be suited; as some wish to go by water, some by land, and some by "a
little of both." Thus, those who are on good terms with old Neptune may
take a pleasant voyage of twenty-six hours direct from Boston to the
distant village of Annapolis, Nova Scotia, which is our prospective
abiding place; while those who prefer can have "all rail route," or, if
more variety is desired, may go by land to St. John, New Brunswick, and
thence by steamboat across the Bay of Fundy. At last the company departs
on its several ways, and in sections, that the dwellers in that remote
old town of historic interest may not be struck breathless by such an
invasion of foreigners.

The prime mover of the expedition, having already traveled as far east
as Bangor, commences the journey at night from that city. Strange to
say, no jar or unusual sensation is experienced when the iron horse
passes the boundary; nor is anything novel seen when the train known as
the "Flying Yankee" halts for a brief breathing spell at MacAdam
Station. A drowsy voice volunteers the information: "It is a forsaken
region here." Another of our travelers replies, "Appearances certainly
indicate that the Colossus of _Roads_ is absent, and it is to be hoped
that he is mending his ways elsewhere." Then the speakers, tipping their
reclining chairs to a more recumbent posture, drift off to the Land of
Nod.

With morning comes examination of travelers' possessions at the custom
house, with amusing exhibitions of peculiarly packed boxes and bags,
recalling funny episodes of foreign tours, while giving to this one a
novel character; then the train speeds on for seven hours more.