared life to a railroad, wth its grades, fills, cuts, 
 tunnels, switches, side-tracks, signals, and wrecks; 
 and yet, if Christ be the engineer it s a good run, an 
 excellent roadbed, and safety guaranteed to the 
 terminus. With him there s no danger of open 
 switches, washouts, weak bridges, landslides, or 
 broken axles. You re running behind that Engineer 
 now, and I don t see why you ain t just as safe on 
 the road as in the roundhouse. What d ye say, 
 Billy?"
 
 94 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 It took me but a moment to inform him that that 
 was the one reason why I came to Bryson, and the 
 sooner I was on the road the better to my liking. 
 
 "All right, my boy!" he replied, rising and carry 
 ing his chair to the porch. "I ll remember you. 
 Good-night!" 
 
 As the gate closed behind me and my feet struck 
 the walk I began in a low, suppressed tone to whistle 
 "Nearer, my God, to thee." Once in my room I 
 committed myself to the care of the Engineer who 
 never slumbers, and was soon speeding over the rails 
 of refreshing sleep. 
 
 One cool evening in October, as I was leaving the 
 roundhouse, Rooney came to me saying that the 
 superintendent of the Mountain Division wanted to 
 see me. "I m afeered as he wants yez fur permotion, 
 Billy. Yez desarve it, sure, but yez be a fit here an 
 yez be a b y I ken depind on. But good luck to yez. 
 The ole man cartainly has nothin agin yez. Good 
 night, me b y, an if yez niver come back to worruk 
 under Mike Rooney ye ll lave a good friend behint, 
 so yez will." 
 
 By noon the next day I was middle brakeman on 
 a train of empty coal jimmies, steaming over the 
 Mountain Division. 
 
 "Leaping o er mountain, o er valley and plain, 
 What a wonderful thing is a railroad train !" 
 
 The sensation was new to me, but I liked it. 
 The weather was exhilarating, the scenes unfamiliar,
 
 On the Road. 95 
 
 my heart young and unaccustomed to the dangers 
 and accidents of the road. Looking backward, with 
 my present experience, I can see human blood on 
 almost every milepost. We talk of the numbers 
 killed and wounded in battle, drowned at sea, and 
 ruined body and soul by all the devilish devices and 
 crimes consequent on the saloon, but we often forget 
 the numbers slaughtered on the rail. 
 
 The statistics for the year ending June 30, 1899, 
 are that there were seven thousand one hundred 
 and twenty-three persons killed by railroads in 
 the United States, and forty-four thousand six hun 
 dred and twenty more or less injured. The figures 
 alone would almost intimidate passengers from en 
 tering a railway coach, yet when they understand 
 that of the above number only two hundred and 
 thirty-nine passengers were killed and three thou 
 sand three hundred and forty-two injured, making 
 a distance of over sixty millions of miles traveled to 
 one injured, the case is not so sickening. In fact, it 
 is as safe as any mode of travel allowing for the 
 numbers accommodated. 
 
 Also, among the total accidents were four thou 
 sand five hundred and seventy-four killed and six 
 thousand three hundred and fifty-five injured who 
 were trespassers, many of them tramps and hobos. 
 Yet the slaughter of railroad employees is shocking, 
 and I shudder to think of my narrow escapes and re 
 joice at God s kind providence over me. During the 
 period between September 30, 1888, and the same
 
 96 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 time, 1899, there were in the United States twenty- 
 five thousand nine hundred and ninety railroad em 
 ployees killed and three hundred and twenty-two 
 thousand one hundred and forty-six injured a great 
 army of able-bodied men. Compared with all wars 
 since the Franco-Prussian one, the railroad appears 
 the greatest slaughter pen. 
 
 Notwithstanding, the railway has become a neces 
 sity, is here to stay, and will always find plenty of 
 good men to risk life and limb in its service. We 
 believe that no other public conveyance has been of 
 more benefit to the people, with fewer accidents in 
 proportion to the numbers employed, money in 
 vested, tonnage carried, and persons accommodated. 
 Let that be as it may, I was thoroughly happy on 
 my first trip over the Mountain Division of the 
 C. O. & B. Railroad. I have enjoyed my railroad 
 life ever since, and expect to follow the road until 
 disabled or removed by age limit or infirmity. The 
 uppermost thought in my mind was: "I am a 
 strange being plenty of friends, but, to my knowl 
 edge, not one of my kith and kin living. I could 
 bear it all if I had only a brother."
 
 A Wreck. 97 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A Wreck. 
 
 THE most attractive pair that ever walked 
 the streets of Coalville were Chunky and 
 I ; not on account of our beauty and grace, 
 but of our oddity. You, my reader, know about 
 my size, but you don t know how tall Chunky was. 
 I could easily walk under his outstretched arm with 
 an ordinary hat on, and then clear by half an inch. 
 However, Chunky and I became chummy friends for 
 the few hours of each trip we lay over at Coalville 
 before our return to Bryson. Every alternate day 
 one might see the long and the short of our train 
 crew sauntering along the streets of the city at the 
 western terminus of the Mountain Division. 
 
 Chunky fired ; I ran head brake. What a night ! 
 The streets of Bryson snapped with the cold. The 
 yard was comparatively empty, its network of 
 switches swept with a gale through which the sev 
 eral colors of the switch lamps gleamed in the dark 
 ness like the eyes of wild animals. We were the 
 last crew boarded out that night. The wind blew at 
 a cutting rate, and the thermometer registered sev 
 eral degrees below zero. It was cloudy and dark; 
 too cold to storm, but the little snow that had already 
 fallen was rapidly drifting with the thickly flying
 
 98 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 frost. No one exposed himself except from necessity. 
 Chunky had the kitchen hot. I stuck to the cab, 
 except when switching. With ears and face tied 
 up almost to suffocation, I could scarcely hear the 
 loud, hollow squeaking and squealing of the wheels 
 through the frozen snow and over the curving, 
 frost-bitten rails. 
 
 The conductor came out of the office with orders. 
 I met him, received the engineer s slip, and, as the 
 conductor swung his lantern up and down, I started 
 on a trot for the locomotive. Toot-toot! sounded 
 the whistle sharp and wheezy in the frosty night. 
 The heavy breathing of the engine began and the 
 train slowly wound its way out of the complication 
 of switches and onto the main track. 
 
 I glanced at the orders and handed them over the 
 boiler to the engineer. It was a straight meet order 
 "Meet No. 6 at Mountdale and run to Summit 
 for orders." Closing every possible crevice in the 
 cab and nestling close up to the warm jacket of the 
 boiler, I was soon lulled to a wakeful, dreamy sleep 
 by the hollow panting of the engine, the occasional 
 shoveling and picking of coal by Chunky, the open 
 ing and closing of the firebox door, and the low 
 whistling of Sam, who sat at the throttle. 
 
 At Netherton we took water, and twenty minutes 
 later slowly ran into the siding at Mountdale. 
 Chunky had old 454 popping at a hundred and forty- 
 five pounds when No. 6 rushed by. We immediately 
 pulled out and began climbing the mountain.
 
 A Wreck. 99 
 
 At five forty-five we had again taken water, 
 hooked onto twenty more empties, received orders, 
 and left the Summit. I handed the orders, "Meet 
 32 at Rio and proceed to Coalville," to Sam, who 
 read them and remarked, "Billy, you ll be a dead 
 boy if you stay out on the jimmies to Rio to-night." 
 
 "I guess not," I replied, at the same time pulling 
 down my cap tighter, buttoning my coat, and 
 clambering out over the tender onto the coal jimmies 
 that were already rattling and bobbing down the 
 mountain. It was all down-grade, an easy run of 
 thirty-five miles, but, O, the air and the night! I 
 turned on a couple of brakes, went back two more 
 cars, and sat down partially sheltered by the side of 
 an empty jimmy. The north wind cut my face, 
 what little was exposed, like a knife. A volume of 
 black smoke escaping from the stack, due to a 
 freshly covered fire, mingled with the steam from 
 the pop. The wind twisted, jerked, and hurled the 
 cloud. The firelight shining from the open door 
 gilded its under surface. The frost and clouds of 
 snow from the track and drifting cuts flecked it. 
 The whole made a weird picture of a thundering 
 train descending a wild grade on a mad night. 
 
 At just six o clock we passed Crescent siding. I 
 was numb with cold. I had eight brakes on when 
 Sam whistled brakes with such suddenness that I 
 nearly lost my balance while jumping to the next 
 car. As I twisted the brake wheel with all my 
 might I saw a headlight on a curve just ahead. An-
 
 100 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 other yank and, as I sprang for the side of the car 
 preparatory to a jump for life, old 454 went into 
 the approaching train. Would God that I might 
 obliterate from my thoughts the memory of that 
 picture! The two pilots crashed into each other 
 with a hellish boom, while both whistles were wide 
 open. Our engine stove in the front of the other s 
 boiler and plunged over the bank. The escapng 
 steam, congealed into icy crystals, stung my face. 
 The car to which I clung climbed up into the dark 
 ness in the trail of live coals hurled from the rearing 
 iron horses. Borne to my ears on the biting blast 
 from the lips of Chunky was, "O God !" My brain 
 was on fire. I became dizzy. The cars reeled, toppled, 
 and sank under me. Another crash, and I knew no 
 more. 
 
 "Into the ward of whitewashed walls, 
 Where the dead and dying lay." 
 
 My eyes opened. The sun streamed in through a 
 great southern window. The air redolent with anti 
 septics was pure and warm. I felt stinging pains in 
 my right leg, and realized that I was fast with a 
 weight suspended to my foot. My whole body was 
 sore. My fingers and toes smarted as if burned. A 
 pleasant face under a white cap bent over me, and a 
 soft hand stroked my burning forehead, while the 
 owner of the hand spoke with a voice as balmy as a 
 May morning and as cheery as a rippling brook: 
 "Lie still, now, my good fellow, you re in good 
 hands." After all, I was quite comfortable.
 
 A Wreck. 101 
 
 As the hand continued back and forth across my 
 brow I heard wild utterances from a strangely fa 
 miliar voice: "O! My God! Where s Billy? Is 
 he killed?" 
 
 My lips opened and I shouted, not very loudly but 
 with all my strength, "No, Chunky, I m all right!" 
 The smooth palm slid over my mouth, and further 
 communication ceased. But the anxiety was re 
 lieved, for I heard my friend moan in satisfaction, 
 "Thank God! Billy s alive!" 
 
 Gradually the events of the wreck came back to 
 my mind, like approaching objects through a fog. 
 I realized that I was in a hospital. The sun slowly 
 crept along the floor, up the wall, faded to a gos 
 samer tint, and disappeared. Twilight deepened and 
 darkness came on apace. A great contentment filled 
 my soul as I murmured, "He that keepeth thee shall 
 not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall 
 neither slumber nor sleep." The nurse gave me a 
 drink of water, after which I fell asleep as calmly as 
 a babe on its mother s breast. 
 
 The ward was flooded with sunshine when I 
 awoke. I was myself again, except for the physical 
 breaks and bruises. I turned my head to the right. 
 Within ten feet of me I saw the matted and tangled 
 hair of Chunky, as his head rolled nervously on his 
 pillow. The tumbled bed and immediate presence of 
 a nurse told of his suffering and danger. His face 
 turned toward me. The color had gone, and even 
 my inexperienced eye detected the approach of death.
 
 102 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "Good-morning, Chunky ! How do you feel ?" I 
 asked, and shuddered at the strangeness of my own 
 voice. 
 
 "O, Billy, I m glad you re not smashed but I 
 guess I ve made my last run. Billy, I m all 
 bunged to pieces doctors say there s no use am- 
 putatin for they wouldn t know wouldn t know 
 where to begin nor end. O it s all up with me 
 Oh-h-h! These awful pains! It s better me nor 
 you mighty tough, though but I m satisfied^ 
 Oh-h-h!" He choked and coughed as the nurse 
 raised his head that he might breathe the easier. It 
 was horrible to see his large, muscular frame bruised 
 almost to a pulp, and as weak as an infant. 
 
 "No, no, Chunky! It s not so bad as you think. 
 Cheer up, old chump. We ll soon be back on the 
 road as well s ever." 
 
 "No, Billy, no !" He breathed with difficulty and 
 the death rattle was in his throat. "I ll never make 
 another run on the old C. O. & B. again, but 
 I m making a fast run to the New Jerusalem. 
 Roadbed purty rough, just now. It s straight s a 
 die. No coal jimmies on here Billy and no 
 shovelin . I ve tried to be a brother to you, Billy 
 but I ve made bunglin work at it. You ve found 
 one Elder Brother down here an I ll soon tell 
 him you re a credit to the fambly. He s a good 
 Brother to me, too for he was bruised for my in 
 iquity. Guess I ought to stan my few scratches 
 without a whimper. Hope you ll find tother
 
 A Wreck. 103 
 
 brother soon, Billy. When I get in I ll come down 
 down to the station every day to meet the train 
 for you ll be in on One sure. The engineer s 
 .whistlin now for the station I m at the end o 
 my run. Don t have to run 454 into the round 
 house." 
 
 With a smile on his face that shone like sunshine, 
 he continued "O, Billy, it s fine station they 
 have great city beautiful lights all white 
 switches closed good-bye Bill!" and the strong 
 fireman fell back on his pillow, shuddered, and was 
 still. The nurse tenderly laid the sheet over his 
 face, and my best railroad friend had made his last 
 trip. 
 
 Chunky would never have been an engineer, on 
 account of his illiteracy, yet, in every sense of the 
 word, he was a man. He had few inherited talents ; 
 he had acquired many. Nature had not endowed 
 him with a handsome physique, but the deficiencies 
 along that line were more than counterbalanced by 
 a large heart and a character as white as the driven 
 snow. He was trustworthy, honest, and a Chris 
 tian. His manners were crude, but his life was 
 clean. 
 
 Sorrowing at the loss of a brother, my thoughts 
 wandered to the little cottage at Bryson, where a 
 widow and four fatherless children mourned. 
 Chunky s wife had spent all that he earned, and 
 just as rapidly as he earned it a great misfortune. 
 What would become of them now? The railroad
 
 104 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 company would in all probability bury her husband, 
 and further than that she could expect nothing from 
 them. He was not a brotherhood member. Many 
 of his friends would contribute a few hundred dol 
 lars for the widow, but what of that among so many 
 and of such wasteful habits. 
 
 I thought over the two sides capital and labor. 
 I had observed that few railroaders, though draw 
 ing larger pay than the average workingman, ever 
 became comfortably settled in a home of their own. 
 Many of the men are financially negligent ; more of 
 their wives prodigal. A few, in case of accident, 
 draw a small sum from lodges or brotherhoods, 
 which seems worse than nothing to the family after 
 the habit of prodigality has been formed. 
 
 On the other hand, the companies employ men 
 who are willing to risk even life for them, yet in 
 jury throws aside the faithful servants as naught; 
 while death on the road may leave the home penni 
 less, without any recourse whatever to the company, 
 save through tiresome and expensive legal compli 
 cations, in which the costs oftentimes aggregate 
 more than the benefit obtained. 
 
 But I am glad that a few great corporations, 
 among them some railroad companies, are treating 
 their employees as brothers. In the West and the 
 East many disabled employees receive pensions, 
 something like ten to fifty per cent of the salary they 
 received on the road, based on the time of service 
 for the company and the position held while doing
 
 A Wreck. 105 
 
 active duty. The company reserves the right to 
 retire any employee between the ages of, say, sixty- 
 one and seventy years, if from any cause they have 
 become incapacitated for service. This means an 
 annual outlay of many thousands of dollars without 
 any apparent income. However, there comes into 
 the character of such corporations that which is 
 worth more than bonds, while the employed feel the 
 interests of the road as their own. Under such 
 management the efficiency of a road is increased as 
 well as that of the individual employee. 
 
 Many roads refuse to employ new men over 
 thirty-five years of age. Some, however, that main 
 tain the pension system, apply this rule to men of 
 inexperience; but when the applicant for employ 
 ment has had experience the age limit is put at forty- 
 five. Too much appreciation cannot be shown these 
 corporations. It is a step in advance, and means 
 much toward the ultimate settlement of the 
 grievance between capital and labor. The employer 
 loses nothing in this course of practical, economic 
 expenditure. He rather gains by having the good 
 will of the employee as well as the esteem of the 
 public he serves; while, on the other hand, in case 
 of accident or misfortune, not due to personal fault 
 or carelessness, no honest workman will be cast 
 aside as a human wreck to be taken over the hills 
 to the poorhouse, or to occupy a two-by-six plot in 
 the potter s field.
 
 106 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Convalescing. 
 
 THE odor of flowers began to drift in through 
 the open windows of our ward. Now and 
 then, from some thoughtful, sympathetic 
 soul, a bouquet of liverwort, adder s-tongue, or 
 wake-robin all sweet harbingers of spring found 
 its way to one of our tables. I was convalescing 
 rapidly. The news of the outside world also came 
 to me through the papers. I learned that the cause 
 of our wreck had been a half-asleep train dis 
 patcher. Each engineer had obeyed orders. One 
 had died at his post. Whistling Sam had made his 
 last run at the throttle. He was alive, but disabled. 
 It was a fortunate wreck, after all, for only four 
 were injured. After I had gone on the road again 
 another dispatcher made a similar blunder, but the 
 enginemen saw each other in time to stop without 
 a collision. Warren s siding was close at hand, and 
 we passed without loss of time. Each engineer 
 blamed the other, and each was man enough to keep 
 his mouth closed. The dispatcher never saw his 
 error until it was pointed out to him. It proved to 
 be his only mistake, though he remained in that 
 office for years afterward. 
 
 Messages of love came to me every fortnight from
 
 Convalescing. 107 
 
 the hill country of Summer-field. One day when 
 April knew not whether to laugh or cry, shine or 
 shower, on account of the close proximity of May, 
 I was thrown into a similar fickle mood. Sitting 
 at the foot of my bed absorbed in the contents of a 
 book, the nurse quietly touched my arm and in 
 formed me that a gentleman awaited me in the re 
 ception room. Almost leaping from my chair for 
 joy, the nurse held me back, kindly saying that she 
 would roll me into the room if I would be composed. 
 The assurance quieted me at once, and in a moment 
 I sat in the presence of good Mr. Horton. I could 
 not speak from gladness, while tears of joy flowed 
 in showers. 
 
 "Well, well, Will! I m glad to see you again!" 
 said Uncle Joe, as he came forward and took my 
 frail hand in both of his with a warmth I shall never 
 forget. "Here s a few posies Annie sent you," he 
 continued, producing a neat little bouquet of violets, 
 our spring favorites, "and she said I d got to bring 
 you home with me in a day or two. Don t shed 
 tears over such a little matter as this. I ruther 
 thought you d be kind o tickled to see me, and not 
 that I d set you off into paroxysms of grief. Guess 
 if I d known this I d better stayed to home." 
 
 But his quaint, warm humor did not brighten me 
 up a bit. He began on another chord of my feel 
 ings : "Well, now, I know all about it, my boy. I 
 was laid up for quite some time once, and you came 
 to help me jest in the nick o time, so I thought I d
 
 108 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 reciprocate a little. You re weak. You was purty 
 badly bunged up, I reckon, but a few whiffs of our 
 mountain air will fetch the color back to your cheeks 
 again. You ve changed quite a bit since you was 
 home. I guess the folks 11 know you, though. How 
 are you, anyway?" 
 
 By this time I had myself under control, and could 
 answer like a man rather than like an hysterical 
 schoolgirl. Two days later, on the first day of May, 
 just at sunset, I was tenderly assisted into the old, 
 familiar Horton sitting room, this time with showers 
 of caresses and not clouds of snowflakes. How 
 restful the old armchair! How comforting Aunt 
 Jane s solid physique! How like a May morn 
 ing was Annie s smile! It was well worth a wreck 
 to be out of it alive and into the old home to 
 recuperate. 
 
 The more than two years of my absence had 
 made few changes about the farm. A few more 
 gray hairs mingled with the brown and black on 
 the heads of the elders of the family. Annie was 
 now a woman. She sat at my feet on the familiar 
 hassock, looking up into my face, while I spun the 
 yarns of my railroad life. Her eyes no longer wore 
 the expression of childish glee; seriousness, sym 
 pathy, and love beamed from them. The old 
 wooden clock struck ten before we had thought of 
 bedtime. Uncle Joe had risen and gone in his 
 stocking feet to wind the family heirloom, an in 
 fallible sign for retiring. The good-nights, prayers
 
 Convalescing. 109 
 
 by the familiar bedside, blissful slumber, morning 
 sunlight, feathered choir, and spring perfumes 
 passed in panoramic swiftness. It was day home. 
 I was rested. 
 
 How frequently and easily conversational groups 
 gathered in those days of convalescing ! This morn 
 ing, while I sat reading in an easy-chair, Aunt Jane, 
 rolling-pin in hand, appeared leaning against a 
 jamb of the door that led to the kitchen. The lower 
 right-hand corner of her apron, artistically and 
 carelessly flung underside out, draped over her left 
 hip, and a little flour here and there sprinkled her 
 face and chubby arms. Aunt Phoebe, somehow, 
 floated in from the garden with flowers. Annie s 
 chamber work had been speedily completed. By 
 some accident Uncle Joe came in from the barn in 
 his shirt sleeves, and sat on the doorsill for fear of 
 soiling the carpet with his muddy boots. Before 
 anyone realized time or unfinished tasks we all were 
 laughing together and narrating reminiscences. A 
 kettle boiling over on the stove was a bugle blast to 
 duty. Aunt Jane hurried to the kitchen. As her 
 spherical form disappeared the other members of 
 the chatting club retired to their several places of 
 labor as if going through routine drill. I was alone 
 again. 
 
 The afternoon knot had its nucleus when 
 Neighbor Overfield spied me on the front porch. 
 He quickly hopped out of his market wagon, left 
 his team by the gate, and came up the walk with,
 
 110 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 ".Waal, say, Billy! this is good fur sore eyes to see 
 you round agin. I hearn you had a clus call. 
 You ve got lots to thank the good Lord fur yit. 
 The smell o the old fields ill tone ye up better n 
 ever in a few weeks. How air ye, anyway ?" 
 
 While we conversed my friend sat on the edge of 
 the porch working his foot in the pebbles that had 
 been washed out by the drip of the eaves. Aunt 
 Phoebe s head popped out of the sitting-room win 
 dow like a turtle s from its shell. Annie nestled on 
 the doorsill behind me. Aunt Jane just then had to 
 pick some fresh lilacs, and, with her apron over her 
 head, lingered quite a spell within earshot. Uncle 
 Joe, coming up from the cellar with a basket of seed 
 potatoes, set them down on the hatchway steps and, 
 of necessity, of course, passed through our group in 
 order to get his hoe. Even the hired man, suddenly 
 taken with a feverish throat, left his team at the 
 plow that he might slake his thirst at the well, a 
 rod from my chair. 
 
 "Whoa, there, Tom!" shouted Mr. Overfield, as 
 he jumped up and ran for his team, which had be 
 come uneasy and started for home. When the jolly 
 farmer had hopped over the tailboard of his wagon 
 and clambered to the seat he shouted back, "See you 
 gin, Billy, afore ye go back! Come over an pull 
 our latchstring !" 
 
 As he disappeared at the bend of the road I looked 
 for my other auditors. They were not. I was alone 
 again with verdant nature folded and festooned be-
 
 Convalescing. Ill 
 
 fore me. I rambled out to the grove, back of the 
 barn, and meditated : 
 
 "Where fields are green once more I tread, 
 
 The touch is restful to my feet; 
 The birds are singing o er my head 
 
 Their songs that never seemed more sweet. 
 
 "Where fields are green I walk once more 
 
 The crooked lane to me so dear, 
 And, as the stone wall I pass o er, 
 
 The murmur of the brook I hear. 
 
 "Where fields are green the flowers throw 
 
 Their sweetness on the balmy air, 
 And all above and all below 
 
 Seems beautiful beyond compare. 
 
 "Where fields are green I view the trees 
 
 In all their majesty and worth, 
 And with their leaves they catch the breeze 
 
 And hand it down to the green earth. 
 
 "Where fields are green to-day I see 
 
 Against the sky the distant hills, 
 And health and life flow back to me 
 
 That rob me of my petty ills. 
 
 "And as I gaze an Unseen Power 
 My faith beholds o er all the scene; 
 
 Ah, would that I might make this hour 
 An endless day where fields are green."
 
 112 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Ragging* 
 
 ILDER S purty chuck, to-day, ain t e, 
 Billy ?" said Truman Shay, one of our 
 brakemen, while we were making up 
 our train in Bryson yard. I was then flagging. 
 Phil Schleaser, a small, stocky, black-eyed, cool, and 
 conceited man, pulled the throttle, and Hank 
 Gilder, a careless, unprincipled, too-often-tipsy fel 
 low, conducted. 
 
 "One o these days Schleaser ill read im the riot 
 act in a way that ill make im think of is mother- n- 
 law. You know Hank s been boozin too freely of 
 late, an on a trip bout six weeks ago Phil gave im 
 a jackin up that fairly made is hair stan . Hank 
 lay off a couple o days then on a spree and has 
 been straight s a string till last week. Bout another 
 day n little Phil ill be back in the caboose with 
 blood in is eye. I don t blame im a bit, fur if any 
 thing should happen we d all be called up fore the 
 ole man an there d haf to be some lyin done or 
 we d git the G. B. Course the engineer s next in 
 authority an ought to report the conductor, but you 
 know Phil s a good-hearted feller an wouldn t re 
 port Hank unless he got so s the devil couldn t live 
 with im. He likes a nip too well imself to be hard
 
 Flagging. 113 
 
 on anyone fur drinkin a leetle more n e should. 
 Phil seldom drinks on duty, an never shows liquor 
 anyway." 
 
 Toot, toot! As our train slowly moved by us 
 Shay continued : "We ll want o keep our eye peeled 
 to-day, Billy, an mind what I m tellin ye, the head 
 an* tail of our crew ill be in a mix-up fore many 
 hours." 
 
 He caught the front hand rod of the caboose at 
 the last word, while I, after closing the switch and 
 running along the track, signaled all right and 
 jumped to the rear steps. 
 
