There were always a number of people
standing afar, with their eyes riveted upon this projectile, and to be
on the engine was to feel their interest and admiration in the terror
and grandeur of this sweep. A boy allowed to ride with the driver of the
band-wagon as a circus parade winds through one of our village streets
could not exceed for egotism the temper of a new man in the cab of a
train like this one. This valkyric journey on the back of the vermilion
engine, with the shouting of the wind, the deep, mighty panting of the
steed, the gray blur at the track-side, the flowing quicksilver ribbon
of the other rails, the sudden clash as a switch intersects, all the din
and fury of this ride, was of a splendor that caused one to look abroad
at the quiet, green landscape and believe that it was of a phlegm quiet
beyond patience. It should have been dark, rain-shot, and windy; thunder
should have rolled across its sky.
It seemed, somehow, that if the driver should for a moment take his
hands from his engine, it might swerve from the track as a horse from
the road. Once, indeed, as he stood wiping his fingers on a bit of
waste, there must have been something ludicrous in the way the solitary
passenger regarded him. Without those finely firm hands on the bridle,
the engine might rear and bolt for the pleasant farms lying in the
sunshine at either side.
This driver was worth contemplation.
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