by a strong American cement.

Ignorant of Perry further than as it exists, a black spot on a branch of
a small road near Buffalo, I set out from New York toward my destination
on the Empire State Express. There was barely time to descend with my
baggage at Rochester before the engine had started onward again,
trailing behind it with world-renowned rapidity its freight of travelers
who, for a few hours under the car's roof, are united by no other common
interest than that of journeying quickly from one spot to another, where
they disperse never to meet again. My Perry train had an altogether
different character. I was late for it, but the brakeman saw me coming
and 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