 The conductor sat at his desk making out the 
 train report. He knew what he was about; never 
 theless, the contour of a bottle appearing through 
 his coat boded a time, and that not far distant, when 
 he would not know. Truman winked at me. 
 Each understood what would be expected from the 
 other. There was no use of reasoning with Gilder, 
 for he would flare up in a minute. Being sub 
 ordinates, we thought a still tongue and a cool head 
 the better part. Our orders carried us only to Sandy 
 Junction, where No. I would pass us. The latter 
 was late, and Schleaser, to pass away time, strolled 
 back to the rear of the train. When his nimble body 
 swung up the steps the natural rocking of the ca 
 boose startled Gilder from his half-dozing condition. 
 Truman and I sat on the rail a couple of rods in the 
 rear. We waited for results. The tramp of 
 Schleaser s heavy-soled shoes across the floor told
 
 114 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the whole story, while the sarcastic "Ah! ha!" 
 snapped out like the crack of a gun as he opened the 
 rear door. It was evident that the caboose was not 
 large enough for him just then. 
 
 "See here, old man!" he began, coolly chewing 
 a sliver he had picked up by the way, "this ere 
 kind o biz has gone on fur enough!" He spoke 
 as if addressing an audience of ten thousand. 
 No one in sight or hearing, however, mistook his 
 meaning. 
 
 Gilder began to curse his engineer and en 
 deavored to rise from his desk. In making the at 
 tempt his coat flapped back and the quick eye of 
 Schleaser caught sight of the neck of the bottle. 
 "Never mind bout gittin up an makin yer bow 
 tew me, you mealy-mouthed bloat of a skin stay 
 right where you be." 
 
 The last sentence came out like a young cyclone. 
 With a gesture of his right arm that swept the car 
 he gracefully picked the bottle from its abiding place 
 and flung it out of an open window like a crack, base 
 ball pitcher. Stepping in front of the desk, he 
 immediately got down to business and practical 
 oratory : 
 
 "Now, Hank, you know I ain t nothin aginst 
 your drinkin a lettle once in a while, but tew git 
 down like a hog an carry a bottle on duty takes 
 nerve. You can run a train when you re sober s 
 good s any man on the road, but when you git a 
 drink o tew in you, you don t know nothin ye
 
 Flagging. 115 
 
 don t. I ve put up with this ere sloppin over s 
 long s I m goin tew. I d ruther have Hank Gilder 
 conduct fur me than any man on the division, but I 
 want it strictly understood, ah-ha ! that I won t have 
 Hank Swiller on my train another trip. You re 
 nothin but an ass. You set there like an old hog, 
 chuck full o swill set there now!" 
 
 The conductor made another attempt to rise, but 
 the flat hand of little Phil put him into the comer as 
 quiet and as meek as a lamb. "Now, I ll tell ye 
 what I m goin tew dew, an I ll dew it tew, an 
 don t ye forgit it," continued the engineer. "You re 
 goin tew lay there," pointing to the long side 
 cushions, "an sleep this ere blubber off er I ll swat 
 ye over s flat s a pancake. I ll tend tew the train. 
 Don t you ever let me ketch ye with another bottle. 
 D y understand? To-morrer, f you ain t sober s 
 a judge, you ll never take another trip with me, nor 
 nobody else, on the ole C. O. & B. I ve never re 
 ported you yit, but I will. I ll dew it this time, fur 
 I ve tol you so, an little Phil s word s good s a 
 banknote. Mind what I say, ah-ha, Hank!" 
 
 Dropping from the steps to the ground as lightly 
 as a squirrel, he remarked to" us with his own 
 peculiar sneer, " Tend t yer knittin this trip, boys, 
 an I promise you there 11 be no more o this kind 
 o funny business," and slowly swaggered up the 
 track with his hands in his pockets and hat on one 
 side of his head. 
 
 "Phil means business this time, Billy," added
 
 116 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Truman. "If Hank don t brace up right on the 
 spot the jig s up with im as fur s railroadin s 
 concerned." 
 
 Following our engineer to the station, we learned 
 that No. i was thirty minutes late. That meant so 
 much more lounging. The branch train soon came 
 in, and after it had gone around the Y was ready to 
 return as soon as the main-line train arrived. Its 
 crew joined ours. Getting into conversation with 
 the rear brakeman, corresponding to my position on 
 the coaler for you know that "birds of a feather 
 flock together" I told him something of my life as 
 well as of my firm conviction that I had an elder 
 brother somewhere in the States, and my opinion 
 was that he would be a railroader too. My friend, 
 however, knew nobody of my name or looks either, 
 though he promised to keep on the lookout and put 
 me on the trail if possible. 
 
 The long whistle from the east announced the 
 approach of No. i, and we all separated to our sev 
 eral posts of duty. The orders that Schleaser 
 handed me as he hustled to his engine were "Meet 
 2 at Collins and get further orders." Everything 
 boomed along our division. The double track was 
 being laid and before snow flew we hoped to be run 
 ning without the bother of so many orders. 
 
 Our conductor lay sound asleep, scarcely moving 
 all the way to Collins. There he was left alone for 
 some time while I was at the office, and Shay helped 
 cut out a crippled jimmy together with a half dozen
 
 Flagging. 117 
 
 others that we could not haul up the grade; we 
 could not get a pusher. 
 
 No sooner were we on our way up the mountain 
 than it was evident that Gilder had been at work 
 as well as the rest of us. The devil always has his 
 traps at the proper place to catch his victims. Less 
 than four rods from the caboose while the train 
 stood on the siding was a saloon, and thither Gilder, 
 who had feigned sleep, slyly stole during our ab 
 sence and obtained another bottle. This half-empty 
 telltale at intervals, caused by the jar of the train, 
 appeared at the top of the inside coat pocket like the 
 head of a serpent dancing in demoniac glee. It was 
 certain now that the pretender would soon be a real 
 slumberer, and that the sleep of a brute. At the 
 Summit twenty-four cars were added to our train, 
 and on we sped down the long grade. At Rio station 
 I was left with a flag to get to Coalville as best I 
 could, for Schleaser was in a hurry to get his train 
 out of the way of No. 3, due in fifteen minutes. It 
 was but twelve miles to our destination, and with a 
 dozen minutes start they were able to clear the track 
 just as I stepped off No. 3 at Coalville. Hastening 
 to the yard to help put away the train, I found them 
 all busy except Gilder, who had departed. 
 
 "Now, men," said Schleaser, with a cock of one 
 eye, gently shoving his greasy hat to one side of his 
 head while he scratched the other, and chewing the 
 ever-present toothpick, "the jig s up with Gilder s 
 fur s I m concerned !"
 
 US On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "Here too!" answered Shay. 
 
 "Ah-h!" continued the engineer with a snap of 
 his voice like the pop of his engine on a frosty morn 
 ing, "jest min what I tell you. This s his last trip 
 with Phil Schleaser. F e comes round in the 
 mornin yes, f e comes round in the mornin tew 
 go back with us all well an good if not yes, if 
 not, we know the way home. I guess ole 137 ken 
 hunt her way home ef little Phil s at the throttle an 
 Jake, here, flings the scoop Ah-h, boys!" 
 
 "That s business," we all chimed in concert. 
 
 "Ah-h! That s the way I like tew hear ye talk 
 it. Lay low. Say nothin tew nobody. You, 
 Billy, take in Hank s reports to-night. An tew- 
 morrer, when we git into Bryson, we ll see what 
 the ole man ken dew fur us. Mind now!" Thus 
 we separated. 
 
 In the morning our conductor was on hand at the 
 usual time, drunk enough to be mean and sober 
 enough to know his authority. He was a larger and 
 stronger man than his engineer, yet he was afraid 
 of the little man, especially when Schleaser was in 
 the right and a little angered. We had considerable 
 shifting to do to make up our train. Gilder was 
 out doing his best to help. Half the time his signals 
 were wrong, and all the while they were given with 
 nervous rapidity, evidencing displeasure at the man 
 in the cab. He grew worse. After he had caused 
 portions of the train to bump together with such 
 force as to spill several tons of coal, and once nearly
 
 Flagging. 119 
 
 catching Shay between the bumpers while he was 
 arranging a coupling pin, Schleaser could wait no 
 longer. Calling his fireman to handle the engine, 
 he dropped from the cab like a giant and rapidly 
 approached his conductor. His face naturally quite 
 dark, became a thundercloud. His eyes shot flames 
 of fire. Gilder was checking off his waybills at the 
 moment and did not notice the approach of his 
 enemy. Finishing the work, he had just raised his 
 hand to signal "Go ahead" when the bills were 
 snatched from his hands as if by magic and a grimy 
 hand across his ear sprawled him on the ground. 
 The oaths rolled from his lips in torrents. He 
 scrambled near to a coupling pin, seized it, and with 
 a terrible oath and mortal threat faced his an 
 tagonist. The very sight chilled him. 
 
 The engineer s countenance forbode no compro 
 mise. His body was erect and under perfect con 
 trol. "Drap that, ye sot!" shot out between his 
 teeth. The iron missile fell. "Git!" he hissed, 
 motioning toward the caboose. The conductor 
 turned and went. As he turned he was uncere 
 moniously assisted by the broad-soled shoe of 
 Schleaser s right foot, and "Git!" again fell on his 
 ears. For ten car-lengths "Git" and shoe alternated 
 with telling effect. When the conductor resented, 
 his pace was quickened by a more vigorous 
 use of leather suasion. The last application was ad 
 ministered as the patient entered the caboose door, 
 which the satisfied engine-driver shut with a bang",
 
 120 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 exclaiming, "Stay there, now, till I tell you tew 
 git out!" 
 
 Pulling his hat down over his eyes, as was his 
 wont, he returned to the locomotive. We smiled as 
 he passed us. Our answer was a twinkling roll of 
 his dark eyes toward us, a slight smile nestling in 
 the corners of his mouth and the expression, 
 "Ah-h!" 
 
 That was the last trip of Henry Gilder on the 
 C. O. & B. He emptied his bottle before we pulled 
 out of the yard, fell bestially asleep, and remained 
 so all the way home. There he was reported and 
 discharged. 
 
 I pitied the poor fellow when I saw him stagger 
 away that evening into a saloon. My heart ached. 
 I wanted to tell it all to somebody. I determined to 
 spend the evening with Ot Neely. My friend was at 
 home and full of good cheer. After relating the 
 incidents of the last trip I asked his opinion as to 
 the justice of Schleaser in his treatment of the 
 drinking conductor. His answer came to me like a 
 revelation, and opened my eyes to the liquor traffic 
 as never before. 
 
 "Do you know, Billy," said he, laying his warm 
 hand on my knee, "that your engineer is as deep in 
 the mud as your conductor is in the mire, and in my 
 estimation, deeper? He drinks himself. Not only 
 that, but he let Gilder drink, knowing all the while 
 that the conductor did not have the self-control he 
 himself had. Gilder used to conduct for me. At the
 
 Flagging. 121 
 
 start I told him he must not touch a drop, if he did I 
 would report him. He kept perfectly straight. We 
 got along first-rate, and I wanted him to remain 
 with me, but he wouldn t. Why? Simply because 
 if he went with Schleaser he could drink; and drink 
 he has. Occasionally he went too far, and, after one 
 of Schleaser s blows/ would brace up for quite a 
 spell. Five years of such railroading have put him 
 where he is. And who s the more to blame?" 
 
 "You know your engineer lives up to Sandy Junc 
 tion, don t you? You know that saloon about ten 
 rods this side of the station? It s the most hellish 
 mantrap on the road. There are three other such 
 places in that little village of not more n five hundred 
 inhabitants. The only excuse for that hole is on the 
 devil s side. Just let me tell you something, my 
 young friend, by way of an eye-opener and that 
 which I know to be a fact." The speaker was warm 
 ing up to his subject. 
 
 "I don t talk about my neighbors until I have first 
 talked to them; nor do I blow off a lot of stuff 
 I know nothing about. The Junction is iin the 
 county of which Bryson is the county seat. A year 
 ago last winter, at the February term, when the 
 court was considering remonstrances against grant 
 ing licenses to certain saloons, not being on duty, I 
 dropped into the court room to see what was going 
 on. The first case called up was that of Pat Moyer, 
 who runs the junction house. He s nothing but a 
 bloat, can scarcely write his own name, and doesn t
 
 122 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 pretend to do anything but sell grog. THe re 
 monstrance had about fifty names of respectable 
 people on it, and the application was signed by 
 twelve men, among them Philip Schleaser. This I 
 know, for I saw the papers. The Methodist preacher 
 there was pushing the case; and two or three good 
 men backed him. Several witnesses had been called 
 to prove that Moyer was not a man of good moral 
 character. You know that those words are on every 
 application for license in our commonwealth. The 
 plaintiff proved his illegal selling, and had a minor 
 on the stand, who took oath that he had bought drink 
 there. Among the witnesses for the defense came 
 Schleaser, who swore that there was a necessity for 
 the saloon, the burden of his testimony being that a 
 cattle man on his train one night got off and got a 
 lunch there, the upshot of which was that if the place 
 was not there cattlemen would go hungry. Do you 
 know that the old snoozer got his license?" cried 
 Neely, with warmth, as he turned his chair and 
 slapped me on the knee with a force that made 
 me wince. 
 
 "I ve been at the Junction all hours of night and 
 day and never yet saw a drover in Moyer s for lunch. 
 Have tried to get one myself several times and have 
 never succeeded. I have it, too, on good authority 
 that he has no more beds in the house than will ac 
 commodate his own family. In fact, he makes no 
 pretense of keeping a house for travelers. He has 
 neither hotel nor restaurant accommodations, only
 
 Flagging, 123 
 
 a plain, dirty grogshop. Schleaser often visits the 
 place, and from my cab I have many times seen him 
 and Gilder in there drinking together. Phil is per 
 fectly safe on his engine, and always as cool as a 
 cucumber, and yet Hank s just as good a conductor 
 as Phil is an engineer. Both like whisky equally 
 well, but where one is weak the other is strong, and 
 vice versa. Which is the better?" 
 
 I told this whole story to Phil, and with consid 
 erable heat. The only satisfaction received was a 
 cool reminder that I had better mind my own P s 
 and Q s, and a guess that he could find counsel when 
 he needed it. 
 
 "The same thing as regards licenses, practically, 
 happens here in Bryson every year. Once in a while 
 we win, twice in a while we lose. You know Lan- 
 ford, our station agent, and a member of our 
 church? Last year I went round for him to sign a 
 remonstrance against opening that gin mill down on 
 the corner of Maple and Main. He said he daren t 
 do it. He was the last man I expected to refuse, 
 and I told him so. I s pose you know, Ot, says he, 
 that the whisky freight bill here every month is 
 nearly as much as it costs to run all the churches in 
 town. That is business for the company. I am 
 watched, and should my name go on that remon 
 strance the brewers association, or the saloonists, 
 or whatever you may call them, would be on my; 
 track. Then if the company did not remove me the 
 whisky would come over the T. & C. road and our
 
 124 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 company would be the losers. You know they d 
 rather lose me than that trade. It is evident that 
 the company caters to the devil. 
 
 "It don t seem possible, Billy, but Jackson, the 
 agent at the Junction, told me the same thing. I 
 have no reason to think otherwise. The whole rum 
 traffic is enough to make the imps of darkness blush 
 with shame and angels weep and hide their faces. 
 Phil s as good a railroader as we ve got, but his 
 practices keep him from a passenger run. The com 
 pany knows him. He s perfectly trustworthy, yet 
 they re afraid some day he ll get more steam in his 
 head than in his locomotive. 
 
 "You see, as long s you do as he does it s all 
 right, but just cross him sometime. Keep your eye 
 skinned, Billy, and report to me in a month what 
 you ve seen. I tell you what, my boy," and his face 
 showed deepest emotion, "it s an awful business, 
 and my soul longs for the day when all men shall 
 drink the water from the fountain of life and not 
 swill away at the devil s punch bowl. O yes, there s 
 lots of good Christians yet, and railroaders too. 
 Thank God, there are some men left. Guess it s 
 bout bedtime, and to-morrow s my long day." 
 
 I had already risen and opened the door. With a 
 cheery "good-night" I stepped into the darkness. 
 Passing along a dark alley, I started at a gurgling 
 mutter, as from a delirious sleeper. Striking a 
 match and following the sound, the face of Hank 
 Gilder in a drunken sleep met my eyes. The night
 
 Flagging. 125 
 
 was warm. The conductor s tent was heaven s star 
 lit blue; his bed, God s green sward. I left him to 
 sleep off his potions. Poor fellow ! Moderation was 
 not one of his virtues. His nature was like a pile of 
 pine shaving; his engineer s, a heap of chaff. The 
 one burns quickly, the other smolders. The chaff 
 burns, nevertheless, and its odors are obnoxious to 
 the whole community. It flames, too, at every pass 
 ing breeze, and often in the nighttime. It is most 
 dangerous when it is considered extinguished. If 
 ever a snake is the vicegerent of the devil it is the 
 viper called "Moderation," nestling in the soul of a 
 moderate drinker.
 
 126 On the Mountain Division.] 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 The Strike* 
 
 CAB! SCAB!" A hundred voices shouted 
 it in derision! The scene was heartrend- 
 ing. In a cut on a curve of the railroad, 
 just east of the little village of Carton and three 
 miles from Bryson, was a wreck. The employees 
 of the C. O. & B. had been on strike for a month. 
 A few trains were running. None, however, was on 
 schedule time. The crews were nonunion men, un 
 acquainted with the road and many of them inex 
 perienced in railroading. A freight train had 
 stopped at the station on the west-bound track (we 
 were double-tracked then), with its caboose in a 
 rock cut, out of sight for a following engineer ex 
 cept for a few rods. However, a semaphore down 
 at the end of the straight line was controlled from a 
 tower from which the station, cut, and straight line 
 were visible. The board was up. A pusher with a 
 scab engineer approached. He neither whistled nor 
 heeded the board, but went into the rear of the 
 motionless train at full speed. Two men in the 
 caboose escaped, the third was pinioned. The stove 
 was overturned and the debris almost immediately 
 ignited. It was a chill November day, and in com 
 pany with others I walked up to see the wreck.
 
 The Strike. 127 
 
 When we arrived the engine that caused the crash 
 had been hauled back out of the fire and the unin 
 jured cars ahead removed. Only three empty box 
 cars and the caboose burned. In the midst of the 
 flames, in plain sight, the body of the scab brake- 
 man roasted. The tracks were controlled by a score 
 of policemen, and behind them, on the heights of 
 the cut, gathered a hundred or more lookers-on, 
 among them many employees of the T. & C. road, 
 which ran just below. These employees had started 
 the cry of "Scab!" and men, women, and children 
 were not slow to join. The gathered scab trainmen 
 presented a pitiable sight; the green, shivering 
 policemen, ridiculous; the destruction of property, 
 wasteful ; the burning of human flesh, horrible ; and 
 the shouting of a frenzied mob, positively fiendish. 
 
 Strikes have resulted advantageously to both em 
 ployed and employer. Even then compromise would 
 have been better. The contending parties are neces 
 sary to each other s existence ; the contention is not. 
 Both are in the same boat, and how foolish for either 
 party to scuttle the craft expecting the other man 
 only to get the ducking. How much the world 
 needs the Brotherhood of Jesus Christ that accepts 
 both labor and capital. That would be better than 
 arbitration. Capital would have the interest of 
 labor at heart and vice versa. In fact, no capital and 
 labor would exist. The middle wall and partition 
 would be down and all be one in Jesus Christ. 
 
 I am a brotherhood man. The right to quit is
 
 128 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 mine, provided the work, wages, or bosses, do not 
 suit me. If my labor is not satisfactory to my em 
 ployer he has the right to discharge me without 
 asking the privilege of my comrades. Hot-headed 
 and heartless agitators cause more trouble than the 
 actual laborers and capitalists. To call a strike 
 when one of the specified grievances advanced was 
 that the laundry of the company went to a poor, re 
 spectable widow, instead of to a union laundryman, 
 is contemptible; yet such has been done, and that, 
 too, when the company had been unusually partial 
 to its employees. 
 
 Not long ago our night operator at Netherton was 
 discharged for negligence. Being a member of the 
 telegraphers brotherhood and a ready talker, he 
 was tendered the position of traveling agitator, or 
 something to that effect. The order may not have 
 known their man, but that is no excuse. They 
 should have investigated his case and meted out to 
 him his deserts namely, expulsion. 
 
 Engineer Simon Agitus, who lost a leg in a wreck 
 in 94, was a good railroader, an honest man, and, 
 unfortunately, a glib speaker. He was assigned a 
 brotherhood office. Acute of perception, he saw 
 every possible error in the wage and time scales. 
 Having an excellent opinion of himself, he ignored 
 counsel. His fault was a vivid imagination, coupled 
 with a persuasive tongue that wrought evil. He re 
 minded me of an old shingle weaver I once knew, 
 who told several huge yarns in his youth and in old
 
 The Strike. 129 
 
 age kept telling them, until, when I knew him, he 
 actually believed them to be true. Agitus meant 
 fairness, but his petty grievances, fused in an en 
 thusiastic temperament, became enormous economic 
 evils, and his genial persuasion carried his auditors 
 with him. Our losing strike of 95 grew largely out 
 of the influence of that well-meaning but misguided 
 man. 
 
 On the other hand, Superintendent Stubornis", 
 when approached by a committee from the Order of 
 Railroad Trainmen, requesting, as fast as con 
 venient, to put in the Gould coupler, in place of the 
 link and pin and the Jenny coupler, flashed up and 
 replied : "We ll attend to our rolling stock and make 
 improvements as we see fit. Remember, our equip 
 ment is under our own management. Good-day!" 
 After discharging his bile he turned to his desk. 
 
 What the superintendent said was true and to the 
 point, but unwise. Instead of leading his employees 
 he tyrannizes over them. If he had hurled his 
 heart (if he had one) at them, in place of has 
 acrimonious authority, the results to all concerned 
 would have been far otherwise. 
 
 "If each man in his measure 
 
 Would do a brother s part 
 To cast a ray of sunlight 
 
 Into a brother s heart, 
 How changed would be our country, 
 
 How changed would be our poor ! 
 And then might Christian nations 
 
 Deserve the name once more."
 
 130 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Arriving home from the wreck at Carton, heart 
 ache seized me. I withdrew to my room at an early 
 hour. When I blew out the light there appeared an 
 unusual gleam on the window shade. I paid no 
 attention to it, however, and closed my eyes to sleep. 
 Scarcely had I done so when a dozen locomotive 
 whistles from the yard and roundhouse, several other 
 whistles from the different manufactories, the fire 
 gong, and church bells sounded a deafening alarm. 
 Mingled with these were the cries and shouts of 
 human voices. Springing from my bed and glanc 
 ing in the direction of the company s yard, I saw 
 lurid flames leaping and volumes of smoke rolling 
 toward the clouded heavens. Hastily dressing, it 
 took me but a moment to be at the place of destruc 
 tion. There the hellish work of a riot appeared, a 
 violent mob run mad. Strike sympathizers with a 
 few agitating strikers had fired the company s prop 
 erty. Officials with scab workmen attempted to 
 move the unharmed cars away from the burning 
 ones and run the engines out of the burning round 
 house. The mob threw the switches, broke the 
 switch bars, pulled the coupling pins and hurled 
 them away or through the cab windows, and 
 crowded around the turntable and blocked the re 
 moval of the locomotives. A hundred policemen 
 were ordered from adjoining cities. The strikers 
 cut the telegraph wires and, out of town, tore up 
 the track, thus preventing the approach of aid. The 
 howling, yelling rioters kept on with their de-
 
 The Strike. 131 
 
 moniacal ravages. They gutted loaded box cars, 
 stole the contents, and burned what was left. A 
 dozen men were killed. The sight of blood acted 
 upon the others much as it does upon a mad lion. 
 Scores were wounded. Their cries and groans 
 mingled with the curses and howls of the living, 
 who danced in impish glee around the smoking 
 ruins. The fire had now begun to spread to private 
 property ; the very city was threatened with destruc 
 tion, yet the mob howled and gloated. 
 
 Reason had gone. The T. & C. road had been 
 forgotten. Shortly after midnight the blast of a 
 bugle, clear and shrill, broke on the night air. Com 
 panies B and C of the 4th State militia appeared, 
 their blue front advancing down the street. Their 
 bayonets flashed in the lurid light. A fiendish yell 
 greeted them, followed by a show of resistance. 
 Several shots resounded, and two or three bluecoats 
 fell out of the ranks. The gaps closed. The cold 
 steel came on. There was nothing for the mob to 
 do but disperse. The militia picketed the company s 
 property, got out the fire-engines, extinguished the 
 flames, and restored quiet. The ruins were appall 
 ing. I had seen enough of mob rule. 
 
 At nine-thirty-two that morning I took train 6 on 
 the T. & C., and at one-fifteen stepped off the train 
 within six miles of Summerfield. Good old neigh 
 bor Brown was the first person I saw. He greeted 
 me warmly. "How air ye, Barson ? S pose you re 
 bound for Uncle Joe s, ain t ye? If you ll wait a
 
 132 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 few minutes you can ride up with me, unless you 
 have some better conveyance." 
 
 I thanked him heartily and accepted the cordial 
 invitation. It was a raw November day. With an 
 open market wagon nearly full of pea coal, a steep 
 mountain road, a slow team, and a slower driver, 
 we did not outstrip the wind. However, before 6 
 o clock "the light in the window" flickered through 
 the lilac bush into our faces. Another minute and 
 my cold fingers knocked on the door. What a 
 welcome ! 
 
 "There are no friends like the old friends, who have shared 
 
 our morning days, 
 
 No greeting like their welcome, no homage like their praise : 
 Vain is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold ; 
 But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweet in every fold."
 
 Thanksgiving. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Thanksgiving-. 
 
 "The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Ifc 
 
 "Every pine, and fir, and hemlock 
 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
 
 Was ridged inch deep with pearl." 
 
