AGO.
old home in the Far
There's a dear
Away,
A soft, snug nest where the children
play.
A realm of rest where the cold folks stay,
In the Land of the Long Ago.
There's a dear old home where the roses
twine, |
Where the Fates were good to me and
mine i
In the Land of the Long Ago.
Oh, never a map shall point that place;
Nor ever the drift of time erase,
But the hungering heart the lines shall
trace |
Of the Land of the Long Ago.
And ever the tide of my life's swift’
stream i
Rolls back to the
dream,
And I live and laugh in the glint and
gleam
Of the Land of the Long Ago. |
i
On the north and south are the joy and |
rest |
Of a sister's smile and & mother's breast; |
And a father's love to the east and west |
Of the Land of the Long Ago. i
We shall all come back from the desert |
“Sigh,” |
We shall all come home to the “Soul's
Reply,” |
We shall all return in the “By and By" |
To the Land of the Long Ago. i
—Nixon Waterman. |
OUTCASTS
Major Manners walked up the
steep street between houses of gray
stone. Eve was : the
pave; the sky; the glass in the win-
dows; the shutters; the little
dens. St. Hubert climbed a cleft
between green hills whose summits
were dark and serrate with
but even the greenness of the Decem-
ber country had a tinge of gray.
Manners paused in front of a
house with a pretentious facade. He
looked at the windows with the
eyes of a man who had become ex-
pert in appraising the appearances of
strange houses.
He glanced at his notebook. “One
of ours, Fi
The orderly-room clerk nodded.
“Number Seventeen, sir.”
“Yes; this looks like the colonel.”
Manners’ field boots were well
polished. They seemed to have col-
lected more and more polish since
bay of a blissful
thousands of strange men? Four
German years; now, the English, the
deliverers!
ingly, and much of this old conven-
tional morality had suffered badly
from dry rot.
Suddenly he paused. A house had
attracted his attention. It stood
back behind a little garden, a white
house with green shutters. The
lower shutters were closed, and
there was something about the house
that intrigued him. He had a cer-
tain feeling for houses and gardens,
and for atmosphere, and not merely
as a doctor going on his rounds.
He opened the iron gate, walked
up the path and knocked.
There was no
response.
He knocked again and more in-
sistently. He heard a faint shuf-
fling sound on the tiles of the pas-
sage. The door was unlocked and
opened six inches.
He saw a face, a woman's face, a
thin, pale face that seemed all edge.
The eves looked at him mistrustful-
ly. They were curious eyes, of a
dead grayness.
Manners saluted. “Pardon. I am
looking for a billet.”
The eyes observed him. They
looked frightened. They showed
the whites below the iris. They
were like the eyes of a creature in
a e.
“You wish for a room, Monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“But I am all alone here.”
Something in Manners smiled.
Even if romance ted itself to
him, he did not infer that he would
find it here. The woman was not
more than forty, but she made him
think of a yellow-skinned fruit that
had been dried out.
“I shall cause you no trouble,
I need a room to sleep
Madame.
in. My servant looks after me.”
Her pale eyes flickered. ‘Monsieur
will need food?"
“No.”
“But Monsieur wil have to go in
and out.”
“You can give me a key. I want
quiet. After the war-—-yes, quiet.”
She nodded her head. She had
smooth black hair streaked with
gray. “Monsieur belongs to the
cavalry ?".
“No; I'm a doctor.”
The fiickering, thin flame of her
indecision steadied itself. “I will
show you a room, Monsieur.”
