waved to the engineer not to start until my trunk was checked and
safely boarded like myself. Then we bumped our way through meadows
quickened to life by the soft spring air; we halted at crossroads to
pick up stray travelers and shoppers; we unloaded plowing machines and
shipped crates of live fowl; we waited at wayside stations with
high-sounding names for family parties whose unpunctuality was
indulgently considered by the occupants of the train.

My companions, chiefly women, were of the homely American type whose New
England drawl has been modified by a mingling of foreign accents. They
took advantage of this time for "visiting" with neighbours whom the
winter snows and illnesses had rendered inaccessible. Their inquiries
for each other were all kindliness and sympathy, and the peaceful,
tolerant, uneventful way in which we journeyed from Rochester to Perry
was a symbol of the way in which these good people had journeyed across
life. Perry, the terminus of the line, was a frame station lodged on
stilts in a sea of surrounding mud. When the engine had come to a
standstill and ceased to pant, when the last truck had been unloaded,
the baggage room closed, there were no noises to be heard except those
that came from a neighbouring country upon whose peace the small town
had not far encroached; the splash of a horse and buggy through the mud,
a monotonous voice mingling with the steady tick of the telegraph
machine, some distant barnyard chatter, and the mysterious, invisible
stir of spring shaking out upon the air damp sweet odours calling the
earth to colour and life. Descending the staircase which connected the
railroad station with the hill road on which it was perched, I joined a
man who was swinging along in rubber boots, with several farming tools,
rakes and hoes, slung over his shoulder. A repugnance I had felt in
resuming my toil-worn clothes had led me to make certain modifications
which I feared in so small a town as Perry might relegate me to the
class I had voluntarily abandoned. The man in rubber boots looked me
over as I approached, bag in hand, and to my salutation he replied:

"Going down to the mill, I suppose. There's lots o' ladies comes in the
train every day now."

He was the perfection of tact; he placed me in one sentence as a
mill-hand and a lady.

"I'll take you down as far as Main Street," he volunteered, giving me at
once a feeling of kindly interest which "city folks" have not time to