 IT was a genuine, old-fashioned Thanksgiving 
 Day. The night before a foot of snow had 
 smoothed out all the unevenness on the surface 
 of the ground. The grass roots lay snugly tucked 
 under the coverlet of white. Looking through the 
 leafless trees from the east the air appeared filled 
 with a network of floating coral. Against the blue 
 background of ether every limb and branch was 
 traced in ermine and gilded with golden shafts of 
 the morning sun. Two hours after sunrise a gentle 
 breeze shook the downy crystals into midair, there 
 to vanish into mist. Or, perchance, large masses 
 of snow, like tufts of wool, floated earthward as 
 easily as a flying squirrel and sank with a spat into 
 their feather bed, there to sleep until awakened in 
 another existence. Above, all was blue.
 
 134 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 The earth was as trackless as the sea. The well- 
 beaten paths had disappeared; the highway 
 vanished. The gate and bar posts were floating 
 buoys, outlining the course by which to steer from 
 the house to the barn. The eaves of the porch hung 
 fretted with ocean foam, some of which had carpeted 
 the outer edge of the floor. How fresh was the air ! 
 How beautifully God had covered the faults and 
 shadows of earth ! His work alone endured. Sub 
 limity reigned. A chicadee floated into the tall pear 
 tree rippling out its song. 
 
 Sleigh bells rang out merrily on the morning air. 
 Jumpers, bobs, and swell-bodies glided along, their 
 occupants bound, some homeward to father and 
 mother, some to homes of friends, some churchward, 
 all bent on pleasure and Thanksgiving. Uncle Joe, 
 Aunt Jane, Annie, and I bundled into the old red- 
 boxed, two-seated sleigh and joined the churchgoers, 
 leaving behind Aunt Phoebe to stuff and baste our 
 Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 When I entered the church the feeling excited 
 turned back the dial of my life a half dozen years. 
 Familiar scenes delighted me. Friendly voices 
 greeted me. A group of gentle-hearted rustics ex 
 changed salutations around each of the cheering, 
 glowing, wood-burning stoves. One by one they 
 dropped out of the circle into the family pew, while 
 their places were filled with newcomers. The 
 stamping of feet and sweeping of snow in the 
 yestibule grew less frequent, the happy hum of
 
 Thanksgiving. 135 
 
 voices hushed. The minister broke the silence by 
 reading : 
 
 "Praise to God, immortal praise, 
 For the love that crowns our days ! 
 Bounteous Source of every joy, 
 Let thy praise our tongues employ." 
 
 The congregation sang lustily, making a "joyful 
 noise unto the Lord." A hundred hearty voices re 
 peated, "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is 
 within me, bless his holy name." The sermon, the 
 dinner, the chat by the fireside, passed like a blissful 
 dream. 
 
 Night came on apace. I sat in the old, calico- 
 covered rocker with my back to the fire and my face 
 toward the western window. The mountains slept 
 in the distance, cold and white. The blazing sun 
 rolled in sections behind the treetops. The low 
 eaves hung above the window, serrated with icicles, 
 from whose needle-points the water had ceased to 
 drip and through the crystal prisms the golden 
 sunlight played. The color faded from the pendant 
 ice. I glanced at the mountains. The sun had said 
 "good-night." The horizon gleamed a glorious 
 crimson. Amber and pink flitted, exchanged places, 
 and faded away. A few floating clouds rested near 
 the horizon like ruby ships. 
 
 "Deeper, deeper grows the shadow, 
 Paler, now, the glowing west" 
 
 Steely-blue chased away the more gorgeous colors.
 
 136 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Purple followed, and with a smile Venus peeped 
 from her hiding place. The picture was complete. 
 
 "Day had put on his jacket, and around 
 His burning bosom buttoned it with stars." 
 
 The firelight had already dyed the inner side of 
 the icicles and window panes. I turned to face its 
 ruddy glow and the happy faces of home. Annie, 
 silent and alone, sat meditating with her feet resting 
 on a hassock. In the gloaming I drew my chair to 
 her side and took her hand in mine. 
 
 "Give me a quiet little spot 
 
 That I may hold as mine, 
 Which love may have as constant tryst, 
 
 And hallow as its shrine; 
 With one dear heart to make my home 
 
 Our hearts to beat as one ; 
 Then let the giddy, thoughtless world 
 
 Its course of fashion run." 
 
 Our eyes met. The firelight glow on Annie s 
 cheek was augmented by the inner flush. We arose 
 without a word. I drew her to my breast. Her 
 head fell upon my shoulder. Each read the sequel 
 in the other s eyes; yet my voice found utterance: 
 "Annie, you are mine forever, aren t you?" A 
 moment of silence followed. "Yes, dear!" 
 
 "When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past 
 For years fleet away with the wings of a dove 
 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love,"
 
 Thanksgiving. 137 
 
 We ratified the covenant and fused our hearts at 
 the burning altar of Cupid. 
 
 The magic spell departed when the doorlatch rat 
 tled, but we stood our ground until Aunt Jane 
 lighted the lamp, at the same time remarking, 
 "Guess we need a light by the looks o things !" 
 
 After the room became illuminated Uncle Joe 
 stood bewildered, either surprised at our position or 
 intoxicated by the prevailing celestial atmosphere. 
 He regained consciousness when his better half 
 locked her plump arm in his and cooed in his ear, 
 "Don t you remember when you was young, Joe?" 
 
 Now came my turn. Dropping my arm and tak 
 ing Annie by the hand, with heartless apology and 
 bashful petition, I informed them of what had just 
 happened, the import of which the more observing 
 housewife had already divined. Eyes grew moist. 
 For an age I seemed alone, while loving parents 
 drew their only child to their hearts. We received 
 congratulations. The mingling love and sorrow 
 filled each heart with a confidence and joy known 
 only to those who are pure in heart and love. It 
 was a sacred hour. 
 
 The family altar that night bore heavenward an 
 unusual sweet savor of Thanksgiving. The paternal 
 prayer was suppressed and pathetic. The father of 
 earth clasped hands with the Father of heaven. The 
 only daughter of that godly home was consigned 
 to my care, while the God of heaven witnessed to 
 the consecrated covenant. Wealth and position
 
 138 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 were not so much as thought of. How many times 
 that prayer has restrained me, no one can tell. It 
 has been worth a world of wealth and an army of 
 servants. Would that all betrothals were of the 
 soul!
 
 Long Hours. 139 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 Long Hours* 
 
 "TJELLO, Billy! Give me yer paw." The 
 familiar voice of Phil Schleaser greeted 
 
 * * me and his hand grasped mine with a 
 warm grip. I had just stepped to the platform at 
 Sandy Junction from a special train. It was return 
 ing with some railroad and government officials, 
 who were on a trip of pleasure and inspection. We 
 were carrying signals and running first section of 
 No. I, for which my old engineer waited to take 
 him to his work at Bryson, the division terminus. 
 
 "How are you, Schleaser? I m glad to see you 
 again !" I had not seen him since the strike. Pro 
 motion had removed me from his crew, and the 
 changes in runs had thrown everything out of the 
 old ways. A new management controlled the road. 
 Several of the leading managers had come from the 
 middle West and knew little about mountain rail 
 roading. Formerly the crews went out regularly 
 every day, each engineman having his own engine. 
 Now they were boarded out in turn, ahead or behind 
 regular time, according to the amount of freight 
 traffic, engineers taking the first locomotive avail 
 able. Schleaser overflowed with the new manage 
 ment and ejected a constant torrent of fault-finding.
 
 140 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "Glad tew see you promoted, Billy, but railroadin 
 in these days ain t what it us t tew be. I don t 
 know what I m doin half the time now, an , what s 
 more, I don t care much. My last trip I had nothin 
 but a scrap heap. Twouldn t steam no more n a 
 dry-goods box. My fireman didn t do nothin but 
 swear an slam the firebox door. We stalled three 
 times on the hill. Never had steam enough tew lift 
 a teakittle cover. Not only that, but the old hog 
 pounded till I thought it would strip every brass an 
 pin off er. Why, the ingines now ain t kept up in 
 shape. You know I us t tew pride myself that every 
 box was as tight s a drum an the brass shinin like 
 a lookin -glass." 
 
 "Yes, that s so, Phil," I put in. 
 
 "Ah-h, you bet," he exclaimed, with the same old 
 laugh. Schleaser s locomotive had always appeared 
 as well as any on the division. "Them Westerners 
 may know how tew drive cattle, but they don t 
 know railroadin , even if they think they dew. Bout 
 the time every siding is filled with bunged-up ingines 
 they ll sing another song. I m not goin tew slick 
 up my ingine to-day fur Tom, Dick, an Harry tew 
 run er to-morrer. They ain t goin tew dew it fur 
 me, an I don t blame em neither. It s a good thing 
 the company s orderin new locomotives, or they d 
 soon have tew put on mules. 
 
 "Tew s fifty minutes late as usual. Egad! I 
 don t know when tew eat, drink, or sleep no more. 
 Th ole woman says I don t stay home long enough
 
 Long Hours. 141 
 
 tew it acquainted, out as I am all hours o the 
 night an day. Have tew take a leetle stimulant oc 
 casionally, er I d sleep at my post. Come over tew 
 Moyer s jest for old time s sake, Billy. I know you 
 didn t us t tew take nothin ; now s you re in with 
 the big-bugs you might take a nip. Guess you find 
 lots of it there?" pointing toward the special, "but 
 come on !" 
 
 "No, thanks, Phil! I ve not taken anything yet, 
 and, what s more, I m not going to begin, either. 
 Yes, they have plenty of the best, so called, on our 
 train, but they would fire us in a minute if they 
 caught us in it or anything like it. They can have 
 it ; we cannot. It isn t consistent. It s true, all the 
 same. I tell you, Phil, I don t need it, and, thank 
 God, I don t crave it. Good-bye, old fellow ! Better 
 keep away from Moyer s." And I swung onto the 
 special as it passed. 
 
 I had already been on duty twenty-six hours. It 
 would be two more hours before I got to bed, and 
 that, too, in the middle of the day. No one liked 
 the irregular part of the present railroading system. 
 Passenger, local freight, and shifting crews alone 
 were regular. Many of the shifting crews, how 
 ever, were twenty-four hours on and twenty-four 
 off; occasionally twenty- four on and twelve off. 
 Judging by myself, victuals were tasteless, every 
 body seemed cross, pail not packed properly, and 
 things in general ran crossways or behind time. 
 .Wrecks had become more frequent since the strike,
 
 142 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 though nearly all the old men had been reinstated. 
 There was a system in the management, of course. 
 As it is hard for an old dog to learn new tricks, so it 
 appeared hard for the old men to learn new ways. 
 
 The use of air brakes had increased the size of 
 the trains. This naturally threw all the little jim 
 mies off the road, to be replaced by gondolas that 
 could stand the bumping. Nearly all of the cars 
 built were more or less increased in size. Locomo 
 tives increased to the dignity of "Mother Hub- 
 bards," "hogs," and "compounds." The old air 
 brake, working through a dozen or more cars, 
 proved impracticable. The direct pressure upon the 
 brake decreased the train-line pressure so rapidly 
 that it became impossible to hold heavy loads down a 
 long grade with a large number of cars of air. With 
 a sufficient number of brakes to steady a heavy train 
 the air could not be generated rapidly enough to 
 meet the demand; with fewer connected cars the 
 train bumped, jerked, and often parted. This pro 
 duced wrecks. 
 
 The old three-way valve and the direct pressure 
 are now discarded. In their stead are the triple 
 valve and an auxiliary reservoir of air under each 
 car. The main reservoir or drum on the engine has 
 a pressure of ninety pounds and the train-line pres 
 sure has seventy. Whenever the train-line pressure 
 decreases by the escape of air the brakes are ap 
 plied and remain so until the air from the main 
 reservoir restores the train-line pressure to seventy
 
 Long Hours. 143 
 
 pounds. This system is far the more complicated, 
 and, hence, less reliable in some respects, but on 
 the whole it is better. Should there be a leak in the 
 coupling tubes, or the train break, everything stops. 
 Accidents are impossible from that source. The en 
 gineer also controls every car that is connected with 
 air. Even the air may be cut out of the auxiliary 
 reservoir on an individual car and carried to those 
 in the rear. This, however, is not usually done, ex 
 cept in case of a "cripple." Long trains are yet 
 steadied by the application of hand brakes at the 
 rear, when running down grades and over hog s- 
 backs and summits. 
 
 These appliances are great labor-savers as well 
 as a convenience and a safety. The trainmen, how 
 ever, must be on the alert. As a rule, the air works. 
 The emergency, supposed to stop everything, is an 
 application used only in case of accident or obstruc 
 tion ahead. The control of the train depends largely 
 upon the nerve of the man at the throttle. Every 
 other member of the crew, however, must be at his 
 post, whether he does anything or not. Heroes often 
 lose their lives through the negligence of others or 
 by accidents, the cause of which being beyond the 
 knowledge and control of mortals. These incidents, 
 however, are rare. Therefore, under these nerve- 
 straining conditions, railroaders should have their 
 regular work, rest, and runs, as well as practice total 
 abstinence from stimulants of all kinds. 
 
 "You pull us to-day, do you, Neely ?" I asked, as
 
 144 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 rny good friend sat down on a baggage truck beside 
 me. It was five minutes before leaving time. We 
 had to run first section of an excursion train to 
 River Valley Park. Our coaches were already filled 
 to overflowing, and hundreds of passengers stood 
 waiting for the next section. 
 
 "Yes, Billy, and I d rather forfeit a half month s 
 pay than go out to-day. I ve been out twenty-four 
 hours already, and am more dead than alive. The 
 trainmaster met me when I stepped off my engine 
 an hour ago and told me what must be done. I 
 simply said it was impossible and unreasonable to 
 send me out without rest. He fumed and swore and 
 said I could do one of two things. I knew what that 
 meant. If I had coal or freight, I wouldn t care so 
 much. I don t like to pull excursion trains." 
 
 "All aboard !" shouted the conductor. I hastened 
 to the car, took up the stepping stool, threw it over 
 the brake lever, and shouted, "Right here!" The 
 engineer rose wearily and lumbered along down the 
 platform to his engine. His eyes rolled heavily. 
 Black rings of dirt and care circled them, and his 
 honest face was streaked with grease and sweat. 
 
 For two hours everything ran gayly. The pic 
 nickers rejoiced. In spite of my environment my 
 thoughts drifted to the faithful man in the cab. 
 Within half a mile of our destination our train came 
 to a sudden standstill. Hastening to the locomo 
 tive, I found my friend flat on his back under the 
 engine and working with all his might.
 
 Long Hours. 145 
 
 "What s up, Ot?" I asked. 
 
 "Not much at present, but it means hours of work 
 for me at the Park when I need a nap another in 
 cident of Tom, Dick, and Harry hold of the same 
 engine," as he squeezed out through the greasy 
 wheels. 
 
 He sprang into the cab, blew in the flag, and 
 opened the throttle. The second section picked up 
 our flag and overhauled us just as the passengers 
 had left the cars, for we had finished our journey at 
 a twenty-mile-an-hour gait. 
 
 At 3 o clock the break was repaired. We left at 
 3:30. "I d give anything if I was in Bryson, my 
 boy. I m not only played out, but there s a strange 
 feeling come over me that something s going to go 
 wrong. It broods over me like a nightmare. If I 
 had an old fireman I d chance him in my place. But 
 it s no use whining, though. Keep your eye skinned, 
 Billy, and we ll trust God for the rest." 
 
 I assured the faithful servant that I would like 
 to help him if possible. "Cheer up, Ot ! It ll come 
 out all right, never fear." 
 
 He shook his head sorrowfully and strode away 
 with, "Well, it s no use dodging. Farewell !" 
 
 We returned second section. Two hours passed 
 without incident. I breathed easier. Perhaps the 
 engineer s extreme weariness had made him vision 
 ary, and that there was no omen of evil above his 
 star. I was doomed to disappointment. With 
 out any warning the crash came. The occupants of 
 10
 
 146 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 my coach were hurled headlong against the seats, 
 yet none sustained serious injury. I measured my 
 length in the aisle. Regaining my feet and rushing 
 from the car amid the screams of women and shouts 
 of men, I hastened forward. We had run into the 
 first section, telescoped the two rear coaches, and the 
 engine lay steaming in the midst of the third. The 
 cries and curses of the wounded and dying were 
 heartrending. The lives of twoscore or more went 
 out like the snuffing of a candle. A hundred others 
 were seriously injured, many of whom died later. 
 Little ones lay crushed to death in their mothers 
 arms. Children pinioned with the splinters called 
 for papa to help, quick, and papa lay in death a few 
 feet away. Fortunately, the wreck was not fired. 
 
 Deaf to the cries for assistance, I slowly crawled 
 over the debris toward the hissing engine. The cab 
 was ripped clean from the boiler. Where could be 
 the man who had caused the wreck, and yet who was 
 as innocent as any man on the road? 
 
 "Neely, hello, Neely!" I called softly. 
 
 "Here, Billy!" faintly came up from the steam 
 and timbers beneath me. 
 
 "Are you much hurt, Ot?" I cried excitedly. 
 
 "O, Billy ! I couldn t help it. I fell asleep in spite 
 o myself only a minute O God! I knew I 
 couldn t keep awake. I did my best. I would 
 have died a hundred times if I could have saved this 
 wreck. The spirit was willing but the flesh 
 was weak weak Billy "
 
 Long Hours. 147 
 
 I seized an ax and chopped for dear life. The 
 fireman joined me, his face covered with blood from 
 a small contusion on the forehead. Several gruff 
 men clambered up near us, and with oaths and 
 threats tried to drive us from our work. "Leave the 
 fool to die by inches!" they shouted. The fireman 
 seized a large splinter, drew it, and declared he 
 would brain the first man who attempted to delay 
 the rescue of the suffering engineer. 
 
 Breathless, and with the sweat pouring from me 
 in streams, I rested a moment. My guard took the 
 ax and I the club. Knowing more of the mechanism 
 of the locomotive than I did, Allie reached through 
 the steam and closed the cock. In a moment the air 
 cleared and we saw our friend pinioned to the 
 ground and either dead or in a faint. It proved to 
 be the latter. In five minutes more we lifted his 
 stalwart frame out of its narrow cell and carried it 
 to a place of safety. We found his heart beating. 
 No bones were broken. After bathing his head in 
 water his eyes opened, and almost immediately he 
 began to talk. 
 
 "O, Billy! It s awful! They ll say I was drunk 
 and careless and now a murderer, but God knows I 
 was a sober Christian trying to do my best !" 
 
 He was not badly hurt. However, under the aw 
 ful mental strain and physical exhaustion he 
 swooned again. The bystanders who saw his face 
 and heard his words at once showed pity and sym 
 pathy. No man could look into the eyes of Ot
 
 148 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 (Neely without seeing a man in them and a soul as 
 pure as the water from a mountain spring. 
 
 An hour later he was put under arrest and taken 
 away by the authorities. "It s all right, Billy. God s 
 will be done. I was asleep, but I did my best. Drop 
 around and comfort Mary a little when you get back 
 to Bryson. Good-bye!" He squeezed my hand 
 faintly and tottered away. He carried with him a 
 strong heart, though, alas ! a shattered body. 
 
 He was tried for manslaughter. Through the in 
 fluence of the company and his host of friends he 
 was acquitted. Physically, he never became the 
 same, though his life was the type of the noblest 
 Christian character. He pulled the throttle no more. 
 His railroading was over, but he never forgot the 
 boys in his prayers, and in his heart-to-heart strug 
 gles with them on account of their sins. The com 
 pany honored him, though unable to reinstate him, 
 even had he desired it. 
 
 The trainmaster resigned his position and apolo 
 gized to Neely, who frankly forgave him with all 
 his heart. Neely became a trainmaster on the 
 spiritual railroad and secured for many a poor 
 sinner a life job with an eternal salary. He became 
 to the C. O. & B. what Jim Burdick was to the 
 C. B. & Q. in 1900. As one hard railroader said 
 of Neely s work on our road, "This road don t need 
 much except to git rid of a lot o old sinners like us 
 to be an air line to heaven. It s only a question of 
 time till you see the angels swipin our jobs, an*
 
 Long Hours. 149 
 
 we ll be bounced a-scootin . Instead o callin out, 
 Twenty minutes for lunch/ at Bryson, it ill be, 
 Twenty minutes for prayer meetin . And as soon 
 as the old man ketches this religious smallpox he ll 
 stop Sunday trains an every man that don t go to 
 church an learn their signals will git their walkin 
 papers mighty quick."
 
 150 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Marriage* 
 
 AY I have another cup of coffee, Mrs. Con 
 rad, if you please?" As the old lady 
 slowly rose to comply with my request I 
 buttered the half of a hot roll, cogitating the while 
 that a boarding-house mistress was not the ideal 
 mistress by a long way. Mrs. Conrad was one of 
 the best and most motherly women that ever lived. 
 Her home was mine. With a daughter and son she 
 lived in her own cottage in the suburbs of Coalville. 
 Elias, the son, was a railroader like myself. Four 
 other sons were married, away from home and run 
 ning on different divisions of the C. O. & B. Janie 
 worked in a dressmaking shop down town. Mr. 
 Conrad had been dead a couple of years. The Coal 
 ville family lived in comfortable circumstances, still 
 the old lady kept from one to three boarders to de 
 fray running expenses of the house. It was an ideal 
 boarding place for a fellow like me. On this par 
 ticular morning, however, my nature was in re 
 bellion, and Mother Conrad s quick perception read 
 the inner longings of my soul. 
 
 "You re gettin a leetle restless, ain t you, Wil 
 liam? Judgin from your looks, you hain t got a 
 friend in the world."
 
 Marriage. 151 
 
 "Well," sipping my coffee, "no, I m not friend 
 less. I believe I have one waiting on me, and a 
 good, motherly one, too. But you know, Mrs. Con 
 rad, that friends, a good place to sleep, good food, 
 and a good job don t make a home! I never had a 
 home or relatives to my knowledge." 
 
 "I want to know!" her sympathies enlisted at 
 once. 
 
 "Yes, there was a time when I thought myself 
 friendless, yet the unseen Hand that I afterward 
 learned to trust must have led me, for I came out all 
 right. Since then I have never lacked one Friend 
 at least, besides a number of earthly friends." 
 
 "Yes, he s the best Friend ! Let me get ye nother 
 cup o coffee? Won t? Just as well have it as not. 
 I ve got plenty on it." 
 
 "I feel that I have a brother somewhere, and that 
 he s a railroader too. I never heard of anybody by 
 the name of Barson, and I begin to think that is not 
 my correct name. So I am now looking out for a 
 man who has a peculiar history and who looks some 
 thing like me. It would be more like home to have 
 even a brother. Now, don t think I m finding fault 
 with my present quarters. You have cared for me 
 as well as anyone could." 
 
 "O no, no, William ! I ve got too much sense for 
 that. We enjoy our little home and try to make 
 others happy in it. God s been very good to us. 
 You jes keep right on and it ill come out for the 
 best. You ll fall in with your brother yit."
 
 152 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 I rose and put on my coat preparatory to going. 
 My landlady set my pail on the table, and, with a 
 smile, remarked: "I guess, William, you re not so 
 much concerned about your brother this mornin as 
 you be about some little gal somewhere. Your 
 homesickness is in the region of the heart." 
 
 As a matter of course, I blushed and hemmed and 
 hawed. But the remark was too direct to be evaded 
 without some answer. Best of all, Mrs. Conrad 
 was no gossip. By some occult process she had 
 diagnosed my cardiac symptoms and plainly stated 
 my disease. There could be no shying. Taking 
 from her hand the well-packed pail, I gave her to 
 understand that June would find me in a home of 
 my own, if health and money could do it. 
 
 "I kind o thought so, Mr. Barson, an I don t 
 blame you a bit. If you want to buy a house Dr. 
 Adams s house on Cherry Street is for sale and will 
 be vacant by the first o June. The doctor s goin 
 West an* wants to sell. We d like to have you for 
 neighbors real glad on it ! Here s your night key. 
 You may want to come in when you git back to 
 night." " 
 
 With a gracious smile of kindness the good 
 woman handed me the key, which in my absent- 
 mindedness I had left in the door the night before. 
 My embarrassment revealed the one thing upper 
 most in my mind in fact, it was all that was in 
 there; and really it had about half brought me to 
 my senses to divulge my secret to the old lady. At
 
 Marriage. 153 
 
 any rate, my heart was light, the day was bright, 
 the train on time, and all was well. 
 
 I was running rear trainman on No. 4 from Coal- 
 ville to the eastern terminus of the road, and re 
 turning on train No. 9, arriving at Coalville at 3 
 A. M., a run of nearly four hundred miles in fifteen 
 hours and counting me two days time. The day 
 following the trip we lay idle. Time dragged, ex 
 cept when I was asleep usually about eight hours 
 at a stretch. 
 
 It was the balmy tenth of May. According to my 
 limited record I was twenty-five years old that day. 
 The train was full. No. 4 run as local over the 
 Mountain Division. I collected the tickets from the 
 rear car to help out the conductor. There was lit 
 tle time to scent the mountain air and enjoy the 
 springtime scenery until we left Bryson. From 
 there in, for nearly a hundred miles, we made but 
 four stops. 
 
 "Is this the train to take to go to Bryson ?" asked 
 an old lady just before leaving time on our return. 
 
 "Yes, ma am !" I answered, and took her arm to 
 assist her on board. 
 
 "Are you sure it is?" she asked again. "What 
 time does it get there?" 
 
 "Yes, ma am ! Get right in here. We arrive at 
 Bryson at eleven-ten." 
 
 "This must be the train, then, for my son Orin 
 wrote to me that I d get there at ten minutes past 
 Jeven,"
 
 154 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Taking Her heavy satchel from her hand, I helped 
 her up the steps and seated her comfortably, near the 
 rear of the car, and placed her baggage as a sort of 
 defense for her. It was evident that the old lady 
 had not traveled extensively, and that now she was 
 far from home, among strangers. Just ahead of her 
 and across the aisle sat a couple of young men 
 hardly deserving the name, though. Oblivious of 
 others, they carried on this conversation loud enough 
 to be heard through the car. 
 