The room pleased Manners. Its
windows opened on the garden at
the
garden
fruit trees trained to them, and be-
yond the garden a
cended to a pine wood.
the war had died a month or so be- ed to billet himself here, and return-
fore, yet this luster was not martial. ed to the Hotel Bertrand, where the
It suggested something more subtle. unit was to be packed into the emp-
It was part of a man's consciousness ty rooms.
of life returning to a gradual appre- Five motor ambulances were park-
ciation of things that were both old ed in the Place, and the main street
and new: the bloom upon fruit; half- was full of an infantry battalion and
forgotten decencies; a life that was its rt. The same old brown
not all duckboard and latrine. For crowd. Would life in the future be
Manners was a doctor and second in anything but a crowd?
command of a field ambulance. He _ Manners disappeared into the Hotel
had known mud, but not foo much Bertrand, and got busy. He was
mud; horror but not to much hor- in charge of the advance y as
ror. The war had hardened and Well as of the ‘billeting, a bri
dulled him, but beneath the coarsen- ade hospital had to be fitted up in
ed surface there remained the illu- the lower rooms of the empty hotel.
sion that civilization was worth The unit poured in on him while
while and that, somehow, life should he was supervising the activities of
be decent.
He knocked at the door of Num-
ber Seventeen. It was opened by
a sallow little Belgian girl in a
checked apron. To her Manners
spoke briefly in bad French.
“Billets for two officers.”
He was admitted, or rather, he
walked in with the air of a man
who had ceased to regard private
property as anything personal. He
was in search of beds, good clean
beds, and a room with a stove in it.
The colonel liked space and a stove.
Through a doorway he had a
glimpse of a fat old woman in black
seated on a sofa. He gave her a
cursory “Bon jour, Madame,”
followed the servant up polished
stairs.
Number Seventeen proved satis-
factory. He chalked two doors.
Barry, waiting on the sidewalk,
turned an infantile face to his re-
turning officer. A certain informal-
ity had established itself between
the two.
“That settles all the officers, Bar-
ry, except myself.”
“There's the sergeants’ mess, sir.”
Oh, we'll do them proud. We
can spread ourselves here. I imag-
ine that this is the first occasion
on which the unit has occupied a
hotel.”
“And the transport, sir?
know, last time—'
“They are a grousing
They shan't grouse here.
You
I've got
and man with the blue eyes.
the advance party. He heard the
colonel's voice, and he knew at
once that there had been trouble on
the road, baud march discipline, some-
thing that a Red Hat could guarrel
with. “Where's Major Manners?”
And Manners went in search of the
trouble.
He found a big man with blue
eyes scolding a sergeant. He stood
by sympathetically; he could sympa-
thize with both O. C. and N. C. O.
Moving a unit under the eyes of a
liverish general could be a touchy
business. Bad temper was infec-
tious.
Besides, he was fond of the big
When the
interposed the
“I have fixed up the mess, sir.
Tea should be ready. I'll show you
the house. I'll fix things up here.”
The big man's blue eyes grew
mild and humorous. Manners and
his colonel went off together.
moment came, he
soothing word.
“Two idiots smoking, Manners,
when we were supposed to be at at-
tention.” ? mi
“Well, there won't be much more
attention, sir. Must say I feel like
the men-—at times. I want to let
out and yell and cut a caper right
under the august nose.”
“My nose, Manners?"
They laughed.
“No, General Fuss,’ sir. I've gol
an acre of floor.”
He sent a tired man in to loosen
‘em a palace.” |
He glanced at the pages of his things and drink tea. Later, he |
notebook and handed it to the clerk. went to the mess and found it as’
“You might take this along to the usual. Sanger, the JevoRne and
sergeant major. TI'll just go and dandified Sanger, who could Bee
hunt myself up a corner. Oh, and like a gaurdsman and was Bevel
tell Tombs, the mess orderly, to be relied upon, sat playing a p ae,
spread himself in that house just off Brown was filling a pipe. e
the Place. We shall want tea.” grave Gordon sat scribbling the daily
Manners went on up the steep letter to his wife. Tombs produced
street of St. Hubert. Always he more tea. Sanger, revolving on a
had been something of a separative music stool, fired off his usual ques-
soul, and the war had been like a tion. or
churn consolidating thousands of in- “Any luck for me, uncle?
dividual fat-globules into butter. Al- Manners teased him. “Not much.
ready he was his personal An old lady with a fringe.
prociivities reestablishing themselves. ‘“Confound it, I haven't had any-
Certain sensibilities were reviving or thing young and tasty in my billet
preparing to put out leaves—though for the last three weeks. And
the leaves mght not be quite the Sanger broke into one of the war re-
same as of yore. | frains, vamp! it on the piano.
