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
show.

We found our way by improvised crossings through broad, soft beds of
mud. Among the branches of the sap-fed trees which lined the unpaved
streets transparent balls of glass were suspended, from which, as
twilight deepened, a brilliant artificial light shot its rays, the
perfection of modern invention, over the primitive, unfinished little
town of Perry, which was all contrast and energy, crudity and progress.