 "Say, Jack! How much for hay seed to-night?" 
 
 "O, bout a quarter for granny s carpetbag full." 
 
 At these remarks a couple of girls began to titter 
 and flaunt their handkerchiefs before their mouths. 
 The train had moved out from the station, through 
 the maze of switches and colored lights, and plunged 
 into the darkness, chasing the gleam of the rails. 
 Passing the old lady while I went from front to 
 rear, she stopped me, requesting that I should not 
 carry her past Bryson. 
 
 "O, dear! I m afraid granny ill fall off the 
 cars," moaned one of the aforementioned youths. 
 
 A titter from the seat of folly. 
 
 "It would ruin her twenty-five-cent bonnet!" 
 wailed the other, as he arranged his soft hat to rep 
 resent a poke bonnet. 
 
 A large man in front turned, scowled, and shook 
 his head at them. 
 
 "Candies, nice and fresh! Havana oranges, all 
 juicy!" sang out the newsboy slowly coming down
 
 Marriage. 155 
 
 the aisle. The poke-bonnet youth swayed to and 
 fro, drawing in his lips to represent the absence of 
 teeth, while the other shouted, "Granny s lost er 
 teeth and can t chaw !" 
 
 The large man spoke up cheerily with a wink at 
 the newsboy and a nod in the direction of the 
 smarties, "Have you any sugar rags for howling 
 babes?" 
 
 "O yes!" he answered, loud enough to be heard 
 above the rush and clank of the train. "Sweet 
 sugar rags! All nice and juicy! For toothless in 
 fants only have one?" swinging his basket to the 
 would-be granny. 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted him, and hoots came 
 from all over the car. "Good for Tommy!" some 
 shouted, as the boy continued on down the aisle 
 singing out his imaginary wares "Nice juicy rags 
 for toothless babies. Skull caps for brainless babies ! 
 Two for five ! Buy them while they re going two 
 for five!" 
 
 A minute passed before the laughter subsided. 
 Strong men wiped from their eyes tears of joy. The 
 imitation poke disappeared and two smart Alecks 
 evaporated. When only now and then a muffled 
 burst of merriment could be heard Tommy started 
 back. At nearly every seat he made a sale. The 
 big man threw a quarter into the basket, with a 
 chuckle and "That s all right, Tommy! Well 
 done!" 
 
 When the newsboy opened the door to pass into
 
 156 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the car forward another hearty cheer greeted him, 
 and bowing his smiling face Tommy Day and the 
 empty basket passed out into the darkness. 
 
 Only a few minutes elapsed before the usual hum 
 of voices had well-nigh ceased. Each passenger 
 turned, twisted, and adjusted himself for a nap. 
 The uneasy passenger turned and motioned to me. 
 
 "You re takin them to an asylum, ain t you?" 
 she asked, pointing to the docile lambkins across the 
 way. "It s too bad that ones so young should have 
 such misfortunes." Before I could answer she con 
 tinued: "You re sure you ll know when we git to 
 Bryson. It s so dark I don t see how you can tell 
 one place from another." 
 
 "It s no difficult matter to tell where one is in the 
 darkest nights after passing over the road hundreds 
 of times. There s no danger of our running by that 
 station anyway. We change engines there and stop 
 twenty minutes for lunch. And, besides, Bryson 
 was my home for about eight years." 
 
 "You used to live there then, I take it? Maybe 
 you know my son, Orin Neely. He was a rail 
 roader a number o years and had some bad luck a 
 few months ago." 
 
 "O yes, I know" 
 
 "They say he ain t much like he once was, but 
 Grin s a good boy." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, he s a" 
 
 "He had a bad wreck, but he wa n t to blame for 
 it there was a big "
 
 Marriage. 157 
 
 "Excuse me, madam! Brewster! Brewster! 
 Change for the Cedar Valley Railroad. Brewster! 
 
 An hour passed before I could again converse 
 with my old friend, for already she seemed almost 
 a mother to me. She might have appeared odd to 
 some, but I would have given all my wages to have 
 had a mother of the same stamp. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Neely, I m well acquainted with your 
 son at Bryson. My name is Barson, and " 
 
 "Dew tell! Be you Billy Barson my son has so 
 often wrote me about? Why, wa n t you on his 
 train when it was wrecked? I m awful glad to see 
 you ! I feel perfectly safe in your hands now." 
 
 I assured her that she need have no anxiety con 
 cerning her safety, and that in good time I would 
 give her over into the care of her beloved son. We 
 chatted on with an occasional interruption. Of 
 course, I had to tell her about my hobby, for which 
 she showed deep emotion as only a loving mother 
 can. She only hoped that some day I would find my 
 elder brother. Then her own old home scene came 
 before her the country post office at Haversham, 
 Rhode Island, a mile away from their little farm that 
 overlooked Block Island and the blue waters of the 
 bay and sound around it. She supposed that the soil 
 there was not so fertile as in many other parts of 
 the country, but it was her home and the most 
 precious spot on earth. Then, as she mused, the old 
 place and loving home ties were better subjects for 
 her enjoyment than great mansions, wealth, and
 
 158 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 fertile fields without them. She confessed her ig 
 norance of the ways of the world, but at her age she 
 was beyond caring for what folks said about her 
 queer ways. 
 
 "My idea of home is where pa an me can raise 
 our children up in the fear o the Lord an away 
 from the temptations of the wicked cities. I m get- 
 tin old, an maybe childish, but I m happy. It 
 makes me feel like a child when pa an me kneel at 
 the fam ly altar with our sons and daughters around 
 us and pray to the great God who has cared for us 
 so long an tenderly. We don t all get together very 
 often now, yet it s a joy to know that we all pray 
 at the same altar every mornin . Mary s in Maine, 
 Susan s in Ohio, Dan el s in Or gon, James is a 
 missionary in India, Charles is a professor in a mis 
 sion college in South America, Melissa lives near 
 home, Orin s in Bryson, an Franklin, the baby, is 
 married an lives on the old place. They re all Chris 
 tians, every one on em, and I think we ll be an aw 
 ful happy fam ly over the river. Pa an me will soon 
 be the first occupants of that new place an get things 
 ready for the children, jest as we did at the old 
 Rhode Island home. Pa s an invalid now. He s 
 had a stroke. He ll soon pass on. It won t be long 
 fore I ll follow. I expect this is my last long jour 
 ney on earth." The dear old mother stopped to wipe 
 her eyes. "I wanted to see Orin again an lean my 
 feeble, totterin body on his strong arm. Orin s as 
 good a boy as ever lived. I guess he s good s I got.
 
 Marriage. 159 
 
 They re all better n I deserve. They ve been awful 
 good to pa an me. I hope the Lord ill reward 
 them." 
 
 "Well, here we are at Bryson, and twenty-three 
 minutes late. Sit right still till the others get 
 out, and then we ll come and get you. Sit right 
 still! Bryson! Bryson! Twenty minutes for 
 lunch!" 
 
 A minute later I had the pleasure of seeing my 
 friend Neely stride into the car and take his old 
 mother in his arms as he would have taken one of 
 his little girls. Filial and maternal love mingled 
 and overflowed. Due notice was taken of me. 
 Nevertheless, when the train drew out from the 
 light of the station and rumbled on into the night I 
 meditated alone and tried to console myself. 
 
 A hush fell on the occupants of the car. I mused 
 on for hours. My mind was made up. The next 
 afternoon I struck a bargain with Dr. Adams. 
 Twenty-five hundred dollars was the stipulated price 
 for the Cherry Street cottage, for which I gave him 
 fifteen hundred dollars in cash and a mortgage on 
 the property for the remaining amount. My fondest 
 hopes were realizing. 
 
 The days and weeks passed. Every moment I 
 was not on the road, eating or sleeping, I feathered 
 my nest. One day, with good Mrs. Conrad and 
 another intimate friend as advisers, I selected car 
 pets, bedroom suits, and curtains, which were put 
 in their proper places after the rooms had been
 
 160 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 thoroughly renovated, papered, and painted. Every 
 thing was complete, with the exception of what I 
 knew Annie would bring with her. The fire was to 
 be lighted and supper ready on the twentieth of 
 June. 
 
 "Knee-deep in June!" Summerfield. Annie and 
 I strolled up through the grove back of the barn. 
 The stars twinkled softly upon us, and the breeze 
 from the Delaware valley swept up the mountain 
 side. To-morrow, in the little church where 
 clustered so many sweet memories, we were to be 
 made one in law, as we already were one in heart. 
 The whistle of a whip-poor-will and the tinkling 
 notes of a wood robin from the deep woods behind 
 us, softened by the pathetic cooing of a mourning 
 dove from a distant hillside, blended as sweetly and 
 harmoniously as the several passions that swept over 
 the harpstrings of our souls. We were so happy. 
 Yet sadness tinged the joy, because this would be 
 the last of our wooing days among the old, old 
 scenes of our childhood. Their simplicity, hallowed 
 places, and cozy corners were to be our haunts no 
 more. 
 
 Before the altar railing in the Summerfield Metho 
 dist Church where I knelt and found my soul knit 
 to the life of my Elder Brother, Jesus, on the padded 
 elevation, covered with the old red and brown carpet, 
 Annie and I kneeled and received the benediction of 
 Rev. Mr. Blessner. We rose and our lips publicly 
 acknowledged the happy union our hearts had long
 
 Marriage. 161 
 
 enjoyed. As we rode away from the sacred edifice 
 the bell rang jubilantly and our souls responded : 
 
 "Ring out, glad bell ! Your message tells, 
 Through tremulous waves of air, 
 
 That the hour is sweet, with joy complete, 
 For a dream divinely fair 
 
 Has opened the way to endless day 
 And Love is monarch there." 
 
 Of course we went to Niagara. Suffice it to say 
 that at twilight, the twentieth of June, we entered 
 Cherry Street cottage. It was still and tenantless. 
 Supper steamed on the table. The fire burned low 
 in the kitchen range. ,We were alone, at home 
 honeymoon begun. 
 
 "Home s not merely four square walls 
 Though with pictures hung and gilded; 
 
 Home is where affection calls, 
 Filled with charms the heart hath builded. 
 
 "Home ! go watch the faithful dove, 
 Sailing neath the heaven above us; 
 
 Home is where there s one to love, 
 Home is where there s one to love us." 
 
 11
 
 162 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 Left. 
 
 TOO-O-O-T, too-o-o-t, too-o-o-t, tooo-o-t! 
 That meant that I was left. A half hour 
 before, a slight accident to the engine sent 
 me back with a flag. The break had been repaired, 
 my duty ended, and now I saw the train gliding 
 along and away from me. I was alone on the barren 
 mountain slope, a mile and a half from Notchview 
 station. There I determined to go and wait for No. 
 4, due in about two hours and a half. 
 
 When I stepped into the little mountain station 
 the telegrapher, Charles Tickman, called out 
 cheerily, "Hello, Billy ! Left ? Glad you ve dropped 
 in to-day, for I m considerable out o sorts and 
 want to prod somebody with my tale of woe. Do 
 you remember those geraniums, petunias, and 
 begonias I had in the window, and all a mass of 
 bloom and foliage?" 
 
 Charlie was complimented by all the trainmen 
 for the beauty of his window. It was "as neat as 
 wax." He always attended strictly to his busi 
 ness, too. 
 
 "Yes, I remember them, but what have you done 
 with them?" 
 
 "Done? I d like to mop the gutter with our
 
 Left. 163 
 
 division superintendent. He can t see beauty except 
 in an eagle stamped on the face of a gold twenty. 
 Confound his old skin! He stepped off the Meteor 
 this morning and sauntered into my conservatory 
 like a ruffian into a lady s chamber. Instead of com 
 mending me for the neat appearance of the room, 
 he knocked the ashes off his cigar right in the middle 
 of the floor and grunted, as his little finger touched 
 the fire in the end of the weed, Out with them 
 things there! pointing to the flowers; you re here 
 in the interest of the company, and not to cultivate 
 posies. Those windows are to see through and not 
 to see at! He was gone, and twenty minutes later 
 wired me from Summit, Have you cleaned out? 
 They re out back of the station frantically swinging 
 their tender arms in the wind. I d as soon lose a 
 tooth as part with em. There s no use growling 
 about it, though. We have the option of obeying 
 orders or quitting." 
 
 And Charlie looked as if mourning for a near rela 
 tive. His was about the only room on the road 
 without a cuspidor a veritable floating island in 
 nicotine expectorations that befouled the floor and 
 atmosphere. Even the roughest railroaders, who 
 were accustomed to ruminate their juicy morsel, 
 ceased at the threshold of Charlie s sanctum. They 
 looked upon him not as a crank or as feminine, but 
 as a gentleman. They used him and his accordingly. 
 His word was law. 
 
 Clickety-click-click-click went the sounder. The
 
 164 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 attention of the heartbroken operator was called to 
 his business for a moment. Answering the call and 
 shoving back the lever to the key, he said, "Two s 
 engine is broke down. No. 329 hauls her out o 
 Collins. You re to follow on No. 4. I say, things 
 are coming to a pretty pass when a telegrapher s got 
 to be tied up to his machine like a dog to his kennel. 
 I used to work twelve hours, and occasionally dur 
 ing that time get out into the air for a minute. It s 
 all day with me now. I m pounding brass from 
 seven to seven, week days and Sundays. We receive 
 more orders under the new management and double 
 track than we did under the old regime and single 
 track. A fellow s got to bend over the ticker all the 
 time like a mother over a sick child. I haven t time 
 to go a sparking.. Should I ever get into a mat 
 rimonial alliance I d have to get a lay-off once in a 
 while to renew acquaintance with my wife. All the 
 operators don t fare as slim as I do, but it s the rule 
 rather than the exception." 
 
 "How s No. 4, Charlie?" called a brakeman 
 through the open window. He had just jumped 
 from a slowly passing freight. 
 
 "On time, Jim!" 
 
 "Thank you! All right!" shouted the brakeman, 
 and, swinging his arms to the engineer, boarded the 
 train that wound on down the mountain grade. 
 
 "Te-he-e! O, deah! The sun is so warm !" Fan 
 ning herself with all her might, a young fashion- 
 plate entered the room. She stood in the open door
 
 Left. 165 
 
 of the office and began : "Mr. Tickman, is there an 
 express package here for me Bertha Yawka ? My, 
 but I ll melt ! I expect a box of Huyler s best from 
 papa in Noo Yawk. No? Sure? Is that the kind 
 of wata you drink?" she continued, blubbering away 
 in a cup of water she had drawn from the tank. 
 "It s worse than Tuckahoe wata. I m ova at the 
 Mountain House for a month, and will you be kind 
 enough to deliver the package when it arrives? O, 
 isn t it delightful up here? Good-bye!" 
 
 Before an answer could be given the gauzy wings 
 had flown. 
 
 "She s a type of our summer girls, Billy. They 
 may be good for something, but I ve never found 
 out just what, unless it be to eat Huyler s best and 
 to give orders. They think I ve nothing to do but 
 trot round at their beck and call. They re not all 
 so, thank fortune. The cultured are human and 
 sympathetic, but the wealthy ignorant are disgust 
 ing. Gee Whitaker, Billy! Congratulations, old 
 boy! I came near forgetting you had taken unto 
 yourself a wife." 
 
 "Thank you, Charlie! I m living in the state of 
 connubial felicity these days. I recommend the same 
 state to you for health, wealth, and wisdom." 
 
 "Well, to be honest, I would like it, but I haven t 
 a ghost of a show to get off this mountain to hunt 
 deer. I see nothing but these summer butterflies, 
 and I d as soon court and wed a candy store or a 
 millinery shop. Where did you find Mrs. Barson ?"
 
 166 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "O, where the sweetest flowers bloom back in 
 the country." 
 
 "You showed your sense again, but, granny! 
 What s the use of cultivating the soul affections? 
 We railroaders are bound to become machines any 
 way, and the sooner the better, I guess. No flowers, 
 no ornaments, nothing but an eternal clickety-click 
 from morning till night, and a desolate room in a 
 boarding house, with a bed, washstand, and dirty 
 linen from night till morning. I daren t be caught 
 with a storybook in my hand. By the way, they ve 
 ordered the bulletin boards of religious services and 
 the wall pockets for religious literature removed 
 from the waiting room. See those ads over there 
 on the clock? Jones Restaurant! Valley House! 
 Schweitzer s Beer ! From externals our line should 
 run through the desert of Sahara or over the 
 Mountains of the Moon. I begin to feel heathenish. 
 Haven t been inside of a church in a year. Guess if 
 we ever get a leave of absence we ll have to strike 
 for it. Might as well tie up the road as all of us 
 fellows to be tied up. O, Jemima ! Maybe I ll feel 
 better when my bile works off. I tell you it s tough 
 just the same. Sitting here alone the sunny, sum 
 mer Sundays, I imagine myself back to the old 
 home in the country, trudging to Sunday school, 
 with daisies and buttercups on either side of the 
 path across lots, and an old-fashioned aster in my 
 buttonhole. It s about the only satisfaction I get. 
 I can fairly taste the noon lunch of bread and milk.
 
 Left. 167 
 
 We ate it with bowl in hand while the lazy flies 
 buzzed back and forth. The whole atmosphere was 
 loaded with the fragrance of fields. Its elixir had a 
 certain soporific quality, just the thing for a boy s 
 siesta. It grinds on a fellow like prison life, here. 
 I now appreciate the old scenes I once hated. I d 
 give the world to be back there for a month." 
 
 To-oo-oo-oo ! 
 
 "There s No. 4, and that means solitude again. 
 Might bout as well be a hermit as an operator. But 
 I m glad you got left, Billy. You ve done me good. 
 Good-bye!" 
 
 Four slowed down, and as soon as the speed had 
 decreased sufficiently I jumped and signaled to go 
 ahead. Taking a seat in the rear of the day coach, 
 my attention was at once called to a sick woman. 
 A young lady, I concluded a daughter, fanned her 
 constantly, while a gentleman, her husband, I pre 
 sumed, sat at her feet, for the back of one seat had 
 been turned forward that the invalid might recline. 
 They were poor people, yet rich in affection and 
 patience. 
 
 "Close the window, James! The gas is suffoca 
 ting. Annie, where are my smelling salts?" the 
 woman asked feebly. 
 
 "Here they are, mother." 
 
 "Thank you, dear ! That is so much better." 
 
 The day was hot; the car stuffy. When we 
 emerged from a tunnel the air within was stifling. 
 The train stopped at Carton, near which was a
 
 168 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 small, clean pond covered with water lilies. The 
 breeze floated over the water and into the car win 
 dow. The sick woman smiled. 
 
 "Water lilies ! Water lilies! Three for five!" 
 A modest little boy, with well-worn though clean 
 clothing, came timidly down the aisle announcing 
 his wares. On his left arm lay a mass of fresh water 
 lilies, the fragrance of which filled the car. He 
 had made three sales before he reached the sufferer. 
 She raised her head as she smelled the perfume. The 
 little fellow took in the situation at once and said to 
 Annie, "Give the lady these," handing her a number 
 of flowers and going right on with, "Water lilies! 
 Three for five!" All in the car noticed the kindly 
 act, and at once felt the spirit of Him who is so 
 mindful of the "lilies of the field." When the boy 
 passed out of the rear door and dropped to the plat 
 form after the train began to move he had no lilies, 
 but a well-filled pocket of coins to make glad some 
 humble Christian home. His presence had brought 
 light to scores, and turned the stifling atmosphere 
 to fragrance, their ill-nature and suffering to happi 
 ness and patience. The boy was an illustration of 
 the Christian. The lesson I learned then has been a 
 boon to me ever since. Really, I was glad myself 
 that I got left.
 
 Sunday Railroading. 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Sunday Railroading. 
 
 "J JEL-LO-O-O, Barson! Hey, hey, hey! 
 II Barson !" 
 
 * * I turned lazily in bed, realizing where 
 I was and that it was just about daylight Sunday 
 morning. 
 
 "Barson-n-n !" again floated in through the open 
 window. 
 
 Springing to the floor and poking my head out, I 
 replied to the call-boy, for it was none other than he, 
 "What s wanted?" 
 
 "Report to the office at eight !" and he was gone. 
 I watched him and his pony out of sight and won 
 dered in blank amazement with eyes fixed in space 
 as I continued to hear the cuddle-up, cuddle-up hoof- 
 beats of the galloping steed on the asphalt growing 
 fainter and fainter in the distance. Absolute quiet 
 reigned. The June morning air reminded me of the 
 days agone, when with stiff muscles I used to lean 
 out of the little window at Stoneman s of a Sunday. 
 Not a sound then disturbed the sacred stillness, save 
 an occasional cackle from the barnyard harem, the 
 singing of birds, and the rasping clinks of Shack s 
 chain as he crawled out from his kennel. It all came 
 back to me like a dream. I was a boy again. Just
 
 170 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 then a milk wagon came rattling down the street. 
 The spell was broken, and I came to myself. 
 
 To-day is communion at Embury Church, I 
 mused, and I do not wish to be absent. Besides, it 
 is missionary day in the Sunday school, and I want 
 my boys to give more than any other class in their 
 grade. But I ll be there though. I can drop in at 
 the office on my way to class meeting at nine-thirty. 
 
 "Will! What on earth you doing so long in the 
 draught of that window? You ll catch cold even if 
 it is warm!" 
 
 "Why, Annie," as I rolled back into bed, "I m in 
 a quandary to know why I m wanted at the office 
 at eight this morning. I certainly have no misde 
 meanor, for which to call me to account, and they 
 can t want me to work. That would be out of the 
 question; yet, some of the boys heard that a new 
 crew was making up to do Sunday excursion work. 
 But they wouldn t take me off a through run for 
 that service. I ll take another nap on it, anyway, 
 and trust the good Lord for the rest." A comfort 
 able snooze followed. 
 
 At the family altar that morning I prayed for 
 divine direction, fully assured in my own heart that 
 the tangle would be straightened. At eight of the 
 clock I stood before the trainmaster, and, with 
 out a word, received a slip from his hand with this 
 order : 
 
 "Conduct excursion to Mountdale and return. 
 Leave Coalville 9 A. M., Mountdale 4 p f M, Take six
 
 Sunday Railroading. 171 
 
 coaches and baggage car. Cobb, engineer. Engine 
 694. Helper to Summit, 581." 
 
 I was dumb. After a moment s hesitation I 
 stammered, "What does this mean?" 
 
 "Isn t the order clear to you?" 
 
 "Yes, but I don t want to run on Sundays." 
 
 "If the order is plain, obey it. The promotion 
 ought to satisfy anyone." Rising, he entered the 
 private office and slammed the door behind him." 
 
 "O God!" I cried, "has it come to this? Lead 
 me, Father, and I will be led by thee." 
 
 Placing the order in my pocket, I walked out to 
 the yard. Finding Cobb and the rest of the crew 
 waiting for me, I proposed a bolt en masse. The 
 fireman s opinion corroborated mine. All the others 
 said, "Go, or we ll lose our jobs." 
 
 "Job or no job," I replied, "I m going to-day, but 
 I ll never run a Sunday train again as long as I live. 
 I wouldn t go to-day if the trainmaster had not now 
 made it impossible for me to see him. If I m called 
 out again a week to-day, boys, I stay at home. My 
 services are at the option of the company, my prin 
 ciples are not." 
 
 At 9 :c5 we pulled out of Coalville with a heavy 
 load of pleasure-seekers. The majority of the ex 
 cursionists were churchless and godless, unless, per 
 chance, their gods were Bacchus and Folly. A few 
 sports, gamblers, and debauchees mingled with the 
 throng, also a few church members who cared more 
 for a "good time" than they cared for their com-
 
 172 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 pany, their church, home, God, or his day. My 
 morning text was, "Go not with the multitude to do 
 evil ;" the skeleton of my sermon, broken command 
 ments, excess, and greed; and the flesh and blood 
 of the homily were the things I saw and heard dur 
 ing the day. 
 
 "This Sunday business gives a fellow that 
 eternal tired feeling we read so much of in patent 
 medicine books," yawned one of the trainmen as 
 we lounged in the shade eating our dinners. "It 
 takes away all my morals, and I never had any to 
 spare, as well as my happiness and ambition, the 
 latter never at a premium either. Last Sunday I 
 went over the road with perishable freight a rush 
 train." 
 
 "Coal, I suppose?" said the fireman, as he swal 
 lowed a mouthful of coffee. 
 
 "Certainly. The road runs more coal on Sundays 
 than any other day in the week. There ain t no 
 freight in the way, and some of the passenger trains 
 are off, so that there s clear sailin . Corporation 
 conscience covered with gold." 
 
 "That s right, Jim!" replied the honest fireman. 
 "Sunday railroadin s a public nuisance, to say 
 nothin of positive wickedness. There s not a good 
 feature about it that ain t cloaked by wrongdoing. 
 I m not much of a man, but I ve never been over 
 the road of a Sunday without a twang o conscience. 
 I m no Christian, and never will be s long s I work 
 Sundays. Tain t consistent. I s pose I ll lose all
 
 Sunday Railroading. 173 
 
 my conscience f I keep on. Even then I might 
 slide into some denominations with three sheets 
 in the wind, but that s no sign I d find all sig 
 nals set for a clear track when I come to the pearly 
 gates. 
 
 "Lots o the railroaders are s bad s the company. 
 Last month I was to church on Sunday mornin O, 
 you needn t grin, Jack, I do get to the place o wor 
 ship once in a while whether I worship er not as I 
 was goin* to say, down there in that little church 
 at Rio." 
 
 "You mean that little two by four ; two towers at 
 the front corners bigger n the rest o the church, 
 bout like the pillars o Hurcules; and four green 
 blinds on a side, about a hundred yards above the 
 semaphore?" 
 
 "That s the identical temple, Ed. Well, the par 
 son was pray in at a fine clip and had reached the 
 Lord s Prayer without an interruption. He an the 
 congregation steamed into that with me kind o 
 taggin along, when 73 came down the hill with 
 Bill Dempster at the lever of old 461. You know 
 her whistle s like a fog horn ! She was poppin* at a 
 hundred and sixty-five, and jest as the people said, 
 Thy kingdom come, Bill pulled the whistle wide 
 open and kept it there till he got to the semaphore. 
 Everybody finished the prayer on is own hook 
 an said Amen when he made the terminus. It 
 made no difference whether he said it loud or low, 
 nobody could hear it anyway, an as to the ear o
 
 174 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the Lord I ve my doubts if he could hear in such a 
 pandemonium as that. 
 