He saw the tourellas of the : Sha i Ve oh a Jove you can
teau bright against a slivery crevice see :
in 3 brist . He was a Y— of a| Gordon grew sardonic. “It's
feeling Ny pleasure, almost of ten- chronic with you. Permanently
derness. Life had not lost all its polygamous. What are you going
pathos. {to do when you get home? .
But he kept an alert eye on the ‘Preach free love, old McTavish.
houses. He had lived so much with | Manners drank his tea and, find-
other men that now his inclination ing that there was fresh butter on
was to remove his essential self in- the table, was patient even with the
there
She was both frightened and pro-
tiatory. No doubt some of these
had had a rough time. Man-
ners had seen the reoccupied French
territory, all starved faces and flies.
“My servant has been here?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Will it be nec-
for him to come often?”
“Oh, twice a day. But that won't
inconvenience you, will it?”
“No, Monsieur. I keep the door
locked.”
| Manners paused. Had this wo-
‘man been living in a state of terror
| for four years, and had fear become
a habit?
“There is no need for locked doors,
Madame, now,” he said kindly.
She gave him a queer, upward,
startled glance. Almost it accused
him of not unders something.
And then she faced about and disap-
peared down the . Manners
went up the stairs to his room. He
felt puzzled and uneasy.
He glanced around the room. Smith,
his batman, had put out all his
things. A pair of slacks hung on
the back of a chair. But there was
something alien and sinister about
‘the room. No other room made
him feel as this one did: that scores
of other men had slept in it, Ger-
mans, enemies, men who were dead.
But what rot! The Germans were
just other men, noworse, no better.
He put the candle down on the table
beside letters and an English news-
paper that were waiting to be read.
At seven o'clock he went down-
!stairs to go to the mess. Below
him a door had opened and closed.
The woman was waiting for him.
He asked her for a key.
“You must take the one in the
door, Monsieur. I have no other.”
He took the key, locked the door
on the outside, and heard her it
as he went down the path. i! A
was she so suspicious? He was be-
ginning to think that he had chosen
an uncomfortable billet, and in the
mess he heard other revelations.
The colonel looked pink and re-
freshed; he had been offered coffee
and cake; he had a stove and an
electric light beside his bed. r
had discovered other evidences of
civilization; a bottle of red wine and
a girl. Brown, too, could boast of
a stove.
“These people haven't done so
badly. Old Fritz didn't skin them
as he did the French.”
“What about you,
luck ?”
Manners replied evastvely:
nice and quiet.”
But he was beginning to wonder
what ailed the house with the green
shutters.
When, full of the warmth of the
mess and its whisky, he returned to
‘his billet and unlocked the door and
changed the key to the inside of
the lock, he felt that someone wes
listening. The house struck cold.
He thought he heard a door open as
he climbed the stair, but he was
sleepy and less sensitive to impres-
sions. He undressed and t into,
ped. It was quite a constortable
He woke to find Smith, his bpat-
man, in the room with a jug of hot
water. Smith was a conversational
soul, and he had become more so
since the armistice.
“Rummy house, this, sir.”
“What's the matter, Smith?"
“No water. She keeps the kitchen
door locked. Had to go down to the
mess for your shaving water, sir.”
“No tea, Smith?”
“Sorry, sir. I'll manage it tomor-
row. You see, I didn't t to
strike a surprise packet like this.”
He himself of Manners’
‘boots and went downstairs to clean
(them. Manners, while shaving,
could hear the fellow whistling. "h
was a cheerful sound in this melan-
choly house, and he was coming to
find another billet.
| The mess breakfast was at eight-
fifteen; parade at nine. The day
‘looked frosty, and the house struck
cold. He put on his British warmer,
uncle—any
“I'm
and met the Belgian woman in the
passage.
