I chose the engine. We climbed on board, gave a loud whistle, and
jolted oil. Far down, on our right, the river shone between the
trees, and these trees, encroaching on the track, almost joined their
branches above us. Ahead, the moss that grew upon the sleepers gave
the line the appearance of a green glade, and the grasses, starred
with golden-rod and mallow, grew tall to the very edge of the rails.
It seemed that in a few more years Nature would cover this scar
of 1834, and score the return match against man. Hails, engine,
officials, were already no better than ghosts: youth, and progress lay
in the pushing trees, the salmon leaping against the dam below, the
young man and maid sitting with clasped hands and amatory looks in the
hindmost truck.

At the end of three miles or so we gave an alarming whistle, and
slowed down a bit. The trees were thinner here, and I saw that a
high-road came down the hill, and cut across our track some fifty
yards ahead. We prepared to cross it cautiously.

"Ho-o-oy! Stop!"

The brake was applied, and as we came to a standstill a party of men
and women descended the hill towards us.

"'Tis Susan Warne's seventh goin' to be christen'd, by the look of
it," said the engine-driver beside me; "an', by crum! we've got the
Kimbly."

The procession advanced. In the midst walked a stout woman, carrying a
baby in long clothes, and in front a man bearing in both hands a plate
covered with a white cloth. He stepped up beside the train, and,