 "But that was not half so bad" gulping down a 
 hunk of corn bread with a swallow of coffee "half 
 so bad s it happened a few minutes later. We was 
 listenin to a fine sermon on Mount Sinai, an the 
 preacher was a gettin in the arousements by com- 
 parin the trumpetlike sound from the mountain to 
 the Gospel bugle-blast of to-day and was sayin , My 
 friends, the voice of God calls to you to-day in 
 trumpet tones from heaven, when too-oo-oo-oo! 
 went the milk train roarin down by, like the rays 
 o light. Frum hell, said Zack Tyler, as he nudged 
 me n the ribs. He spoke loud enough to be heard 
 by the preacher, an as soon s the noise stopped the 
 parson continued : Yes, an the devil s hustlin these 
 days, too. Surely he s goin about like a roarin 
 lion. I tell you what, boys, when I hear the clankin 
 o the connectin rod, the rattlin brake irons, an* 
 grindin brakes on a Sunday it makes me feel s if 
 the devil was comin with clankin chains, and a 
 grindin our noses on the very rag wheels o hell. 
 An what s more, we re fools enough to let im rub 
 em on, good an hard." 
 
 "Well, what you blowin about, then?" asked 
 the engineer. "You ain t got to work Sunday 
 f you don t want to. Your nose s s flat s any of 
 our n." 
 
 "I know it. I m s big fool s anyone. But tain t 
 right, jest the same, an don t begin to be nec sary.
 
 Sunday Railroading. 175 
 
 We re all n the same boat. The people could stop 
 Sunday trains if they wanted to. In most States 
 the law s agin it. But because somebody s got a 
 pocket full o mun we take off our hats to em and 
 let em walk over us with copper-toed boots. 
 Twouldn t be so bad if they was liberal with their 
 gains, but they ain t. That little church I mentioned 
 has a lot uptown an away from the racket o the 
 road, but can t afford to build yet. D ye s pose the 
 company d donate a cent ? Not a red ! Stingier n 
 old Squire Squeezer, who used to wash the whiskers 
 he shaved off his brazen face, strain off the water, 
 n bile it down to save the soap. They ll plead 
 poverty an say they can t help every church along 
 the line or they d be bankrupt. The devil ought to 
 pay is way. The company has a right to the 
 ground, but it hain t got a lease on all o God s pure 
 air to fill it with gas an sounds, fit only for the 
 infernal regions, specially on the Lord s " 
 
 "What s that?" shouted one of the brakemen, 
 hurriedly covering his pail and running in the direc 
 tion of the picnic grounds, closely followed by the 
 rest of us. The noise was a bedlam of human- 
 fiendish voices, shouting, cursing, and screaming, a 
 howl that would have done credit to a corps of imps 
 of darkness. 
 
 We soon reached the battlefield, which was 
 drenched with blood and beer. Collarless males 
 with gory faces and females with torn dresses and 
 flowing hair withdrew and were withdrawn one
 
 176 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 from the other all vanquished, all victorious. The 
 fray began with a couple of sports, maudlin to the 
 degree of foolishness, and ended in a free-for-all 
 scrap, in which bottles, bowlders, teeth, tongues, 
 fingers, and fists became weapons of a promiscuous 
 and effective warfare. The police, for their part of 
 the program, rendered a few free numbers and re 
 tired without an encore, carrying their arms and 
 fingers in the manner of a man who had fallen into 
 a cellar drain during the rainy season. One of the 
 cops, who was a good sort of a fellow and was down 
 right mad for he possessed a temper something 
 like yours and mine rather feelingly remarked, 
 still holding his arms akimbo like a scarecrow, "I 
 wish the scum o the city d stay to home !" 
 
 "Say, Mack," replied another, "these are the whey 
 we ve been dealin with ; the cream stays to home." 
 
 A faint smile flitted across the offended man s 
 face and faded to a serio-comic expression, while he 
 again made answer : "That may be so, but I m tired 
 o this Sunday business. Six days o labor is more 
 n I can stand and keep my temper, an when it 
 comes to doin police duty to a pack o hudlums like 
 these it s enough to rile a saint, an I m no saint. I 
 like to go to church myself, an be with my fam ly. 
 There, boys, you go on home, now, like good little 
 men," he shouted pleasantly to a couple of little 
 chaps, who whined out, "We ve come to see you, 
 pa. Ma said we could." 
 
 "This is no place for you to-day, so go on home
 
 Sunday Railroading. 177 
 
 now," and off they trudged, hand in hand, 
 sprinkling the walk with their tears. 
 
 Turning to us, the father resumed : "It s mighty 
 tough to be forced into a place where it ain t fit for 
 one s children to be, and even on Sunday. Two 
 years ago we had as nice a lot of young people here 
 as you d want to see. Since the excursions have run 
 here, an more especially them on Sundays, they 
 seem possessed. Bout all they talk of is the per 
 formances on the picnic ground. The railroad brings 
 up a car o beer an the Park company let them sell 
 it here without a license, and then tell us poor fools 
 to keep the excursionists quiet. Might just as well 
 lay an underground fuse to a ton o dynamite under 
 a dam, set it afire, an tell us to keep the water back. 
 It s devilish business anyway, and I wisht I was out 
 of it," and he sauntered away to a pump as if to 
 wash off the stains that, evidently, he felt and knew 
 were beyond the reach of soap and water. 
 
 "We ll have a jolly gang to-night," carelessly 
 laughed one of my brakemen as we took to cover. 
 The rain came down in torrents and continued for 
 hours. Many of the picnickers sought shelter, and 
 many more seemed oblivious to the waters without 
 on account of the overflow within. We left the 
 station in the rain. Imagine the plight of the 
 passengers. Words are expressionless. In many 
 instances I was forced to enter the pockets of pas 
 sengers to obtain their tickets, they were in such a 
 
 helpless state of intoxication. Several men lay in 
 12
 
 178 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the baggage car like brutes. Near the end of our 
 journey many awoke from their stupor. We locked 
 the doors to keep them from staggering through the 
 aisles from car to car, few being able to cross the 
 platform of the moving train. The work was finally 
 done. Reaching home, I made for my bathtub and 
 prayer room, for I had done dirty work that day 
 and must needs be renewed in body and soul.
 
 A Runaway. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 A Runaway. 
 
 " I Tl 7 HAT you got there, Dempster?" 
 
 X/W "Books!" replied the fat engineer, 
 
 removing the pipe from his mouth as 
 he stopped in front of my gate. "Coin to school 
 now, Billy. To-day s exams, fur us throttle- 
 pullers." 
 
 His manner was imitative of the pride and gusto 
 of a ten-year-old boy. His countenance changed to 
 a serious look, and, leaning over the fence, he con 
 tinued: "I ll tell you my opinion it may be right, 
 it may be wrong it s good enough for me, anyway, 
 between you an me an that black cat over there, 
 these new rules are all humbug. The idea of a man 
 fifty-five years old, who s railroaded it thirty 
 years an knows every spike in the Mountain Divi 
 sion, settin down to a book o rules an learnin the 
 hull thing over again, only a little different. The 
 difference, as far s I can see I may be blind s a 
 bat ain t no improvement, an jest enough to raise 
 the devil. We re havin more wrecks these days 
 than in the history of railroads. Take this book o* 
 rules for the block system they re puttin in now, 
 an a fellow can learn more n one trip over the road 
 than he can ever learn with the book only. I tell
 
 180 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 you railroadin s got to be learned by practice an* 
 not by theory. Goll! I d like to see a crew that 
 had passed an examination from the book in bang- 
 up style start out over a familiar road with nothin 
 new but the semaphores or banjo signals I don t 
 care which an try to go through. The first block 
 would stop the train an every last man would out 
 with his book an compare it with the signal ahead. 
 The crew d look like a lot o boys gazin at a toy 
 balloon. But the system s all right, and the book s 
 all right, but we re goin hind end foremost. You 
 can t beat nothin into these college-bred new 
 managers. They mean well, know enough, an can 
 make books which we old duffers can t, but they 
 need to pound over the road in a freight car a while 
 an they ll know suthin o railroadin . Looks like 
 rain er snow ! Guess I d better jog on." 
 
 Such was the general opinion of the old rail 
 roaders concerning the new management of the 
 road. The pulling of rough, old, tried and true 
 men out onto an ideal system run by men who were 
 largely theoretical in work marked a change so vast 
 that, in spite of everything, accidents frequently 
 occurred. 
 
 I still ran as sort of extra conductor. I had been 
 off duty long enough to get a good sleep. Pulling 
 up to the fire and taking my morning paper, I set 
 tled down to take my ease when a ring at the door 
 bell interrupted. 
 
 "You re wanted immediately to take a train p*
 
 A Runaway. 181 
 
 coal over the mountain," said the call-boy, and he 
 was gone. 
 
 Hastily packing my pail, Annie kissed me good 
 bye and I was gone. The trainmaster met me at 
 the yard. His flushed face revealed a smoldering 
 fire. Something had gone wrong, without a doubt, 
 but, being accustomed to obey orders, I asked no 
 questions. 
 
 "Here, Barson, take this train over the hill to 
 Bryson as wild-cat everything s O. K. to pull out. 
 Blake s your engineer, and 643 will push you," and 
 he was gone. 
 
 Looking up the train, I saw every man at his 
 post and the crew on the pusher, all waiting my 
 move. Giving the signal at once, we steamed out of 
 the siding onto the main track. The pusher bumped, 
 and we were on our way up the mountain. I sat 
 down at the desk and looked over the waybills. 
 Everything was in order. Within a half hour my 
 report was completed, and I rose from the desk. 
 Peering through a window, I saw rain falling, an 
 occasional snowflake or hailstone mingling with it. 
 
 Just then the conductor of the pusher hustled into 
 the caboose. As he shook the sleet from his hat he 
 began: "We re gettin a bad rail to-day, Barson. 
 Guess you ll have some fun down the mountain. 
 D ye know what sort of a trap you ve got your 
 foot in?" 
 
 "Trap?" said I, in astonishment, "what do you 
 mean ? I ve done nothing out of the ordinary."
 
 182 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "No, I know you re all O. K., and if anything 
 happens the boys 11 stand by you, but do you know 
 your crew?" 
 
 "Why, no one but Blake, and I suppose Leet, who 
 fires for him. The others I don t know." 
 
 "You ve got a green crew at the brakes, an* 
 more n that you ve got your tonnage all right." 
 
 "Yes, I noticed we had a heavy load, but we can 
 hold it with twenty cars of air." 
 
 "That may be, but there s a nigger n the fence 
 somewhere. You know this is Al Lindley s reg lar 
 run, an he s a good conductor, none better ner care- 
 fuller. He came out this mornin , got orders, mad$ 
 up his train, saw what he had in train an crew, ari* 
 went back to the trainmaster an said he d like at 
 least one old brakeman or less load. Well, old P. D. 
 flew mad an told im to go with what he had or go 
 home. Then it was Al s turn to flare up, an he 
 flared. All right, says he, Mr. Dictator, I ll go 
 home; and takin up his mittens walked out o the 
 room, leavin the waybills layin on the desk. He 
 came over to the caboose, got his dinner bucket an 
 overcoat, remarkin to a half dozen of us fellers that 
 he d not take the hull rollin stock o the road over 
 the hill for nobody, anyway, with a green crew. 
 .We knew the fat was in the fire. No sooner d Al 
 gone than Mr. P. D. came out smokin like a hot- 
 box. Perkins stood near us quietly pullin on a 
 cigar. The trainmaster reached out his bills to him, 
 sayin , Will you take this train over the mountain ?
 
 A Runaway. 183 
 
 You know Perk s considered one o the levelest 
 heads in the freight service. Well, we held our 
 breath to see what he d say. Says e, without re- 
 movin his hands from his pockets an half squintin 
 as the smoke floated over is eyes, an as cool s a 
 cucumber says e, Not to-day, Mr. Dictator. The 
 old man knew that that meant biz, and sent the call- 
 boy for you. So you see where you be an how ye 
 got there. I tell e, Barson, it s a nasty rail, an if 
 we had much further grade to climb we d stall." 
 
 Buttoning his heavy coat close up to his chin, he 
 opened the door. He hesitated a moment. The 
 cold air rushed in and the sleet sissed over the little 
 stove. Half closing it behind him, he called back: 
 "Good luck to you! A fellow s safer to-day on 
 runners than on wheels," and he was gone. 
 
 In a moment we broke over the summit and drew 
 away from the pusher as it backed in onto the Y. 
 All three brakemen were out on the train. I had 
 cautioned them to keep the speed down to the 
 minimum. The running boards were a glare of ice. 
 Over the coal a thin crust had formed. The brake 
 wheels were slippery and covered with ice also. No 
 man could move on the top of a box car when the 
 train had a speed exceeding thirty miles an hour. 
 Wrapping myself in my thick coat, I climbed to the 
 lookout to see what was going on. I had noticed 
 that the steam was shut off as we ran over the sum 
 mit. When I looked out the engine was popping and 
 the air pump working. However, the speed of the
 
 184 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 train increased. On a straight line I saw Blake pull 
 the engineer s brake handle, but felt no diminution 
 of speed. Not a brakeman had touched a brake 
 wheel. I opened a side window and signaled brakes. 
 The air fairly chilled me to the bone. My coat 
 sleeve was cased in ice. The engineer immediately 
 whistled brakes. The trainmen began to move 
 slowly at their task; they could do no otherwise. 
 The train kept increasing its speed. Another 
 straight line revealed the engineer in the act of ap 
 plying the emergency brake. This I felt a little, 
 and then knew that he had but few cars of air. 
 When he saw the effect of the brakes he seized the 
 reversing lever and, throwing it over, opened the 
 throttle, and pulled the whistle wide open. The en 
 gine screeched like a demon, and, working against 
 the train, rolled and plunged like a race horse, 
 though we were not yet running at more than thirty 
 miles an hour. This was altogether too fast on 
 such a rail, for we were comparatively near the top 
 of the hill. Dropping from the lookout, I sprang 
 for the brake of the caboose and screwed it with all 
 my might. The flakes of ice flew from the rail like 
 hail. Climbing the box car next to the caboose, I 
 tightened that brake but felt it slip. The wheels 
 had been accustomed to the heavy pressure of air 
 and were so smooth that a hand applkation caused 
 little friction. But I twisted it tighter yet. Then I 
 looked over the train. The flagman was down on 
 the cars of coal turning the brake as best he could.
 
 The Runaway Freight. Page 185.
 
 A Runaway. 185 
 
 The two other brakemen were on box cars hanging 
 on for dear life. The fireman came up over the tank 
 and slowly climbed down out of sight to some gon 
 dolas. The engineer flew wildly about the cab, not 
 knowing what to do next. I began to crawl along 
 the running board on my hands and knees. It was 
 slow work. I finally made the length of a car with 
 the loss of a mitten. Clenching the brake wheel, the 
 ice cut into my fingers. To turn was useless, but I 
 turned. The sleet came in sheets. Speed now at 
 least fifty miles an hour the whistle wide open. 
 We were running away. Where each man happened 
 to be at that moment, there he had to remain, pro 
 viding he could grip tight enough, for to move 
 meant to slip, and to let go, instant death. We 
 passed Romono station before I hardly saw it. The 
 operator looked wildly out of the window. I knew 
 he would warn the stations below, if possible, and 
 keep the track clear for us. 
 
 We helplessly waited for we knew not what. 
 Hands were clutching icy brakes and freezing in the 
 grip. Several miles of grade yet lay below us. 
 Would we keep the track? The engine screamed 
 and rocked, the cars creaked and tossed. Now and 
 then a half- fastened door from a box car slipped 
 from its bearings and flew down the mountain side 
 like a shingle in a gale. On a sharp curve the over 
 loaded gondolas of coal hurled their freight into the 
 air like showers of gravel. The brakeman on the 
 coal cars, feeling the coarse black diamond mingling
 
 186 On the Mountain Division, 
 
 with the piercing sleet, closed his eyes and held the 
 tighter. At times the train seemed rounding a curve 
 on its outer wheels. The opposite motion of the 
 next curve righted it. One weak flange meant in 
 stant derailment of everything behind it. 
 
 Past Warren s Siding we flew, and in less than a 
 minute the steeples of Collins appeared. That was 
 the foot of the grade. Just at the entrance to the 
 yard lay a sharp curve, beyond which was a long 
 trestle on a wide curve. Could we pass it ? Wheels 
 could never keep the track at our lightning speed. 
 There was but a moment to dread the curve was 
 in sight. I saw Blake let go the whistle rope and 
 clutch the side of the cab. The long trestle with its 
 dizzy height next loomed up through the flying sleet. 
 The absence of the whistle seemed like the silence 
 before the death shudder. I saw the engine strike 
 the curve and swerve like a plunging war horse. 
 The middle brakeman held to his brake like a frozen 
 corpse, his hat off and long hair stiff behind him, 
 cased in ice. The flagman lay half buried in coal, 
 with white face turned to the sky and bony hands 
 gripping for life. "O God !" I moaned, breathed a 
 prayer, and closed my eyes. 
 
 I held my breath an instant and hung on for dear 
 life as the box car reared on the bend. Another 
 moment and I felt the easy spring, and heard the 
 humming noise, of the steel trestle beneath the 
 wheels. I opened my eyes. The straight track of 
 Collins yard lay before us ? over which we rushed
 
 A Runaway. 187 
 
 like a bullet from a gun. The usual chuck, chuck, 
 and jar of the trucks over the frogs of the switches 
 were scarcely perceptible. We flew, and only God 
 controlled our wings. 
 
 The warmer atmosphere in the valley and the 
 constant use of the tracks in the yard gave us a 
 fairly good rail. I felt the train slacken, and within 
 three miles we came to a standstill. I seemed in a 
 dream. None of us moved until the crew of a train 
 standing on a siding by which we had stopped cried 
 out, "Come right off, boys, and we ll tend to the 
 train." 
 
 We crawled slowly down to the ground. Friendly 
 hands assisted us into the caboose, where we were 
 stripped of our icy garments, rubbed and warmed 
 with the care and tenderness of a mother. Later they 
 took us back to Collins. No. 5 landed us in Coal- 
 ville at six-twenty in -the evening. The trainmaster 
 met us at the platform and gave each of us a hearty 
 hand-shake. His actions meant more than words. 
 He had learned a lesson ; we had. The news of the 
 runaway had spread over the town. A continuous 
 ovation attended our way. 
 
 But the strain was too great. When I reached 
 Annie s arms my nerve gave way. Time will never 
 dim the memory of that wild ride down the Moun 
 tain Division.
 
 188 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A Change* 
 
 "When the green gits back in the trees, and bees 
 
 Is a-buzzin aroun ag in 
 In that kind of lazy go-as-you-please 
 
 Old gait they bum roun in; 
 When the groun s all bald where the hayrick stood, 
 
 And the crick s riz, and the breeze 
 Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, 
 
 And the green gits back in the trees, 
 I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, 
 The time when the green gits back in the trees !" 
 
 YES, it is springtime. The little peach tree in 
 our back yard is full of bloom. Now and 
 then a gentle May breeze hustles through 
 the branches and a cloud of pink flakes go sailing 
 away over the garden. The green bursts out on the 
 trees. The air is laden with the sweetness of May. 
 Everything is quiet. The plants grow, the buds 
 burst, and the fragrance floats. 
 
 I am on a "lay-off." In our sleeping room up 
 stairs Annie lies, white and still, but a smile plays 
 around her mouth. The doctor has just gone. 
 Down in the kitchen Mother Horton and good Mrs. 
 Conrad are rolling up in soft flannels a little 
 wriggling piece of humanity. 
 
 "Be still as any mouse: 
 There s a baby in the house."
 
 A Change. 189 
 
 A boy! Not a brother, but a son. Is it any 
 wonder I go round the house on tiptoe? Even then 
 I cannot attain to the dignity and height that is due 
 me. I am going to lift the fluffy little thing now 
 and carry it up to mamma. How the good old 
 dames smile at my awkwardness and stand with 
 their hands on their hips gazing at me as I ascend 
 the stairway. Think of it! We three! How happy 
 we are ! 
 
 Surely a change has come to our home. Our cup 
 of joy has always been full, but now it is enlarged 
 and overflowing. I have a son, a wife, and a home. 
 Somewhere there is a brother, and so close that, at 
 times, I can almost feel his presence. My fondest 
 hopes are realized, all except finding my elder 
 brother. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, we shall 
 meet meet as railroaders, brothers. 
 
 My first trip over the road after Joe came to live 
 with us we called him Joseph after Grandpa Hor- 
 ton was in charge of an excursion train to Bryson. 
 After reporting and putting away the train I de 
 termined to look up old friends. I had about five 
 hours in town before returning. I stepped into the 
 railroad Y. M. C. A., and to my joy received a 
 warm welcome from my old friend Neely. His 
 voice had the mellowness of yore, and his laugh was 
 the same healthful tonic. 
 
 "I tell you, Billy, I m glad to see you. I know 
 my wife will be, too, and so will mother. She s 
 staying with me now since father died last winter.
 
 190 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 [You must take dinner with us today. Let s see! 
 lYou ve been away from here about five years, hain t 
 you. Hoo ! Don t seem but yesterday I saw you in 
 the roundhouse, as green s grass and as innocent s 
 a lamb." 
 
 A long blast of a locomotive whistle uncon 
 sciously brought our watches from our pockets. 
 "One s on the dot to-day," spoke Neely, as we 
 slowly walked to the window from which we could 
 look down upon the platform of the station and see 
 all who boarded or left the train then coming to a 
 standstill. 
 
 "Jim keeps old 400 as slick s a whistle !" remarked 
 my friend, as he looked over the locomotive with the 
 innate pride of a careful engineer. "I sometimes 
 hanker for the road again, if I could be regular in 
 my habits, but I ve no use for this owling round, 
 day and night, no time, any time, and all the time I 
 say, Billy, ain t that Hank Gilder standing over 
 there by the truck ? There he goes up to the engine 
 and is shaking hands with Shay. Shay s firing 400 
 now. Wa n t he in your crew when Hank conducted 
 for you ?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied, "and that is certainly Hank 
 Gilder," though he appeared like a gentleman, every 
 inch of him. He had left Bryson a half dozen years 
 previously and had not been heard of since. We 
 concluded to watch him and see if he still walked in 
 his old ways. When last known he was a shiftless 
 drunkard. He stood on the platform until No. I
 
 A Change. 191 
 
 was out of sight, and then turned as if wondering 
 what next to do. He glanced at the door of a saloon 
 near by where he had squandered many a month s 
 wages. His facial expression gave evidence that the 
 place had no charm for him any longer. He hailed 
 an old companion who went by toward the fated 
 saloon. At first Gilder was not recognized. Only 
 an instant passed, however, before he was warmly 
 greeted and pulled toward the open door. Gilder s 
 face lighted with a smile. He still held the hand of 
 the laborer, and, pointing toward the room in which 
 we were, said something to his would-be tempter 
 that made him blush with shame. They continued 
 in conversation for some time. When they separated 
 it was with a promise from the tippler, who went 
 straight home, past the open saloon door, while 
 Gilder crossed the court and came up the stairs into 
 the Y. M. C. A. rooms. 
 
 It was a delight to take the hand of a man, well 
 dressed, well kept, clean shaven, with clear eye and 
 complexion, whom I had formerly known as a sot. 
 It needed no logic or philosophy to tell that the grace 
 of God had been at work and had done the job 
 thoroughly. 
 
 "But it s most noon, boys !" broke off Neely, "and 
 wife 11 be looking for us. We ll go up to the house, 
 and then, Hank, after we ve fed the body, you can 
 tell us how it all come about." 
 
 The Neely home was perfectly familiar. We 
 spent a delightful hour at the table. Adjourning to
 
 192 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the sitting room, we three railroad men romanced, 
 yarned, and visited. Gilder told a five-year-long 
 story of absolute happiness. He had gone West 
 aimlessly and almost hopelessly. Wandering one 
 night about the railway station in Omaha, money 
 less, cold, and hungry, a railroad Y. M. C. A. secre 
 tary slipped an arm into his and led him into the 
 comfortable rooms of that organization. Once more 
 treated like a man, his better nature responded to 
 the kindness. In less than a week he was soundly 
 converted to God and braking on a freight train. 
 He immediately wrote his family what had hap 
 pened, and promised them money for their fares 
 .West after the first pay. He kept his promise, and 
 within a year was as comfortable in a rented house 
 as any king on earth, and conducting on a fast 
 freight. For the last two years he had conducted a 
 passenger train, and now owned a fine home in the 
 suburbs of Omaha. Two weeks before his arrival 
 in Bryson his train had been wrecked by the care 
 lessness of a drunken engineer on another train. The 
 nervous shock and other injuries received in the 
 smash-up necessitated a two months leave of ab 
 sence. Hence he was resting in the East among old 
 friends and scenes. 
 
 "No, Ot!" he exclaimed at the conclusion, "I 
 wouldn t exchange for the old life if the universe 
 was laid at my feet as mine. By the way, what s 
 become of Phil Schleaser?" 
 
 "O, he got into a wreck about a year ago and left
 
 A Change. 193 
 
 the road. I think he s running that old groggery 
 up at the Junction." 
 
 "Too bad ! I always liked Phil, but he had too 
 good an opinion of himself and of his own powers. 
 He ll find out some day that his moderation will be 
 his damnation. Maybe he s found it out already. I 
 once admired his ability to drink and to keep sober 
 and cool at the same time, but it drove me to the 
 wall. I d been a different man long before if there 
 had been a different man at the reversing lever." 
 
 "Look here, Gilder !" I interrupted, "go up to the 
 Junction with me this afternoon and see Schleaser. 
 It will do him good to look you over again." 
 
 "It s a bargain, my boy ! When do you leave?" 
 