She looked at him anxiously.
“Monsieur has slept well ?"
| He began to tell her that he might
{have to change his billet. She ap-
peared strangely agitated.
“Monsieur will not go elsewhere,
please. I wish to be hospitable.
If Monsieur will tell me—"
Manners was surprised, troubled.
Why was she so anxious for him to
jays sv frightened at the idea of his
|lea
| “I find the room very cold, Mad-
crowd. You a good billet. A stove and half ame.”
| Almost she wrung her hands. “I
have so little coal. There is a stove. |
I will do what I can.”
“And hot water in the morning,
| Madame.”
| ‘Monsieur shall have it.”
Her anxious, hunted eyes worried
him, and he relented.
“Thank you, Madame.
(for a few days.”
| She followed him to the door. She
{had the air of wishing to say more
to him, but no words came. She
locked the door behind him.
The day proved full of affairs. He
did not return to his billet till the
evening. He found a small fire
burning in the stove in his room,
and on the table stood a bottle of
wine.
He was touched, and a little
shocked. Did the poor, frightened
creature think that he had to be
propitiated? And why? Had life
been brutal to her? Oh, perhaps.
He left the bottle on the table, sat
by the stove and read. At seven
he changed into slacks, and went
out on his way to the mess.
She met him in the dim
“Monsieur is more comfortable?”
He thanked her. He mentioned the
to some secret corner. ‘The times foulness of Brown's unhygienic pipe. wine. He suggested that her gen-
wer so prodigious, and somehow so’ It was dark when he up |erosity was charming but unneces-
dead. e wanted to think. |the street to his billet. There
The emptiness of the street sur- seemed to be no light in the house
prised him. He liked it. Tt was with the green shutters, but when
like some dim street in a deserted, he knocked the woman let him in.
medieval town. It had a shut-up, | She brought a candle, but he noticed
secret air. No women; no children. that her eyes remained downcast.
Had these Belgian women and chil- The hand holding the candlestick
dren become shy of thousands upon | was the color of wax.
In the darkness her voice seemed
near to tears. ‘Monsieur is very
kind. TI wish to do m ”
He said something
playful, half gentle, and went out
wond whether there had been
=
i
I will stay |
t was half
Again Manners slept well, but to-
wards something disturbed
him; he
lor a movement in the house, but he
wake listening. The curtains
window were turning gray
with the dawn.
Manners got out of bed and went
to the window. Below him he saw
the garden shut in by its high gray
walls, and the outline of the paths
with their of box. In one
‘corner stood a little summerhouse,
painted blue.
He was about to get back into
bed when he saw a figure wrapped
up in a black
early.
| ure was not that of the wo-
man. It was less tall; it moved
differently; even in that old black
‘cloak it seemed to exhale youthful-
ness. It walked round and round
the box-edged path like a prisoner
in a yard let out for an hour's ex-
ercise.
The daylight strengthened. Man-
ners saw a hand go up and put back
the hood It revealed the face of a
girl, a pale, rather broad face with
dark hair and well-set eyes. It
‘was a type of face that appeared to
him: sensitive, sensuous, vaguely sad.
She stood and looked at the sky for
a moment, and then, turning to-
wards the house, passed out of his
field of vision.
Manners got back into bed. Half
an hour later, when Smith appeared
‘with tea, he asked his servant a
| question.
“Have you seen anyone else in this
house, Smith
Smith was stooping to collect his
officer's boots. “Anyone else, sir?”
“Yes; besides the woman.”
The man’s innocent face answer-
ed the question. “Not a living soul,
sir It's a rummy house. She
hadn't locked the kitchen door on
me this mo A
“You got the hot water all right?” Ye
“Yes, sir. She seems a bit short
of fuel, sir. I caught her pushing
bits of an old chair into the stove.”
Manners, sipping his tea, reflected
upon this incident. The woman was
burning the furniture. But other
people could get coal in St. Hubert.