 "Three-thirty!" 
 
 "All right! I ll be around. Must go over now 
 to see my wife s folks a minute to let them know 
 I m here. Will see you again, Ot, before I go 
 back. Farewell, old boy !" and the happy Christian 
 departed. 
 
 For some time we sat in silence. At last Neely 
 exclaimed, "Behold what God hath wrought!" 
 
 Two minutes before leaving time, while I stood 
 talking with my engineer, I felt a light touch on 
 my arm and an "O. K., Billy," rang in my ear as 
 Gilder entered the baggage car. 
 
 We ran extra and our first stop was Sandy Junc 
 tion. The board stood against us. At the office I 
 received orders to wait for No. 4, after which pro 
 ceed on the east-bound track to Canope. There hadf 
 13
 
 194 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 been an accident to a coaler on the west-bound track. 
 That would delay us fifteen minutes if No. 4 was on 
 time. A moment later the Philadelphia train pulled 
 into the Junction and discharged her passengers. 
 Among them was Schleaser, blear-eyed and swag 
 gering. The quick eye of Gilder took in the situa 
 tion at once. He met his old engineer as he stepped 
 to the platform and took the proffered hand as ten 
 derly as a mother with a "Well, Phil, how goes the 
 battle?" 
 
 The little dark fellow shoved his broad-brimmed 
 hat over his left ear, squinted his eyes in the old 
 characteristic manner, and, standing unsteadily, 
 looked his friend over. He recognized in Gilder the 
 man whom he had booted into the caboose for being 
 drunk. 
 
 "Ah-ah-h! Ah-h! I see! Hank, old bones, how 
 air ye? Didn t know y at first, with yer b lt shirt 
 an broadcloth. Come over t house house an* 
 have suthin fur auld auld lang syne. Me an 
 the road s had a fallin out an an I m keepin a 
 little biz over here on the on the corner. Hank 
 say, don t tell nobody, but see that my feet s I 
 can t confound it ! control em !" 
 
 Gilder gently led him away from the crowd and 
 drew him down on a baggage truck at the rear of 
 the building. He kindly refused the entreaties "to 
 take something," for Schleaser had even offered him 
 from the bottle he carried along with him "in case 
 o mergency."
 
 A Change. 195 
 
 I left them alone and strolled back into the office. 
 "Four s ten minutes late, Barson," said the operator. 
 That gave me fifteen minutes yet to wait. 
 
 In the meantime the engine of the Philadelphia 
 train had been turned and was coupling on. I 
 leisurely watched the proceedings until the brakeman 
 had finished the coupling and stepped back from be 
 tween the car and the tender, calling out from the 
 opposite side of the train, "All right, Charlie! Try 
 the air!" 
 
 I saw the tubes throb and relax as the release let 
 the air out hissing, and, turning on my heel, walked 
 back to the rear of the train and entered into con 
 versation with the conductor. The entire crew were 
 strangers to me. Looking down the train (I can 
 see him as plainly as if it were but yesterday), I 
 took particular notice of the youthfulness of the 
 engineer, who had left his cab and stood with the 
 fireman watching Gilder and Schleaser. 
 
 "Your engineer looks almost like a boy," I re 
 marked to the conductor. 
 
 "He does appear boyish in looks, but he s every 
 inch a man at the throttle. He s a " 
 
 A rush of the crowd around the corner in the 
 direction of the truck interrupted our conversation. 
 The throng gathered to watch the sorrowful and de 
 bauched face of Schleaser, wet with tears. He 
 wailed in an agony of grief over a stinging con 
 science. Gilder had talked to him so kindly and yet 
 so truthfully that his sins appeared to him like
 
 196 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 demons. With a groan and a spring he jumped 
 from the truck, drew the bottle from his pocket, and 
 hurled it from him with all his might, crying, "God 
 helpin me, I ll never touch another drop no, not 
 another nip!" 
 
 Simultaneously from the other side of the plat 
 form rose a scream. A girl of perhaps ten years of 
 age staggered and fell with blood streaming from a 
 deep cut in her cheek where the cruel bottle had 
 landed. The young engineer seized her and carried 
 her to the waiting room just as No. 4 whistled and I 
 hurried away to my train.
 
 Another Change. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Another Change. 
 
 " y^~> OOD-BYE, papa! Sthe me go bellyflap- 
 
 I T per, lickity jingle, wight into our yard!" 
 
 ^ ^ And away went five-year-old Joe down 
 the hill and straight through the gate. The same 
 motion that brought him to his feet also scooped 
 some snow into his mouth with a red mitten, as he 
 shouted again and waved his hand, "Good-bye, 
 papa !" 
 
 Just behind him, in the window, beamed the face 
 of Annie. On her knee, with white nose flattened 
 on the window pane, sat little year-and-a-half-old 
 Jennie, swinging her arms and laughing at 
 "bruver in no." 
 
 I was on my way to work and had drawn Joe on 
 his sled to the top of the grade in the alley and 
 watched him coast down a thing he never did un 
 less I was near to see that he had no collision with 
 passing teams or pedestrians. This was a rare treat 
 for the little fellow, and especially with his new 
 sled, a recent gift from Santa Claus. When alone 
 he played contentedly in the back yard, but with 
 papa it was his delight to "wide in e ally." 
 
 Waving an adieu to the sweet trio, at the foot of 
 the slope I turned my steps toward the station. I
 
 198 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 now conducted on two through trains, 2 and 7, 
 leaving Coalville at 9 A. M., and returning at mid 
 night. I made the trip three times a week, always 
 off on Sunday. 
 
 The wind blew piercingly from the northeast, 
 cutting to the very bone. An occasional flake of 
 snow whisked by like skirmishers before a great 
 battle. Buttoning my coat tighter, and musing that 
 the weather forecast was snow, I quickened my pace. 
 
 Coming from the west the train was full. Many 
 were returning from their holiday visits, and among 
 others a dozen or more students to their several 
 places of learning. We could scarcely get along 
 without the college boys and girls, their merry wit 
 and genial manners ; yet, like all other flocks, it has 
 some black sheep. It may be of necessity or other 
 wise. They are there, at any rate. 
 
 I was busy for several stations and aside from 
 collecting and punching tickets noted nothing but 
 the happy greetings of friends. In an hour the 
 rush was over. The laugh and shouts of the jolly 
 boys subsided and the conversation hushed to the 
 low hum-buzz so familiar to a railway day coach. 
 Chums naturally fell together. Minutes whirled 
 away as they planned what they would "take up 
 next term." The delegation represented several in 
 stitutionseach championing his own as supreme. 
 Two from old Wesleyan withstood three from Yale, 
 while one each from Columbia, Brown, Princeton, 
 and Harvard kept the pace for his alma mater. Ere-
 
 Another Change. 199 
 
 long this grew monotonous. The conversational 
 topic became the weather, now made conspicuous by 
 a blizzard sweeping over the barren mountain region 
 through which we ran. This turned the discussions 
 to winter scenes, sleigh rides, and sobered them up 
 with home memories. While one long-winded, love-i 
 sick fellow spun his yarn with the flourish of a fop, 
 a curly-headed humorist from Wesleyan slid down 
 into the cushions with his knees against the seat 
 ahead, and, pulling his soft hat over his eyes, began 
 softly to hum "Stars of the Summer Night," so fa 
 miliar to every collegian. A long-necked fellow 
 from Yale moaned his basso profundo, and across 
 the aisle the Princetonian and Columbian with first 
 bass and tenor. The fop was in the midst of the 
 most exciting scenes of his sleigh-ride when the 
 quartet, having felt their way until satisfied that they 
 had the key and could pull out a swell or two, burst 
 into full tone. The story ended. With that as a 
 starter the boys sang on, from the "Bulldog on the 
 Bank" ad infinitum. Two of the Yale boys who 
 could not sing finally proposed a smoke. Jerking 
 the bright-faced lad from Brown, they said, "Come 
 on, Ben. You ll take a hand! Come on!" 
 
 Bennie shook his head and a pink tinge crept into 
 his cheeks. 
 
 "What s e matter? Been to church or are you 
 tied to ma s apron strings ?" 
 
 The pink deepened to crimson and faded to ashy 
 whiteness. His eyes flashed as he spoke, so that the
 
 200 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 tempter knew what he meant: "I m done with the 
 smoker and the whole outfit. I may be tied to 
 mother s apron string, certainly not to you." 
 
 "Hell ne er devised a blacker art 
 
 Than that which seeks to smother 
 The fires that glow in youth s warm heart 
 
 Of loyalty to mother ! 
 And heaven no brighter ornament 
 
 Has given our race, my brother, 
 Than that brave son whose confidante 
 
 And sweetheart is his mother !" 
 
 The curly-headed singer started "Home, Sweet 
 Home." Four of the others rose and went forward 
 into the smoker. When the quartet concluded the 
 song many faces were turned to the storm without 
 the rushing train, and an occasional tear stole down 
 the cheeks of elderly persons, who, in memory, lived 
 over the happy scenes of childhood and youth. 
 
 We stopped at Netherton, the storm still raging 
 furiously. Only an old mountaineer, who entered 
 the smoker, boarded the train. When I left the day 
 coach to get his ticket the quartet was singing 
 "Where is My Wandering Boy To-night ?" I found 
 four wanderers, wreathed in the noxious fumes of 
 cigarettes, gathered about a board and engaged in 
 a game of pedro. My heart ached for them. If 
 mothers had only known where the boys were, 
 and if the boys had only known the heartaches 
 of the mothers, how different might have been the 
 scene. An hour passed. Wine had gone around,
 
 Another Change. 201 
 
 Eyes usually calm and steady grew red and 
 blinking. Cheeks flushed. The hollow laugh went 
 round. 
 
 Near them sat four men who poured out the wine 
 in quantities and played for stakes with steadier 
 nerves, a coolness and deliberation that meant ulti 
 mate destruction to player and a stumbling-block to 
 the youths who witnessed the game. Their habits 
 were fixed ; the boys were learning how imitators, 
 objects of pity, they. 
 
 At the railway terminus the students went their 
 several ways. How different the two groups ! Had 
 there been a banker or railroad president on board 
 the train that day, to which company would he have 
 intrusted his wealth or responsibility? To me, an 
 ordinary railroader, life is made up of little things, 
 the innumerable threads of warp and woof. Every 
 movement flies the shuttle and trails a fiber of char 
 acter, either of use or abuse, of righteousness or sin, 
 of beauty or deformity. The end of life reveals a 
 fabric of usefulness, cleanliness, and beauty propor 
 tionate to the filaments of gold woven therein. Time 
 runs the loom that never ceases its clanking until the 
 eternal whistle blows "quit" and the machinery stops 
 forever. 
 
 "We ll not see our sweethearts to-night, Billy," 
 said my engineer to me when I handed him our 
 orders at Bryson. "Statler just come over the 
 mountain and says the cuts is fillin like smoke an* 
 it s a snowin an blowin like a two-year-old blis-
 
 202 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 zard. We ll be apt to git a couple o helpers at 
 Collins an a snowplow to boot. If we can t go over 
 then we ll sock er right through the top o 
 the hill." 
 
 On account of the heavy storm, and consequently 
 few passengers, we had but four coaches and a helper 
 to Collins. There a snowplow and another locomo 
 tive hooked on. The wires somewhere over the 
 hill were down, but we knew that no freight would 
 move, and, besides, we had the right of way. On 
 we lumbered. At times the plow buried itself in the 
 drifts. 
 
 Three miles beyond Notchview was a cut noted 
 for its ability to collect snow. Temporary drift- 
 fences had been placed along its sides, and we hoped 
 to find it comparatively clear. Running as we were 
 on the west-bound track, we caught the heaviest 
 drifts, for the wind blew from the northeast. This 
 proved the exact quarter for the wind to miss the 
 fence and fill the cut. We rushed the bank at full 
 speed. The train slowed. More steam was ap 
 plied. The heavy pressure forced the plow further 
 and further, slower and slower, until it stopped. 
 Silence reigned. It was broken by the gale that 
 howled and whistled around, over, and between the 
 cars, while the snow poured onto the north side of 
 the train in solid sheets. Jumping and catching the 
 bell rope for I was too short of stature to reach it 
 ordinarily I signaled to back. Toot-toot-toot! 
 came from one engine, then another, and another,
 
 Another Change. 203 
 
 growing fainter and fainter, until the whistle from 
 the plow sounded muffled in a snowdrift. This was 
 followed by a pop from one locomotive, then an 
 other. We did not lack for steam. We heard the 
 steam hissing from the cylinder cocks as if escaping 
 into a cave. A moment passed. We moved a little 
 and finally backed out onto a fill, where it seemed 
 that the wind would lift the train from the track. 
 The passengers crowded about me and plied me with 
 a dozen questions at a time. My only answer was 
 that we were going through if possible, and, if not, 
 we would be perfectly safe in the cars until relief 
 came. 
 
 We were yet on a little upgrade, with less than an 
 eighth of a mile for a flying start. The flag was out 
 a few rods, but no living being was safe very far 
 from shelter that night. We slowly backed to the 
 last drift we had passed on our way up. I signaled 
 "Go ahead !" The drivers had scarcely time to clear 
 themselves from the snow before they were into it 
 again. This time we went a little further. About 
 one more buck we thought would put us through. 
 When we backed the second time the snowplow 
 was found to be off the rails. This delayed us so 
 long that before we were ready to move again the 
 cut was as full as ever with the hard-packed snow at 
 the bottom. Another forward move was useless. 
 We backed onto the fill, kept steam at good pressure 
 through the cars, and turned in for the night, re 
 lieving the flagman at brief intervals, though we
 
 204 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 were sure nothing would reach us that night but 
 Boreas and his feathered ice. 
 
 Toward morning the wind sank to a breeze, 
 shifted to the west, and died. The clouds broke, 
 separated, and scurried away. Stars twinkled in the 
 deep blue, like glinting diamonds. Orion had one 
 foot below the western horizon when faint streaks of 
 dawn appeared over the eastern mountain, like sun- 
 tipped bayonets above frowning battlements of 
 marble. The east kindled and flashed, brightened 
 and glowed until the sun, glorious in its garments 
 of fire, rolled above the cold, white mountain ridge. 
 The purple in the west had faded with the stars. 
 Three colors predominated blue above, white be 
 low, gilded with the golden shafts of the sun. Far 
 down the mountain slope a column of blue smoke 
 curled skyward, locating the home of a mountaineer. 
 were stranded on a snowy, frozen, billowy sea.
 
 BROTHERHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 A dew. 
 
 WE could do nothing but wait. Fortune 
 favored us in that the buffet car had 
 not been cut out at Collins. We were 
 in no immediate danger from starvation. Two miles 
 of snow lay between us and the summit, the nearest 
 station, and for all we knew the nearest dwelling. 
 One of our brakemen, a strong young man, volun 
 teered to go over and seek news from the outside 
 world. We who remained behind organized into a 
 mutual benefit society and established the system of 
 community of goods; at least, as far as food was 
 concerned. The best of humor prevailed. Conver 
 sation sprang up between strangers, strangeness 
 grew into acquaintance, acquaintance ripened into 
 friendship. Stories and laughter went the rounds. 
 The children romped, the young people billed and 
 cooed, and the old folks visited. 
 
 A little apart from the others I entered into con 
 versation with a middle-aged man who once had 
 been a railroader. In a wreck he became disabled 
 by losing a part of a foot. When I met him he rep-
 
 206 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 resented a Chicago wholesale house. Not many 
 minutes passed before I bored him with my hobby 
 an elder brother. He listened patiently, even 
 with interest. 
 
 "Where were you from, originally?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, I don t know," I answered. "My first 
 recollection is of an old house not very many miles 
 from an orphanage in eastern Pennsylvania. I pre 
 sume I m a native of that State. As for my rela 
 tives, I never knew of any." 
 
 "Your name is Barson?" he continued. "Well, 
 that s an odd name. I never heard it before. There 
 is something about your motions, though, that re 
 minds me of somebody I ve seen, but I can t for the 
 life of me tell who. Your features seem familiar, 
 too, except those pockmarks pardon the allusion. 
 I m not superstitious in the least, and therefore have 
 not much faith in your feeling or presentiment, or 
 whatever you call it. It would be strange, however, 
 if you had no relatives in the world. I don t know 
 of anyone s being born without at least one father 
 and one mother. It would be in the course of nature 
 to have brothers and sisters. I ll remember you and 
 keep my eyes open. If anything does turn up I ll 
 let you know," he concluded, as I hurried out for 
 news. 
 
 The scout had returned. Several lads from Sum 
 mit accompanied him. They brought more pro 
 visions and reported the road open through from 
 Summit and a hundred or more laborers with shovels
 
 A Clew. 207 
 
 working toward us. The wind had done its heaviest 
 work just over the brow of the mountain where we 
 lay snowbound. Several miles down the slope we 
 saw the steam from a locomotive toiling along in 
 our rear, now stopping, now proceeding. Noon 
 passed. The dinner hour was well seasoned with 
 jokes. Keen appetites added zest to the repast. We 
 anticipated a speedy liberation from blockade duties. 
 The sun hung low in the west, and not a sign of a 
 human being came near us except an old hunter and 
 his dog. Which of the two was the more surprised 
 at seeing us snugly tucked up in a snowbank is hard 
 to tell. The dog sniffed and barked a few times, 
 each bark raising him from his forefeet like the re 
 coil of a gun. The hunter slowly slipped his rifle 
 from his shoulder, as if he had sighted a deer. He 
 shifted an enormous quid of the weed to the other 
 cheek, defiled the beautiful snow with expectoration, 
 doffed his greasy hat sufficiently to scratch his 
 greasier head, and, with a farewell squint of his 
 bullet eyes, shouldered his gun and waded off down 
 the mountain, followed by the satisfied cur. 
 . Just at sunset report came that the shovelers were 
 in the last drift ahead of us. An engine and snow- 
 plow soon followed them. We watched the crescent 
 new moon hang in the amber west like a silver 
 censer. Slowly the moon slipped out of sight be 
 hind the cold mountain tops, softened by the purple 
 shadows. We lighted the lamps and ate the last 
 assignment of rations. The twilight and lamplight
 
 208 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 sobered us. The children were tucked away in quiet 
 corners. One loving mother sang a low, sw/eet 
 lullaby to a nursing infant. Bundling into my 
 greatcoat, I went forward to note the progress of 
 the relief corps. Everything was done that could 
 be done. At the present the outlook was that mid 
 night would still find us on the fill. At 10 o clock a 
 headlight shone on the rear of our train. The 
 slumbering passengers roused to inquire what had 
 happened, and, on being informed, snuggled down 
 into the seats again and dozed off to dream of home 
 and friends. 
 
 At one o clock the roadmaster told me that the 
 road was clear. The locomotives had been carefully 
 looked over, and all couplings carefully examined 
 and tested. Swinging my lantern from the front 
 platform, we started. The drift that had blocked 
 us was above the top of the train as we passed 
 through it. After thirty hours of delay we again 
 sped over the rails. 
 
 At the summit the two helpers and snowplow 
 were taken off. We took water and rumbled on 
 down the mountain, a long grade of forty miles .to 
 Coalville. We had passed Rio, the last stop before 
 the end of our division. I had gone through the 
 cars and sat down to assort and arrange my tickets 
 when my drummer acquaintance came to me in evi 
 dent excitement : 
 
 "Say, conductor, Fve thought of that fellow and 
 where I saw him. I dozed off a while ago and he
 
 A Clew. 209 
 
 came back to me like a flash. Then I seemed to be 
 awake and had not been to sleep at all. But it s all 
 straight in my mind now, anyhow. By George! I 
 believe he s your brother, too, come to think 
 about it." 
 
 "Well, I want to know all about him," I ex 
 claimed. "Go on !" 
 
 "It was about five years ago I was running with 
 a crew whose fireman was a little fellow, little larger 
 than you, and I ll be hanged if he didn t look like 
 you perhaps a little better-looking. But his name 
 was Parson Charlie Parson and he was quite a 
 parson, too. He was a dandy, as good a lad as 
 ever heaved coal. He never said anything about 
 himself or his folks, only as he was asked. I 
 pumped this much out of him one day, that his 
 parents were dead, and that he once had a younger 
 brother who died in infancy." 
 
 Too-oo-oo-oo ! 
 
 "There s the whistle for Coalville, where I must 
 leave you. Can t you stay with me to-night? I 
 want to know more about this Parson you tell of." 
 
 "No ! I ought to have been in Buffalo yesterday. 
 Can t possibly remain along the road a minute. Tell 
 you what I ll do. When I get home I ll write the 
 engineer and conductor of our crew and find where 
 the little fellow is, and then I ll let you know 
 at once." 
 
 "That ill do," I said, "but don t be fooling about 
 
 it. I want the facts in the case, and quick, too. 
 14
 
 2 10 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Shall look for a letter from you every day till it 
 comes. Good-bye! Stop off sometime when you 
 come this way again," and slipping a dollar into his 
 hand for postage, which he returned, "immediately 
 and at once," as Samantha Allen would say, I hur 
 ried away. 
 
 Never did home seem so like home as it did that 
 morning. I was tired and worn out, but could not 
 sleep for thoughts of my elder brother.
 
 Suspense. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 Suspense* 
 
 YOU, my reader, know the feeling when the 
 messenger boy hands you a telegram. 
 Instantly you think over the wide circle of 
 friends and ask yourself, What can be the news 
 within? Is it good or is it bad? Who is the for 
 tunate or the unfortunate ? It seemed that I carried 
 around in my hand a telegram the seal of which I 
 could not break. For weeks I waited. Not one word 
 came from the traveling man concerning my elder 
 brother, though news of him was of the utmost im 
 portance to me. The months dragged on in awful 
 suspense. 
 
 At last I wrote a letter of inquiry to the address 
 of my friend. Within a week I received a note from 
 his wife that her husband for a long time had been 
 lying at the point of death in a hospital at St. Louis, 
 there from injuries received in a trolley wreck. She 
 knew nothing about my case. I could read between 
 the lines that her own heart was breaking. My 
 suspense was not to be compared for a moment with 
 hers. In fact, her sorrow relieved me, and hope yet 
 lighted my way. Bitterness against the honest 
 drummer vanished, and only sympathy for his griev 
 ing wife remained. With the last drifts lying upon
 
 212 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the northern hills leaking away their lives, and with 
 the smiling liverwort and arbutus pushing up from 
 the warming earth, I became myself again. Later 
 on came those soft, smoky days when the brooks 
 murmur sweetly and the harbingers of summer 
 warbled from every tree top. The patches of 
 winter grain grew green, and the plowman whistled 
 behind the lazy horses as he followed along the hill 
 side in the fresh furrows. I felt much as James 
 Whitcomb Riley must have felt when he wrote : 
 
 "When the whole tail-feathers o Wintertime 
 
 Is all pulled out and gone, 
 And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, 
 
 And the swet it starts out on 
 A feller s forred, a-gittin down 
 
 At the old spring on his knees 
 I kind o like jest a-loaferin roun 
 
 When the green gits back in the trees 
 Jest a-potterin roun as I-dum-please 
 When the green, you know, gits back in the trees !" 
 
 Every trip we made was through a changeable 
 world. May came and went so quickly that before 
 we knew it everything was 
 
 "Jest a-bilin full of June, 
 
 From the rattle of the cricket, to the yallar-hammer s tune ; 
 And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the snag, 
 Seems ef they can t od-rot- em ! jist do nothin else but 
 brag!" 
 
 During that delightful month Annie and the chil 
 dren spent a fortnight up at Summerfield. Little 
 Joe was overanxious to visit his grandparents.
 
 Suspense. 213 
 
 "There s too much said about my clothes, 
 
 The scoldin s never done 
 I m goin back down to gran pa s, 
 
 Where a boy kin have some fun. 
 
 "I guess my gran pa s lonesome, 
 
 I don t care what you say; 
 I seen him kinder cryin 
 
 When you took me away. 
 
 "When you talk to me of heaven, 
 
 Where all the good folks go, 
 I guess I ll go to gran pa s, 
 
 An we ll have good times, I know." 
 
 I remained home just long enough to sleep, and 
 it was not very sound sleeping at that. Good 
 Mother Conrad she was growing childish, you 
 know thought I acted as crazy as when I boarded 
 with her before my marriage. I took my meals with 
 her while my family was away. 
 
 I had just taken up my Christian Advocate on 
 Sunday afternoon, when the doorbell rang. I 
 opened the door and ushered in a brother conductor, 
 who, seating himself, began : "Well, Barson, know 
 ing that you were alone and a long afternoon to wear 
 away, I thought I d drop in, chat a minute, and then 
 we d go down to the brotherhood meeting. How d 
 that strike you?" 
 
 "Why," said I, "the brotherhood meets at nine- 
 thirty in the morning. I ve been there already, and 
 as to being lonesome it s all out of the question when 
 I have the old Advocate around." 
 
 "You re mistaken about the brotherhood, just the
 
 214 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 same. You re a member of the Brotherhood of 
 Railway Conductors, aren t you?" 
 
 "O yes! I see now. I was thinking of the 
 Brotherhood of St. Paul. By the way, Frank, you 
 belong to our church, don t you?" 
 
 "Certainly!" with a squint and a reflective atti 
 tude. "I ve been a member of the old Embury 
 Methodist Episcopal Church for about thirty-five 
 years. I m a trustee now." 
 
 "How does it happen that you never joined the 
 brotherhood or don t ever come to class meeting?" 
 
 "One brotherhood is all I can attend. That takes 
 the best part of the Sunday afternoon I m off duty, 
 and I take the forenoon to catch up sleep I lose the 
 night before." 
 
 "Why, man, you get in four hours ahead of me 
 Saturday nights, and I never think of missing the 
 first morning service at the church. As to the 
 brotherhood, I can t attend but one either, although 
 I m a member of that of the conductors simply for 
 the financial benefit derived from it in case of acci 
 dent. I keep my dues paid, and as for attending 
 their meetings I never will as long as they are held 
 on Sunday." 
 
 "You might just as well attend lodge as to work 
 for the company." 
 
 "That s so, too, but I don t work on Sunday. I 
 told the company once that I wouldn t, and they ve 
 never bothered me since. I m not saying anything 
 against you or any man working on the Sabbath,
 
 Suspense. 215 
 
 much less the brotherhood for meeting that day. 
 There s only one person I pretend to control. It is 
 just as much Sabbath-breaking for me to attend the 
 brotherhood as it is to go in my back yard and chop 
 wood. It would answer the purpose as well and even 
 better if the meetings alternated between Tuesday 
 and Wednesday nights. That would give every 
 member a chance to be there at least half the time, 
 and many of them at every meeting. There would 
 be a better attendance then, I dare say, than at pres 
 ent. This Sunday business, as a necessity, is, to me, 
 all nonsense. You know the C. O. & B. run excur 
 sions every Sunday up the Western Division about 
 forty miles to Chehocton Lake. Now, see here ! Our 
 presiding elder, who travels over the road every 
 week in the year, has to pay a dollar and a half for 
 a round-trip ticket to that place for the purpose of 
 encouraging the good country folk who are overrun 
 every Sunday by the excursionists. The Sabbath- 
 breakers who go over a Sabbath-breaking road pay 
 only fifty cents for a ride that costs a conscientious 
 man of God three times as much. Even if they issue 
 him a half- fare clerical ticket and you know those 
 tickets have been discontinued it would not be as 
 low as the Sunday ticket. Where s the justice? I ll 
 work my best for the company six days in the week 
 and take every cent they ll give me for my wages. 
 There our contract ends. I ve no right to lease to 
 man the time that belongs to God. I d just as soon 
 work for the company at their business on Sunday,
 
 216 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 however, as to attend the conductors brotherhood, 
 which is my individual, secular affair. I can t run 
 everything to suit me, and I m glad of it, but I know 
 this one thing, that, as far as in me lies, I ll run 
 Billy Barson just as straight as a string." 
 
 "Did you hear of Johnny Tanitor s misfortune?" 
 my visitor asked, shifting uneasily in his chair. 
 "No! What s the matter with him?" 
 "He was discharged last week. I saw him yester 
 day and he hasn t the faintest inkling what his 
 offense was, unless he had passed a spotter. Johnny 
 is not as old a man as I am he s about forty-five, 
 and hasn t been bounced on account of age. He s 
 a good-hearted fellow and can t say no to anyone 
 who pleads for a ride. In these days a fellow s got 
 to obey orders and keep everybody off the train who 
 ain t got a pass or a ticket. I wouldn t dare pass my 
 mother. Only yesterday a chap boarded my train 
 down the road a ways. He handed me a ticket that 
 was O. K. As I came through the car a station 
 afterward he pulled back his coat and revealed the 
 neck of a bottle. He was in the rear of the last car 
 and behind all the passengers. The scamp actually 
 tried to get me to drink. I never drink off or on 
 duty, and thought nothing of the incident until we 
 passed the next station, at which he got off the 
 train, when his ticket called for a through passage. 
 I m just as positive now that he was a spotter as 
 that I am sitting here. Can t be too careful these 
 days,"
 
 Suspense. 217 
 
 "That s so, Frank. A little incident happened 
 last night that aroused my suspicions along this line. 
 We stopped at Collins as usual. I superintended 
 the coupling on of the helper and one thing and an 
 other, and took no notice of who boarded the train. 
 .When I took up the tickets a fellow sat in one of 
 the seats with his hat pulled down over his ears as 
 if sound asleep. I passed him first, stopped, looked 
 over the car, thought a while, went back and shook 
 him a little. Ticket, please/ says I. He yawned 
 as if waking from a long sleep. A bewildered ex 
 pression crossed his countenance. I knew he had 
 just come in and that he was playing possum. It 
 beats all how quickly some folks go to sleep/ I 
 growled. At that he threw out a quarter, just the 
 fare to Romono, where he left me. He was a bright 
 man and, I m positive, in the employ of the company. 
 As you say, a fellow s got to keep his eye peeled." 
 
 "Did I ever tell you the scrape I got into a year 
 ago, Billy? It was one night coming up on No. 
 9. Two of the toughest rogues I ever dealt with 
 boarded the train at New York. They had through 
 second-class tickets. Both were pretty full just 
 enough to know what they were doing and doing 
 it coolly, cunningly, and meaner than the very devil. 
 I found them in one of the day coaches and when I 
 punched their tickets I told them to go into the 
 smoker at the next station. They said they would, 
 and they did, but when I passed through the train 
 again they were in the old places,
 
 218 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 " Didn t I tell you to go into the smoker at the 
 last station? I ripped out pretty sharply. 
 
 "One of them, with an eye like a hawk and face 
 like a beer mug, respectfully replied, Yes, sir ! We 
 did/ 
 
 " Well/ says I, you go forward at the next stop 
 and stay there, too/ 
 
 "After the next stop I found the hawk-eyed fellow 
 alone in the old nest. Didn t I tell you to stay in 
 the smoker ? I blurted out, mad as a hornet. 
 
 " Yes, sir/ he politely replied, as he winked at an 
 old gentleman across the aisle, and I did stay there 
 another wink till I came out again/ 
 
 "I seized him by the collar and started him for 
 the door. He came on easy, wearing a broad smile. 
 
 " What ye going to do with me ? he asked, as I 
 opened the door. 
 
 " Put you in the smoker and keep you there, too, 
 and if I find you in here again I ll put you off the 
 train/ 
 
 " Hold on ! he shouted so that everybody in the 
 car heard him, stop the train. I ll have you arrested 
 if you compel me to pass over the platform while 
 the train s in motion/ 
 
 "The passengers burst into a laugh, and I burst 
 into a heat. But I wouldn t stop the train, and the 
 scoundrel was so cool about the matter that I didn t 
 know just what he would or would not do. So I 
 shook his collar a little as a smirky smile played 
 over his rum-blossomed face, and I remarked to him
 
 Suspense. 219 
 
 that he would be arrested if he played any more of 
 his smartness on me. 
 
 "He calmly sat down and I passed on through the 
 car. The passengers had no use for the rascal, yet 
 they enjoyed the fun a good deal better than I did. 
 
 "Things ran smoothly for a while. He behaved 
 like a gentleman. At the next stop he went out, I 
 don t know where, but I was satisfied that his pranks 
 were at an end. I didn t find him in the smoker. 
 That raised my anger. You know I m a pretty big 
 fellow, and when I m mad I can make the fur fly. 
 I made up my mind it would fly, too, if I got hold 
 of that scamp again. 
 
 "Well, I entered the car where he had been, and 
 there, by Jocks! he was again, his old slouch hat 
 pulled down over his face and the second-class ticket 
 sticking up over its greasy band. The passengers 
 saw it and were on the watch for the coming fracas. 
 
 "I made for him like a hawk at a chicken and 
 jerked him into the aisle till his heels cracked, when, 
 by the jumping up, John Rogers, if I didn t have an 
 innocent old man by the collar and that imp was in 
 the next seat behind peeking over the rim of his hat 
 and taking in the sights with as much interest as a 
 small boy watching a dog fight. 
 
 "The old man was sound asleep when I woke him. 
 He demanded an explanation. I saw the bait that I 
 had bitten and explained to him my mistake. That 
 infernal hound had quietly slipped his ticket in the 
 old man s hat and the old man s ticket into his own
 
 220 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 hat, and there being a similarity in the hats I took 
 the bait like a trout takes a fly. I mollified the old 
 gentleman amid roars of laughter, and then, turning 
 to my respected passenger, said, loud enough to be 
 heard over the car, A man of supreme gall, like you, 
 ought to have a pass over every road in the United 
 States. Ride where you please/ and I passed on." 
 
 "It s four o clock," says I, "and I guess we d 
 better go down to the Association rooms." 
 
 Rising and fastening the doors, we strolled down 
 the street. At the square he turned off to the 
 brotherhood rooms, and I proceeded on to the 
 Young Men s meeting. The subject of the after 
 noon was "The Elder Brother." Though the char 
 acter was not such as I desired in my elder brother, 
 yet it increased a hundredfold the tension of my 
 suspense.
 
 More Hopeful. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 More Hopeful. 
 
 "You know how a speedin engine 
 
 Just trembles and rolls and reels, 
 An seems like to jar to pieces 
 
 With every turn of her wheels. 
 Well, three-twenty-seven was hurlin 
 
 Herself down the curvin track, 
 An soilin the face of nature 
 
 With the smoke from her diamond stack; 
 When, suddenly, a-rippin an tearin , 
 
 The right-hand side-rod broke, 
 An , clearin a splintered pathway 
 
 With a mighty whirlin stroke, 
 It tore a hole in the boiler ; 
 
 The steam rushed out in a cloud, 
 An the wail of the dyin engine 
 
 Reechoed long an loud." 
 
 "^ZOU bet, boys," said Russell, a jolly freight 
 | engineer, "my hair stood on end for once 
 -*- in my life. We were goin down the hill 
 at a clippin rate under control, of course an* I 
 heard one click that I knew meant biz. I jumped 
 like lightnin , threw the reverse lever over, seized the 
 throttle and engineer s brake-handle. By that time, 
 whether you believe it or not, I was stickin to the 
 jacket like a squirrel to a tree, and every sliver of the 
 cab cleaned off as smooth s your hand, and at every 
 turn o the drivers the side rod whistled by my ear
 
 222 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 screamin , Jim, hug er tight or I ll clean you out. 
 You may just imagine I hugged. Naturally I 
 pulled both levers, and before many seconds I had 
 the thing stopped." 
 
 "Did you think o your mother-in-law, Jim ?" put 
 in one of the trainmen standing by. 
 
 "You re talkin now, Jack. That rod sang a song 
 round my ear to the tune of the broomstick. I tell 
 e, it had whiskers on it." 
 
 This conversation took place among a group of 
 railroaders waiting and loafing about the station. I 
 had listened to a bit of it, having arrived a little 
 ahead of my train. Just then it came under the 
 shed. There was a rush off and a rush on. The 
 conductor who brought the train from the West said 
 as he passed me, "Lot o hogs on to-day, Barson !" 
 
 His words were too true. Once under motion I 
 entered the day coach and found a half dozen stand 
 ing among them one or two not very well-dressed 
 ladies. There were at least a half dozen men with 
 backs to the aisle, occupying a whole seat the farther 
 end of which was piled full of boxes, grips, and 
 dress-suit cases. The retiring conductor had given 
 them a name thoroughly appropriate to their nature. 
 A husband and wife occupied two seats and put 
 themselves to inconvenience by eating across the 
 seat between them. A woman and a pug occupied 
 another. A poor woman and three children, all 
 under six, occupied two other seats. 
 
 Another nature appeared. It was a man who im-
 
 More Hopeful. 223 
 
 portantly asked the lady if she had four tickets as a 
 guarantee to her occupying so much room. She 
 meekly said "No," and was about to take one of the 
 little ones in her lap, when a gentleman of ordinary 
 dress jumped up like a flash and warmly said, "Take 
 my seat, sir. I d rather go to the smoker than to 
 see those little folks disturbed." 
 
 My turn came then. Motioning to the brakeman, 
 I instructed him to clear the seats of baggage and 
 dogs and seat the standing passengers. Without a 
 word he piled satchels and bundles in the end of the 
 coach, and then quietly explained that such stuff 
 belonged in the baggage car. When he came to the 
 pug he pertly informed its mistress that all dogs had 
 to ride with the baggage. 
 
 "O, you can never take my little Fanny into an 
 old baggage car. She ll be frightened to death 
 among those rough men and old trunks and things 1" 
 
 "But, madam, it s my business to obey the orders 
 of the company. Let me have her, please I assure 
 you no harm will come to her." 
 
 "You can t take her, I say!" she screamed. 
 "Can t I have him, Mr. Conductor," as she smiled 
 her best at me that silly, sickly ripple of affectation 
 so characteristic of a loveless heart. 
 
 "No, madam !" I answered. "Take it out, John." 
 
 John immediately reached over the hysterical 
 creature and folded the beast to his bosom, gently 
 jerking the chain from the jeweled hands, and 
 carried the pup from the car, followed by a wail
 
 224 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 of a broken-hearted piece of femininity. Her babe 
 of about eight months lay asleep in the lap of a 
 nurse. 
 
 Well do I remember one of Jake Stoneman s 
 cows, that used to get in the barway and keep all 
 the other cattle out of the field. We called her Old 
 Heif. She could not eat and at the same time keep 
 the rest of the herd out. She delighted to play 
 watchdog rather than be a matronly cow. Many a 
 time have I pelted the stones into her ribs until she 
 surrendered, but the next morning she rendered 
 the same program. The old bos reminded me 
 of "the dog in the manger," but when it comes to a 
 razorback in a car seat consistency ceases to be a 
 jewel. 
 
 We lay over a half hour at Sandy Junction on ac 
 count of a washout ahead. I sat down in the shade 
 and carelessly drew a letter from my pocket. It 
 was from the wife of my old drummer acquaintance. 
 It stated that he had died and she had been unable 
 to find any clew to the person he had thought to be 
 my brother. My heart had been sore all day. 
 Thoughts would center around an elder brother, yet 
 the realization of him seemed farther away than 
 ever. 
 
 "Why art thou so pensive, Barson ?" kindly asked 
 the conductor from the other road as he sat down 
 beside me. "You look as if you had lost a friend. 
 Perhaps you re thinking of that elder brother you 
 so often speak about."
 
 More Hopeful. 225 
 
 "That s what I am, Ladd," I answered. "A few 
 months ago I thought I was on his track, but this 
 letter scatters everything to the wind!" 
 
 "How s that?" 
 
 I related the incident connected with the com 
 mercial traveler and the circumstances that had 
 broken off our communication. 
 
 "Did you say the fellow s name was Parson, 
 Charlie Parson?" inquired a brakeman from the 
 road that terminated at the Junction. 
 
 "Yes, sir! That was the name." 
 
 "I know a fellow by that name. He used to 
 run on this road, but is on the Pennsylvania some 
 where now. He lives in Philadelphia. He s very 
 sensitive on the subject of his ancestry or I would 
 see him myself; as it is, I ll get his address and 
 send it to you in a day or two. You may do the 
 corresponding." 
 
 I assured him that that was all I asked of anyone. 
 I would run down the game if somebody would 
 help me to get on the trail. Handing him my card, 
 our meeting adjourned. 
 
 "Haven t I met you somewhere?" I was passing 
 back toward the front of the train after taking up 
 the tickets, when a hand was laid on my arm and a 
 pleasant voice asked the above question. I con 
 fronted a clergyman of perhaps forty-five years of 
 age. He seemed anxious to talk with some one, and, 
 inasmuch as nearly all the other passengers were 
 
 asleep for we were on our return trip a fit of 
 15
 
 226 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 lonely wakefulness had attacked him. Not being 
 particularly busy myself, I swung round on the seat 
 arm ahead of him and remarked "Perhaps so, but 
 I don t remember your face." 
 
 "I may be mistaken. However, there is some 
 thing about your size and those pit marks on your 
 face that evidence the fact that I have seen you 
 before. In my noddle I have a sort of photographic 
 gallery of all the faces I ever met, and I do not often 
 err. If you re in no particular hurry we can soon 
 find out. Sit down and we ll while away the 
 minutes by indulging in a few pleasantries," and he 
 slid to the farther end of the cushion, telling me his 
 name, his home, and that he was a Methodist 
 itinerant. 
 
 "Well," said I, as I seated myself at his side, 
 "that you re a Methodist clergyman is a pretty good 
 recommendation. I m a Methodist layman, and 
 work at the business, too." 
 
 "That s right," and the good man slapped me on 
 the knee. "I m glad you are a worker and not a 
 shirker or jerker. There are too many persons in 
 these days who drive their business with all their 
 might and work at their religion only at odd spells. 
 By the by, how long have you been a member of the 
 Church?" 
 
 "O, pretty close to twenty years. I was con 
 verted off up in the mountains of New Jersey, at a 
 little place called Summerfield, a few years before I 
 went on the "
 
 More Hopeful. 227 
 
 "Summer-field ?" he interrupted. "That s the 
 place, my brother !" and he grasped my hand with a 
 grip that made me feel as if a giant friend had me in 
 his vise. "I knew I d seen you. You were con 
 verted there one night under the pastorate of Brother 
 Blessner. I was up there that night from Drew as 
 sisting him. I remember your face as plainly as if 
 it were but yesterday." 
 
 The train slowed up for Bryson. I left my 
 friend to attend to my duties as conductor. When 
 my task was over and our train in motion I slid 
 into the big arm of the Methodist parson, where I 
 felt quite at home and very small in fact, I was, 
 when compared with his two-hundred-pound 
 corporosity. 
 
 "Say, what were you and that woman over there 
 having that confab about? What s wrong with her 
 ticket?" 
 
 "Why," I answered, "she had a return ticket 
 limited to ten days. Twelve days have passed since 
 it was stamped, and I m supposed not to take it for 
 the return fare." 
 
 "Didn t you do it? That would be downright 
 meanness not to do it." 
 
 "Yes, I know it, but it s like this. You know 
 such cases have been tried over and over in the courts 
 and the company always gets beaten. It has been 
 decided that a purchased ticket is good until used, 
 the time limitation on them amounting to nothing. 
 I suppose the company puts on the limit, however,
 
 228 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 to keep the passengers within bounds, but the worst 
 of it is that they hold us conductors responsible for 
 the enforcement of the law." 
 
 "Not a very pleasant duty, I dare say. What did 
 you do with that woman s ticket?" 
 
 "No, indeed ! It s not pleasant. When I meet a 
 stubborn person, which is very seldom, and the fare 
 is small, I take the ticket, pay the fare, like this case 
 to-night, and let it go. In case of a long-distance 
 ticket, I enforce the law. Here is where the scalpers 
 get in, and I don t blame them half as much as I do 
 the companies for issuing such paper. To my mind 
 the companies ought to issue more uniform tickets 
 with uniform rates. That would avoid many com 
 plications. The idea of putting on a ticket Not 
 transferable ! 
 
 "Yes, that reminds me of the clerical orders we 
 used to have. I once rode over this road at half 
 rate, but now I go like everybody else. Guess I get 
 the worth of my money, too," and he shook his big, 
 jolly sides with laughter. "I traveled on a clerical 
 when a student in Drew, and by the way, if a fellow 
 ever needs a boost it s when he s a student. Some 
 of the boys who had no regular preaching places, 
 and had no right to the half-rate order, once in a 
 while borrowed one of these not transferables and 
 rode on it. It leaked out to the authorities, and the 
 students ceased riding at half rates. I suppose it is 
 the same in our case now. The great majority suffer 
 for two or three rascals. Wouldn t care so much if
 
 More Hopeful. 229 
 
 the filthy politicians did not go scot free. I can t 
 blame the company so much, but I would like to see 
 the culprits deprived of their thumbs and great toes, 
 like Adoni-bezek of old. One of these days the 
 Haman game will be played on them and they ll be 
 hanged on a gallows of their own manufacture. 
 Say, brother, don t you have to take a pile of back 
 talk from us impudent passengers?" 
 
 "To be sure! But what s the use of squealing 
 about it? Some folks would die if they couldn t 
 talk. They are like some Methodist preachers and 
 poor railroads their terminal facilities are bad. 
 Haven t you any good old brothers in your congre 
 gation, or conceited members of your official board, 
 who would talk the church to death if you did not 
 blow for brakes?" 
 
 "Yes, that s so! I blow for brakes to one class, 
 and blow up brakes to another, and furnish steam 
 for still another class. Human nature is a curious 
 concern anyway, and a trifle different in each in 
 dividual. If everybody was as good as you and me, 
 we preachers would have too soft a bed, and you 
 conductors wouldn t earn your salt. I tell you, if it 
 were not for the Holy Spirit, the leveler of human 
 nature and the transformer of man into an angel of 
 light, life wouldn t be worth the living. There is 
 no life outside of Him. In touch with Him, we have 
 no inward crosses, but they crowd on the outside 
 pretty thickly sometimes, yet his strength is suffi 
 cient. Bless the Lord!"
 
 230 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 Thus we chatted on all the way to Coalville. 
 There I bade my friend good-night. 
 
 "Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, 
 Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; 
 So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, 
 Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."
 
 A Philadelphia Home. 231 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 A Philadelphia Home. 
 
 "1~"^V ORA, just listen to this! Here s a letter 
 
 1 from a Billy Barson, who claims me for 
 
 a brother. He has no grounds under 
 
 heaven for thinking so other than that my name is 
 
 similar to his, that we are both without relatives, 
 
 and that he has an innate feeling of having a living 
 
 elder brother." 
 
 The words fell rather sarcastically from the lips 
 of Charles H. Parson. He flourished the above- 
 mentioned letter with the importance of a man who 
 knew what he said to be the conclusion of the whole 
 matter. 
 
 Dorothy, his wife, came in from the dining room, 
 and, looking over his shoulder, read on through the 
 letter with him. 
 
 "But see here, Charlie," she calmly suggested, 
 "if this unknown personage is thirty-five, isn t he 
 about the age of your younger brother whom you 
 say died of smallpox? You know that you are not 
 positive he is dead." 
 
 "That s so, honey! But to think of his turning 
 up, slap-dab, in this way ! the very idea is absurd. 
 The whole shooting-match is not worth wasting a 
 two-cent stamp over," and he tossed the letter into 
 the wastebasket.
 
 232 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "See here, my dear!" said his less hasty better 
 half, quietly relieving the basket of the strange 
 missive, "the writer of this absurdity, if that is what 
 you wish to call it, is no fool. He s a conductor of 
 a passenger train, and that s just as exalted a sta 
 tion in life as you have on your greasy engine. 
 There s no harm done in satisfying the poor fellow s 
 curiosity, anyway. You know that Truth is often 
 stranger than fiction. 
 
 "O, the man may be all right, as far as that is 
 concerned, and it might be an honor to own him as 
 a brother, and all that but, shucks! It s all tom 
 foolery! He s nothing but a visionary chap with 
 one of his cogs slipped. I m done with him." 
 
 "No, you re not, either! Weren t you born in 
 eastern Pennsylvania? and orphaned when a small 
 boy? Didn t you have a younger brother? And 
 this Barson writes that he had the smallpox before 
 he could scarcely remember?" 
 
 "Well, Dorothy Ann! You re a good lawyer to 
 put two and two together and make a million out of 
 it. You could always take three nothings and make 
 a big thing out of them. How about that ?" and he 
 playfully kissed her. 
 
 "It s a clear case that you re tied in a double bow- 
 knot to a woman you can t shake off so easily." 
 
 "All right, then, Dode; get me a pen and we ll 
 see if we can resurrect a brother." 
 
 Half in jest, half in earnest, he seized the pen 
 and wrote ;
 
 A Philadelphia Home. 233 
 
 "Mv DEAR SIR : Yours of the 23d inst, regard 
 ing our connection as brothers, received. I have 
 little faith in the evidence you give, and would have 
 burned the letter without answering had it not been 
 for my wife. I will admit, however, that I had a 
 younger brother who, in babyhood, died from small 
 pox. If you care to investigate further, come and 
 see me. Yours respectfully, 
 
 "CHARLES H. PARSON/ 
 
 Sealing the envelope and drawing the rocker up 
 near the open grate, for it was a chilly night in 
 September, he took up Ben-Hur to while away the 
 evening hours. He was a locomotive engineer on 
 the Pennsylvania Railroad, running one of the fast 
 flyers between Philadelphia and Atlantic City and 
 living in the former city. His home indicated that 
 of a well-to-do railroader. Dwelling in the sub 
 urban district with his wife and four children, there 
 were no comforts of life that the family did not en 
 joy; even many luxuries came within their reach. 
 All were members of the Presbyterian church except 
 Hal, the little four-year-old Parson. 
 
 Our mistress was no ordinary musician, nor was 
 Mr. Parson, for that matter. The children inherited 
 the talent. An evening or Sunday afternoon sacred 
 concert frequently occurred in the home some one 
 leading on the piano, banjo, or other of their various 
 instruments, while the other members of the family 
 followed on other instruments, or in song, or both.
 
 234 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 The father s heart beat very near to his children, 
 and much nearer even since a bright little son had 
 been laid away under the snow. 
 
 His run was all in daylight, so that he spent 
 nearly every evening in his home. His was a model, 
 modern family. Mattie, the oldest, had just reached 
 sixteen. She was a perfect picture of her mother, 
 whose affectionate, unassuming, sympathetic, pleas 
 ant, economical, generous, and motherly nature 
 made her very attractive. Mother was a sort of 
 balance wheel to her husband, who, accustomed to 
 think quickly while his train neared and passed sig 
 nals at the rate of sixty miles an hour, often formed 
 his opinions as rapidly at home, when sober thinking 
 and careful deliberation were absolutely necessary. 
 
 "I say, wife," he remarked a few evenings later, 
 "here s a pretty good thing about railroading. A 
 conductor is instructing a green brakeman and ad 
 vising him always to keep his lantern with him, the 
 fellow having left it in a corner at the other end of 
 the car. When he has it at hand he would be ready 
 to give signals for safety in case of accident, other 
 wise the consequences might prove fatal. The 
 author then applies the illustration to religion that 
 some hang on a peg to be taken down when con 
 venient, while others carry it with them seven days 
 in a week. Not a bad idea. 
 
 "Do you remember that slight wreck I had a few 
 years ago when I was pulling the night-line?" he 
 continued, laying down the newspaper, removing
 
 A Philadelphia Home. 235 
 
 his glasses, and gently tapping them on his left 
 thumb. "That very thing caused the mischief. The 
 road lay a dead level and I had a train of eight 
 coaches, two more than usual. The night was dark 
 and rainy, and as I left the lights in the Atlantic 
 City yard and plunged into the darkness following 
 the gleaming rails over which we flew I felt pretty 
 shaky, for we had a late start of twenty minutes and 
 a heavy train at that. We had a single track, then, 
 you know. I determined to make up time. We had 
 a run of about thirty miles to a siding, where we 
 met No. 9 coming from this city. We usually 
 waited a few minutes for her, and I was bound she 
 would not wait for us that night. Our custom was 
 to run by the siding that lay to the left of the main 
 track and back in. If ever an engine reeled it off 
 old 700 did that night. The telegraph poles looked 
 like a fine-toothed comb." 
 