Was it that she had no money? And
perhaps hardly any food!
Later in the day another incident
threw a more sinister light upon the
‘situation. Manners happened to
return to the house about eleven in
the morning and as he climbed the
winding street he became aware of
'a crowd of women and children out-
side the railings of the house with
the green shutters.
It was a slatternly, unwashed and |
unpleasant crowd. The children
were throwing stones at the shut-
ters, while the women—frowsy and
excited—hurled epithets. Obviously,
(it was a demonstration, a mob dis-
| play, by the lower elements of this
little Belgian town. And as Man-
(ners approached the group, his face
hardened. Nasty things, mobs, even
when made up of a score or two of
women and urchins.
Discovering him, they grew silent.
The children scuttled out of his way,
But one of the women stood in front
of “the gate. ' v
“Bad place for English officer.”
Manners motioned her out of the
way, and she, seeing the disdain in
his eyes, grew insolent.
“German women -—secondhand.
Monsieur likes them so, perhaps.”
She seemed to squelch with laugh-
ter, in which the rest of the crowd
joined. Manners went pale.
“If you please, Madame. I do not
understand.”
She gave way, as he opened the
gate and walked up the path tothe
house. The crowd had its joke at
his expense. He felt both contemp-
tuous and angry.
He had begun to divine a part of
the secret of this house, and, hard-
(ened worldling though he was, he
‘was shocked by it.
He tried the door and found it
(unlocked. This surprised him. And
‘then he saw a figure seated on the
'stairs, its face clasped between its
hands. He closed the door and
locked it. He went halfway up the
passage and paused.
The woman spoke, and her voice
seemed to make a dry whispering.
[“It is not true, Monsieur.” Her
‘hand dropped. Her eyes appealed
‘to him.
{ Manners was conscious of sudden
compassion. “Madame, I prefer to
believe you.”
“You must believe me, Monsieur.
We are reviled; we are threatened;
we are allowed no food, no coal, no
light. Even the water—"
He nodded. “You are not alone
here?”
“No, Monsieur. Gabrielle my
daughter.”
“Yes; I must have seen her this
! morning in the garden.
The woman's eyelids flickered mo-
”
'mentarily. “It was not because I
did not trust . Does Monsieur
understand ? would explain—"
{ ‘Tell me.”
“It happened in this way, Mon-
| sieur. For two years I had the Ger-
man commandant billeted in my
‘house. he was a good man. He
hated war, as we did. He had a
|wife and children at home, and he
was kind. He liked my daughter
to play on the piano; even he used
to work in the garden; he was at
home with us, and friendly. He
made life—the life of prisoners—
easy for us. We had food, fuel.
Does Monsieur understand what I
am sa 2»
Manners nodded. “I understand.”
She was silent for a moment.
“But this is the tragedy, Mon-
sieur: that my enemies should be,
not the Germans, but these people
in my town; people who were jeal-
ous; people who could think nothing
but evil. I did not understand till
daughter were to be named among
those who had given themselves. At
first I could not believe it. But
then the persecution began: insults;
disgusting threats: We were treated
as outcasts. I had to hide my
| daughter. Does Monsieur under-
| stand 7"
| Again Manners nodded. “But
have you not asked for protection?”
“lI appealed to the burgomaster,
coud not say what, a sound
cloak with a hood
the Germans left us that I and my
| Monsieur, but he is a weak man. He
{advised us to go away.”
“But—the police?”
“We have but one gendarme, Mon-
sieur, these days, and he is as bad
as those others. There is nothing
but your presence in my house that
saves us.”
| In the course of the war Manners
had had to tackle many problems,
and he had found a ruthless self-
confidence the most active of sol-
vents. He made his own plan, and
‘compelled or persuaded other men to
accept it.
He said to the woman on the
stairs, “I will do something,” and he
began by going out and chalking
upon the front door the mystic sym-
bols: “Under the protection of the
| English Army.” The crowd still loi-
| tered.