 "O, Charlie, what makes you tell such whoppers? 
 You may find somebody foolish enough to believe 
 them some day and then what?" put in his wife. 
 
 "Get that Malena, Dode. I knocked a bit of hide 
 off my hand to-day. It feels kind o sore. There, 
 that feels better. Thank you," and he settled back 
 into his Morris. 
 
 "As I was a-saying, we were making time and 
 I passed the siding not noticing on it a lot of flat 
 cars loaded with rails. In fact, it was on a left 
 curve and I couldn t see them anyway in the dark 
 ness. I sailed over the frog of the switch a hum-
 
 236 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 ming and stopped just as I heard the whistle of No. 
 9. I knew she would come in under control, and felt 
 no danger along that line. The fireman watched the 
 signals and I backed for all there was in the engine. 
 The rear brakeman remained on the rear platform. 
 While I came tearing backward, yet under control, 
 he noticed the cars down the siding. Had he had 
 his lantern then he could have signaled us in time to 
 avoid danger, but his glim sat inside the door. By 
 the time he got it out ready for use the moment had 
 come for him to jump for his neck. The engine was 
 slowing down and on the frog when we struck. Of 
 course it wrecked the rear coach, but no one was 
 hurt. The collision drove the flat cars back so that 
 I got in off the main line in less than two minutes. 
 Maybe the conductor didn t talk turkey to that 
 brakeman. It was Aaron Simons, and you know 
 he can spin it off by the mile. He fairly tore it off 
 that night, probably as much because he had to get 
 his back wet as for the blunder of the brakeman. 
 We simply cut off the rear car it was empty any 
 way left it there, and came on home. We were 
 into Broad Street on time, and don t you forget it." 
 
 "What do you think of the letter from your 
 brother to-day? Are you going to lay off next 
 Tuesday to greet him?" 
 
 "Not s anybody knows of." 
 
 "Haven t you the faintest hope that he is your 
 brother?" 
 
 "Not the faintest."
 
 A Philadelphia Home. 237 
 
 "You know he writes just as confident as if he 
 knew you to be a brother and had visited you 
 before" 
 
 "Yes, I know all about it, and have about as much 
 interest in the affair as. I would have in a rumored 
 heritage from China. I do have a sort of curiosity, 
 though, to see what sort of a visionary jigger he is. 
 But it s time for bed," and, with a yawn, he picked 
 up his shoes and started.
 
 238 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 My Elder Brother. 
 
 " 1 X O you know, Will," said my wife to me 
 1 on the morning of our start for Phila- 
 
 *" ^ delphia, "wouldn t it be quite a coinci 
 dence if you should find, and be united to, your 
 brother in the City of Brotherly Love?" 
 
 "That s as sure s the world," I replied. "I had 
 not thought of that. But it really seems as if this 
 Parson is a brother to me. I can t tell why, though. 
 If he proves otherwise, I know my disappointment 
 will be so great as to drive me crazy. I feel as con 
 fident, however, as if it were a certainty. I ll never 
 give up the chase anyway. My motto has long been : 
 
 "There ain t no use in growlin 
 
 An grumblin all the time, 
 When music s ringin everywhere, 
 
 An everything s a rhyme. 
 Jus keep on smilin cheerfully, 
 
 If hope is nearly gone, 
 An bristle up, and grit your teeth, 
 
 An keep on keepin on." 
 
 We left Coalville on Monday morning Annie, 
 Joe, Jennie, little Grace, and myself. At three in the 
 afternoon we left the Pennsylvania at Iselin and, all 
 feeling well and it being a beautiful day in October,
 
 My Elder Brother. 239 
 
 walked leisurely up the slopes to the Stoneman 
 homestead. More than twenty years had passed 
 since I had left the place left it in the darkness like 
 a thief. Changes were evident. I recalled the abuse 
 I had received there at the hands of a hard master, 
 and the many bitter thoughts of resentment that had 
 haunted my life; yet, on that autumnal afternoon, 
 when the golden sun softened the familiar scenes 
 through the shimmering haze, there came to me a 
 spirit of tenderness fraught with pity rather than 
 revenge. 
 
 "How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 When fond recollection presents them to view !" 
 
 I stood on a knoll a few moments feasting my 
 eyes, while wife and the children rested along the 
 roadside or plucked the last flowers of the season. 
 The door of the corn-house attic where I used to 
 sleep hung on one hinge. The roof of the barn, re 
 cently patched with new shingles, sagged in the 
 center. The house had been remodeled, the repairs 
 half completed, left unpainted, and now the home 
 presented a variegated appearance of faded red, 
 yellow ocher, and weather-beaten wood. Pickets 
 were off the fence, gates stood ajar and dilapidated, 
 wild carrot covered the meadows, and frost-bitten 
 weeds lined the roadsides. Near by the corner of 
 the pasture where lay my faithful friend, Shack, a 
 half dozen cows and young cattle stood sleepily 
 chewing their cuds. At the hatchway door stood an
 
 240 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 old team of horses hitched to a farm wagon from 
 which a bent-with-years man unloaded apples. I 
 watched him a moment. It was Jake Stoneman, 
 rough, enfeebled, and apparently friendless. He 
 filled a basket with apples and set it up on the wagon 
 box. As he leaned wearily against the wagon his 
 right hand pushed back the slouch hat, displaying a 
 shining crown. While he scratched the ringlet of 
 gray hair his eyes fell on us. He gazed in monu 
 mental quietude. With a final scratch he pulled the 
 greasy felt over his shaggy brows and went into the 
 cellar with the fruit. 
 
 We sauntered on toward the house. The second 
 time he came from the cellar I stood by the wagon 
 to meet him. "How are you, Mr. Stoneman?" I 
 said, extending my hand. 
 
 He shoved his hat to the back of his head, stood 
 on one foot as if the empty basket in his left hand 
 overbalanced him, and awkwardly reached toward 
 me with, "By Jocks! You ve got the best o me. 
 My s ain t s good s they onct was. Can t jest 
 zactly place ye." His left eye squinted in the same 
 old leering style. 
 
 "Don t you recollect a lad by the name of Barson 
 running away from you a few years ago?" 
 
 The basket fell to the ground, and his left eye 
 opened in astonishment as he exclaimed, "Yew don t 
 say ! Be yew that little Will Barson what uset tew 
 work so like a tiger, an run away more n twenty 
 year ago?"
 
 My Elder Brother. 241 
 
 "I m the lad, and this is my wife and these are my 
 children." 
 
 He shook them all by the hand with a swing that 
 would have done credit to a windmill. His speech 
 left him. Looking up at the sun, he turned to his 
 work, but before he could touch an apple a tear stole 
 down his cheek. Then he came to the tailboard of 
 the wagon again and began: "I don t know what 
 tew say ner dew. I m shamed tew say I m glad tew 
 see yew, but I be. I ve seen some trouble sense then, 
 an I see things a leetle diffenter. Th ole woman 
 died a dozen year ago " He glanced at the setting 
 sun again and drew his dirty sleeve across his eyes. 
 "Me n th ole woman was purty middlin hash tew 
 yew, an I guess we re gittin our punishment fur it. 
 She was an awful sufferer fore she died an an 
 we often talked o what a good boy you was and 
 wondered what had become o yew. Guess you ve 
 prospered by yer looks, an I m glad on it, tew." 
 
 "I m sorry to hear that Mrs. Stoneman is dead," 
 I put in, for the conversation was growing lax. 
 "You are not living here alone are you?" 
 
 "O no! My son what run away fore yew came 
 here guess yew never knowed that why, he came 
 back with a wife an has lived with me ever sense. 
 He s got the property all away from me an treats 
 me like a slave," speaking lower and looking around 
 toward the kitchen door. "Guess it s jedgment on 
 me." Turning uneasily and hesitating a moment, 
 
 he went into the house. 
 16
 
 242 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 "Papa, aren t these apples just fine?" exclaimed 
 Joe, who had got to the core of one of the red- 
 cheeked Kings. 
 
 Jennie bashfully crowded into her mother s skirts 
 as she whispered cautiously: "He s an awful funny 
 man, mamma! What makes his eye look so ugly. 
 I don t want to stay here all night." 
 
 Mr. Stoneman reappeared with his face the pleas- 
 antest I ever saw it. "We want yew all tew stay 
 over night with us. Cy s away on jury, but me nd 
 Lizy 11 dew the best we ken fur ye. I ll jest unhook 
 the hosses an dew the chores. Go right in t the 
 house, an I ll come soon s I kin." 
 
 Annie and the girls went in ; Joe and I remained 
 outside. While our host hustled up the chores I 
 wandered around in the old nooks and corners so 
 familiar to the boy and so precious in the memories 
 of the man. 
 
 In the evening we gathered about the dim lamp 
 and in the musty-smelling best room. There was 
 nothing connected with our former relations that 
 would furnish a pleasing theme for conversation to 
 any of us, consequently I launched out on reminis 
 cences of my railroad life. Mr. Stoneman was a 
 very attentive and enthusiastic listener. He occa 
 sionally interrupted me with "Dew tell !" or "I want 
 o know !" concluding with "Waal, you ve had quite 
 some exper ence an done fust-rate, an* I m glad 
 on it." 
 
 He insisted on taking us to the station the next
 
 My Elder Brother. 243 
 
 morning. He dressed up in his best, which was not 
 as nearly up-to-date as his garb of twenty years be 
 fore. The slow horses shacked along the dusty 
 road, the trace chains clanked against the tongue, 
 the dry spokes squeaked in the hubs, and the rickety 
 two-seated market wagon rattled like an empty hay 
 rigging. Yet the driver was happy and doing his 
 best to make amends for the wrongs he had com 
 mitted. We were all happy. 
 
 At the station I was the last to bid him good-bye. 
 He took me by the hand, saying : "Will, I m awful 
 glad ye come tew see me" he drew his sleeve across 
 his eyes. "I want ye tew furgive me fur my past 
 meannesses I d swat myself, ind over ind, if t u d 
 dew iny good, but it won t" a faded bandanna 
 came across his eyes as he blew his nose that re 
 sounded much like the honk of a wild goose "but 
 it don t dew no good ter nobody tew cry over spilt 
 milk. I hope God 11 furgive me. Good-bye !" The 
 old man climbed up into his rig and drove away 
 with the assurance that no enmity existed between 
 him and me. I pitied him from the bottom of my 
 heart; nevertheless, I remembered that "with what 
 measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. * 
 Though I did not meet the son, I was confident that 
 in him the father had a hard master. 
 
 My reader, you have already been introduced into 
 the Philadelphia home, which we entered at eleven- 
 thirty. We had a warm reception. Mrs. Parson 
 and Annie loved each other at sight. The children,
 
 244 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 too, fell into frolicking and prattle, like old play 
 mates. I alone was uneasy, yet more confident than 
 ever. Still, what if he were not my brother! The 
 very thought chilled me, and I cast it aside. 
 
 "Charlie will be in at four-sixteen," Mrs. Parson 
 assured me, knowing that my minutes passed like 
 hours. I could remain within doors no longer. Tak 
 ing my coat and hat, I hailed a passing car and 
 fetched up at the Broad Street station. 
 
 After my exit Mrs. Parson remarked to Annie, 
 not wishing to say it in my presence for fear of 
 raising my hopes higher than they already were: 
 "How much your husband looks like Charlie ! The 
 shape of his head, his gait, and the trim of his 
 shoulders are exactly like his ; even his voice is fa 
 miliar. I really do hope and believe they are 
 brothers." 
 
 Promptly at four-sixteen I saw the Atlantic City 
 flyer coming into the Broad Street station. My 
 heart thumped like a trip hammer. All the weary 
 years of longing crowded into that one moment. I 
 could not wait for the train to come to a standstill. 
 Climbing into the tender and creeping over the foot 
 board, I opened the cab door just as the engineer 
 rose from his seat. I had caught the profile of his 
 face when the engine passed me. 
 
 "You re my brother !" I said, breathless from ex 
 citement, as he faced me with his right hand on the 
 engineer s brake handle. 
 
 He gave me one searching look that went through
 
 You re my brother !" I said. Page 244.
 
 My Elder Brother. 245 
 
 and through me. The penetrating, cold expression 
 in his eyes faded like pictures on a screen thrown 
 from a dissolving light, and was replaced by one of 
 brotherly love. But a moment more of silence and 
 he threw his arms about me. The passengers and 
 bystanders were treated to a novel sight that after 
 noon two long-separated brothers locked in each 
 other s embrace like lovers. My elder brother was 
 speechless, feasting his eyes upon me the while; 
 both of us were oblivious to the faces and noise be 
 low. We were not strikingly alike in features, yet 
 sufficiently so that each instantly recognized himself 
 in the other. Not a shadow of a doubt crossed either 
 of our minds as to the identity of the other. Happy 
 by reason of our reunion, and forgetful of our sur 
 roundings, we walked home together carrying my 
 brother s dinner basket between us like two school 
 boys. 
 
 Arriving at home, Charlie found his wife pre 
 pared to accept the situation, for she had concluded 
 we were brothers. That not a discord occurred in 
 our family circles was remarkable. Our tastes had 
 been so alike, even to the selecting of our life part 
 ners, that perfect harmony reigned. Annie and 
 Dorothy seemed like reunited sisters after a long 
 separation.
 
 246 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 His Story* 
 
 ""V TOW, Charlie! how about our names, and 
 
 I \j how were we separated?" I questioned, as 
 
 * ^ we sat by the glowing grate .after tea, 
 
 while Annie, Dorothy, and the children came, one 
 
 by one, mute listeners, into our circle. 
 
 "I ve been turning the subject over in my mind 
 and am quite sure now I have the right end of the 
 string. Guess I ll proceed to unravel the tangle. 
 I ve a faint recollection of a story-and-a-half, wood- 
 colored house not very far from this city. It was my 
 home once. I was about five, I should say, when 
 father died. I can see him vividly, in a plain coffin 
 in that little, low room." As he said this, his eyes 
 seemed to pierce the shadowy past slowly bringing 
 to mind incidents, such as a steady gaze slowly re 
 veals, one by one, objects in a darkened room. "He 
 was a cripple a big gash and a sore were on one 
 of his legs wounds, mother said, he got in the 
 war. There was a little baby there then, my brother, 
 whom my mother called Kirk. Not many months 
 afterward I was taken away to a soldiers orphan 
 school, where I remained about two or three years. 
 I got homesick for mother and Kirk, and ran away. 
 I arrived home to find the house empty. I went to
 
 His Story.; 247 
 
 a neighbor s and inquired what had become of you 
 and mother. I remember the answer as distinctly 
 as if it had been said yesterday, Yer ma s dead 
 died o smallpox an was buried yisterd y. Kirk s 
 dead by this time o the same disease over at Widder 
 Van Reichter s. There hain t nothing here fur you. 
 You d better go back to school, and I went." 
 
 Here Mattie broke in by saying, "Papa, the name 
 of the widow who kept Uncle Kirk is Dutch, isn t 
 it? You know lots of them pronounce b for p?" 
 
 "That s it! That s fust it," exclaimed Charlie. 
 "The old woman said Barson instead of Parson, 
 and the authorities at the orphanage where you were 
 received spelled the name as she pronounced it. That 
 mystery is cleared up." 
 
 He continued after hitching in his chair: 
 "Thoughtless boy that I was, I went back to the 
 orphan school without further inquiry and remained 
 there until discharged at sixteen. Older and less 
 giddy then, I naturally made a pilgrimage to the 
 home of my childhood. I found no trace of you, 
 but I did identify father s and mother s graves. A 
 few years ago I placed a slab there to mark their 
 resting place. I found nothing of your grave, and 
 it s no wonder" looking up with a twinkle in his 
 eye; then he assumed a sober mien "and con 
 cluded it was among the scores in the potter s field. 
 From that moment till I saw you in my cab this 
 afternoon I had no doubt in the least but you were 
 dead"
 
 248 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 He closed his narration for a moment, his eyes 
 riveted to the ceiling and the toe of his slipper tap 
 ping lightly against a rung of my rocker. A tear 
 stole down his sunburnt face. He drew a long 
 breath, twisted again in his chair, and went on : 
 
 "From my search for home I went onto the rail 
 road and have been there ever since. I was married 
 when quite young, but we never have lived in a 
 rented house in our lives. The good Lord has been 
 very gracious to us. We have more than we really 
 need, have given away a tenth or more of our in 
 come every year, and have a little nest-egg left. 
 Did you say you were running on the C. O. & B. ?" 
 
 I answered in the affirmative. 
 
 "You know, a few years ago our company struck 
 that road at Sandy Junction with a through solid 
 vestibule train. I had the honor to pull it. We 
 must have been together then, sometime, or very 
 near it, if you run on the Mountain Division. I was 
 not on the run very long. The deal did not pay 
 our company, and the train was discontinued." 
 
 Again he shifted his position. "An incident hap 
 pened there one day that I ll never forget. An ac 
 cident on your road delayed one of your west-bound 
 trains. That train lay there while we waited for 
 the east-bound. Two men got into conversation; 
 one of them, who had come up on our train, was 
 crazy drunk. I judge that the sober one had been 
 hauling the other over the coals for his dissipation. 
 At any rate, something touched his conscience, and,
 
 His Story. 249 
 
 jumping to his feet, he hurled his bottle at random, 
 declaring that he d never touch another drop. Well, 
 the bottle struck a little girl in the head. As she 
 fell I caught her in my arms What s the matter, 
 Kirk?" he stammered, in surprise. 
 
 The whole incident so vividly impressed upon my 
 memory passed before me. The fact that we had 
 been so closely together and unrecognized had 
 broken up the fountains of my heart, and I burst 
 into tears. I wiped them from my face, pulled my 
 self together, and answered : "I saw it all and took 
 notice of you, but I was so engrossed with the two 
 men, an engineer and conductor, with whom I had 
 previously run, that you escaped my critical eye, and 
 for once in my life I was not thinking of you. At 
 that same instant orders were handed me to leave." 
 
 It was his turn then to be silent. 
 
 "The past is o er 
 Waste not thy days in vain regret, 
 Grieve thou no more. 
 
 "Look now before, 
 And not behind thee ; do not fret 
 The past is o er. 
 
 "There are in store 
 For thee still happy days. Forget ! 
 Grieve thou no more."
 
 250 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 Aw Revoir* 
 
 "On the road of life one milestone more, 
 In the book of life one leaf turned o er." 
 
 NEARLY a year has passed since Charlie and 
 I met. I am at my old post. Charlie rides 
 in the cab pulling my train. At every stop 
 he sees the wave of my hand or hears the air whistle 
 when I pull the rope. He obeys me, though ahead 
 of me, where he keeps his 
 
 "hand upon the throttle 
 And his eyes upon the rail." 
 
 No conductor on the line feels prouder of, nor 
 safer behind, his engineer than I do. I often watch 
 him from the lower step of the rear platform as the 
 train takes a right curve. In the summer days with 
 his head partially out of the window the breeze floats 
 his golden hair from under his cap, while on the 
 down grade his left hand rests upon the engineer s 
 brake handle, on the up grade it is on the throttle. 
 On a straight line his eyes glance up at the steam 
 gauge and air indicator, and his hand cuffs the 
 steam cock to test the amount of water in the boiler. 
 All the while the engine rolls back and forth and
 
 Au Revoif. 251 
 
 his lithe body sways to and fro as he whistles away 
 like a singing canary swinging in its trapeze. In 
 the darkness of night I can see the same figure 
 moving here and there under the dim light. He is 
 small, but "a man for a that," my elder brother, 
 too. Those who once said that my intuition of an 
 elder brother was all twaddle and moonshine now 
 wave a salute to the Parson brothers as their train 
 sweeps by. It is all daylight these days. 
 
 Not quite, either, for Annie and the children are 
 up at grandpa s enjoying the summer mountain air. 
 In a week or two I m going up and be a boy again. 
 Uncle Joe and Aunt Jane are growing old. Little 
 Joe and Jennie like to feed the chickens, pick the 
 berries, get the cows, and run errands of all kinds. 
 Grandpa s is paradise. 
 
 Hark ! Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot ! Some 
 thing serious is ahead, for Charlie never pulls the 
 whistle rope unless it means something. Yes, it is 
 fearful. I feel the brakes strike the wheels and the 
 train fetches up so rapidly that the passengers pitch 
 forward. We are near Sandy Junction. The road 
 is level. The engine was steaming hard, hauling a 
 heavy load at the rate of sixty miles an hour. I 
 spring to the door as soon as I gain my equilibrium. 
 Charlie is already on the ground as I get to the lower 
 steps and drop off. "Man !" he cries running toward 
 the rear of the train. The fireman has charge of the 
 locomotive. We hurry on. 
 
 "Here e is !" exclaims my brother plunging down
 
 252 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 the bank into the bushes. There was a slight stir of 
 the dried leaves. We pulled him out into the 
 opening. 
 
 "Ah-h-h, Billy !" gurgled a familiar voice through 
 the blood that flowed freely from mouth and nose. 
 "I m done fur now, sure." 
 
 It was Phil Schleaser, mangled and dying. 
 
 "Come ere, boy ah-h ! Want o tell ye some- 
 thin . Didn t never think o this, Billy ah-h 
 yas done!" 
 
 He gasped and cleared his throat, while I removed 
 a half-filled bottle from his coat, that he might rest 
 easier on that side. 
 
 "That s it ah-h! That did the business! Not 
 you !" rolling his glazing eyes up at Charlie. "Billy, 
 I was tough tough s a knot ah-h-h! I m done 
 up !" He rolled heavily, while a physician passenger 
 attempted to stanch the flow of blood. 
 
 "No use, doc! Ah-h! Tain t no use. Billy, 
 come ere." I bent low, for he now spoke only in a 
 whisper. "I kicked Hank oo-oo-oo!" he shud 
 dered with the chill of death "like a brute. I broke 
 my e-e-e-e promise, too. He s the man n I 
 the foo-ool-1 oo-oo-oo ! God !" and the deep gurgle 
 closed his lips forever. A tremor and another shud 
 der. It was all over. 
 
 We put the broken body on a stretcher, placed it 
 in the baggage car, and left it at Bryson. Days and 
 days I pondered; the burden of my thought was: 
 r A moderate drinker cannot be found. Some begin
 
 Au Revoir. 253 
 
 excess sooner than others, but "the end thereof is 
 death." 
 
 Ot Neely and I stood side by side while others 
 removed the remains of Schleaser from the car. 
 Our thoughts were too active for speech. I remem 
 bered Neely s prophetic words. He was too much 
 of a Christian gentleman to say now, "I told you 
 so." As we pulled out from the station he grasped 
 my hand and with tears in his eyes said, "Billy, 
 the way of the transgressor is hard. Still stand 
 ing on the lower step when the train swept around 
 the next curve, I saw the swaying head of my 
 brother as his right hand mopped the sweat from 
 his brow. The accident had broken him all up, but 
 
 "His hand was on the throttle, 
 And his eyes upon the rail." 
 
 I knew he was sober. Assured that "a thousand 
 shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right 
 hand; but it shall not come nigh thee," I entered 
 the coach and began collecting the tickets. 
 
 But I have two weeks off now. Scarcely five 
 hours of that time have elapsed and I stand on a 
 little eminence where I can look down on the blue 
 smoke curling from the summer kitchen of Uncle 
 joe sI suppose I should say, "Father Horton." 
 They must be kindling a fire to get dinner, and I 
 am just in time. 
 
 "I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. 
 I looked: lo! my love stood before me at last, 
 Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, 
 As we met face to face, at the turn of the road!"
 
 254 On the Mountain Division. 
 
 A kiss from all the inmates of the home, a swig 
 of water from the old cocoanut shell on the well- 
 curb; hat, coat, cuffs, collar, and tie flung into a 
 promiscuous heap on the floor ; a stretch and roll on 
 the lawn, and my vacation begins in earnest. Did 
 you say anything about an appetite? Don t mention 
 it again. You may get a subject too large for you 
 to handle. 
 
 In the gloaming ! The "beef ! beef ! beef !" call of 
 the nighthawk soaring far up in the deepening blue, 
 and its "p-o-r-k !" as it swooped down nearly to the 
 ground and almost touched its wheeling mate, 
 aroused in me those tender, sweet memories that 
 are better felt than told. The whistle of the whip- 
 poor-will came up from the lower woods, and trilled 
 away in harmony with the tinkling notes of the wood 
 robin, until I fancied myself a boy again. As dark 
 ness deepened and the choir from the duck pond 
 down in the pasture struck up a lively song, I turned 
 my eyes toward the deeper valley in the distance. 
 Above the tree tops I saw the mist gathering in its 
 sinuous course, marking the flow of the Delaware. 
 The familiar sounds hushed me to sleep in the old 
 place. 
 
 Did you say September ? Yes, that is the month, 
 and we are back in our Coalville home. 
 
 "The generous earth spreads out her fruitful store, 
 And all the fields are decked with ripened sheaves; 
 
 While in the woods at autumn s rustling step 
 The maples blush through all their trembling leaves."
 
 -Au Revolr. 255 
 
 My elder brother and Dorothy have just gone 
 home after spending the evening with us. The chil 
 dren are all in bed. The crickets are chirping their 
 plaintive note this autumnal night as Annie and I 
 draw up to the open grate to toast our toes before 
 the fire. As we watched the gray, dying coals I 
 pondered: Once I was homeless, brotherless. A 
 change came home, wife, children, brother. The 
 fire is almost out, and the crickets have ceased their 
 chirping. It is ten by the clock and the story of my 
 elder brother is told. 
 
 "Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill 
 Which severs those it should unite; 
 
 Let us remain together still, 
 Then it will be good-night 
 
 "To hearts which near each other move 
 From evening close to morning light, 
 
 The night is good; because, my love, 
 They never say good-night." 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 DEC 4 1952 
 
 Form L-9-15m-3, 34 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 
 AT 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 LIBRARY
 
 PS 
 
 3531 Parson- 
 P25o On the 
 
 mountain 
 
 (JC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY 
 
 A 000 927 478 8