He walked to the gate and point-
'ed with his cane. “Go. Clear out!”
and they went.
But an autocratic gesture such
as this could be no more than a
compromise, and he knew it. He had
a heart-to-heart talk with the col-
onel; he asked the advice of a bri-
gade major who was a good fellow.
“We can order a guard to be de-
tailed. We have had to place sentries
outside of several houses. One wom-
an has had her hair cut off and her
clothes torn to pieces.”
Manners reflected. “It's very good
of you. But I don't think a man with
a bayonet is going to solve this
problem.”
The brigade major made a sugges-
tion. “Why don't you doctors do
something? You could co-opt the la-
cal priest and the Belgian doctor.
The p-iest is a sportsman.”
Manners looked grave. “Yes, it's
an idca. But that one should have
to certify a girl's decency in order
to placate a lot of sluts!”
He went to see the catholic priest.
He found him to be a stout old per-
son, bald, buxom, and with a jocund
. He was a humanist. He had a
little English, and between his En-
glish and Manners’ French they con-
trived to understand each other.
Almost the old man broke the seal
of the confessional. “Monsieur, my
assurance is that the accusation is
not true. I have known Madame
Lerrourc anu her daughter for many
years. I knew the German officer
who lived in the house. He was a
decent fellow. I will do all I can to
help these ladies.”
They smiled upon each other.
“May I ask you a question, Mon-
sieur le Major?” the priest asked.
“Certainly. ’
“Have you seen Madame Lerrou-
re's daughter?”
“Once, and only in the distance,
from my window.”
The priest nodded. “So—your com-
passion is impersonal; a flower of
the open mind. It is well. See her.”
Manners returned to the house
with the green shutters. Madame
Lerrourc let him in. He showed her
those mystic symbols in chalk upon
the door. She looked at them witha
faint smile.
“Will it suffice, Monsieur?"
He asked her a question. ‘Mad-
ame, how much food have you in the
house?’
She had closed the door and her
thin figure drooped. “Very little,
Monsieur.”
“I see. We must alter that.”
He walked down the passage to-
wards the kitchen with the air of an
officer conducting an inspection. The
‘door stood ajar. He pushed it open.
There was an exclamation from the
mother.
“Monsieur!”
A girl was sitting by the stove
with a black shawl over her shoulders.
Startled, she turned her head ana
looked at the Englishman. She hes-
itated; she stood up.
Manners saluted her.
selle, please sit down.”
He crossed over to the stove, open-
ed its iron door and saw a miser-
able little fire in the heart of which
a green log sizzled unconsentingly.
He reclosed the door. He turned to
Madam Lerrourc.
“Madame, I apologize. I have
robbed you of your coal. I will see
that it is replaced.”
He was conscious of the girl sit-
ting there with her hands clasped in
her lap, a frightened, gentle, dark
thing. She was half starved and
cold and afraid but she sat there
with a childish dignity. Her soft
eyes observed him.
Manners looked at her and smiled,
and moved towards the door. “You
will forgive me for having intrud-
ed?”
He made a sign to the mother.
She followed him into the e,
and opened the door of an icy little
salon in which a piano stood with
its keyboard closed. There was
dust on it. And Manners, with a
“Mademoi-
queer abstracted air, passed a finger
over the dusty surface.
“One cannot play the piano with
frozen hands.” He looked out of
the window. “I have taken advice,
Madame.
gested to me, but now, having seen
Mademoiselle Lerrourc, I do not
think they will be necessary.
have visited your priest, and in him
|you have a friend. Will you permit
| me to remain in your house?”
She stood very still. “Monsieur,
I thank you. But as you see, it
will be difficult for me to give Mon-
' sieur that comfort—"
“I think I can arrange these dif-
ficul’ies. There have been other
occasions when we have been al-
lowed to provide civilians with food
and medical comforts. You will al-
low me, Madame, to arrange these
matters?”
He was formal, kind, sparing a
self-restraint that he divined to be
on the edge of breaking. He went
out quickly, aware of a pathetic
figure sitting rigid on a sofa, with
tears beginning to show. He closed
the door.
He said to himself in the English
way, “Confound it, how do I know
that I'm not a fool?” but that he
did know it was part of his nature.
That night abrielle Lerrourc
played her piano in a room that
‘was warmed. The sound flled the
dead house and made i: alive, and
one who knocked at the door was
| received as a friend.
Certain things were sug-
Ii
PENNSYLVANIA R. R.
IS 100 YEARS OLD
Just one hundred years ago one of
the oldest railroads in lvania
and in the entire country pushed its
first crude rails out from the
of West Chester, to the tiny hamlet
of Malvern, nine miles away.
Born of the ambitious plans of a
group of public spirited citizens ot
West Chester and vicinity, back in
1831, the West Chester Railroad was
projec to afford the prosperous
and rapidly growing seat of Chester
county direct passenger and freight
service to and from Philadelphia.
Its sponsors contemplated a connec-
tion with the Philadelphia and Co-
lumbia Railroad at Malvern and the
use of that railroad's tracks into the
city.
So early was that day in railroad
history, however, that the Philadel-
phia and Columbia, itself the first
railroad to be built in the State of
Pennsylvania, had not been extended
the entire distance to Philadelphia
from its starting point at Columbia,
Pa. 80 miles west of the Quaker
City. So, despite the rapidity with
which the West Chester road was
picked through to the junction at
alvern, it was not until a yea:
later that passengers were able to
make a trip entirely by rail to anc
from the me
The pioneer railway builders of
West Chester started their nine
miles of track to Malvern late ir
May 1831 and in July of the follow:
ing year they combined the celebra-
tion of the nation’s birth with festiv-
ities marking the completion of
(three miles of track. A horse
drawn car with thirty Tt
was driven proudly out of town or
that gala Fourth of July, the horses
trotting smartly along to the ac
companiment of cheers and admir
ing shouts from the populace. The
formal opening of the line did not
take place until September, 1832
but it was made the occasion of ¢
great celebration at West Chester.
The total cost of the early line i:
given at $80,000. Horses were the
motive power for more than a de
gn the first track was mad:
0 ow pine girders plated wit}
flat iron bars. inion engines wer¢
not used on the railroad until 184!
when the track was s enec
and heavier and more modern rail:
were laid.
The first passengers on the Wes
Chester Railroad did not ride all the
way to central Philadelphia by rail
They were carried inthe cars of the
railway to the head of an incline
plane on Belmont teau, now ¢
part of Fairmount , Philadel
Here the sectional cana
boats which moved on flat cars ove
the Philadelphia and Columbia Rail
road were dropped by cable to the
banks of the Schuykill River at ths
foot of the plateau. West Cheste
passengers transferred from cars tt
stages at the head of the Belmon
‘plane for the trip to down-town Phil
adelphia. It was not until Decem
ber, 1833, when the Columbia bridg:
over the Schuylkill river was com
| pleted at the foot of the plane tha
the railway cars were hauled inane
out « of the i roper. 5
e compan rst passénger de
pot in Philadelphia was establishet
at Broad and Race streets. Wit)
‘the opening of the river bridge am
the eliruination of the inclined plan
the station was removed to 18th an:
Market streets.
The Pennsylvania Railroad firs
took over the operation of the Wes
Chester Railroad in 1859, relinquish
ing it several years later to the Wes
Chester and Philadelphia railroad
In 1879 the Pennsylvania purchase:
the West Chester railroad and agai
assumed the manag-ment of the line
absorbing it entirely in April, 190¢
The old route is still in use althoug’
its connections with the main linet
Philadelphia was transferred t
Frazer, 24 miles west of Philadel
phia, shortly after the vani:
took control and the line wa
straightened and otherwise improve
It now forms an alternate rout
between the city and West Cheste
and carries a light commutatio
traffic.
Some idea of the very early plac
occupied by the West Chester rail
road in Pennsylvania's rtatio
history may be gained from the fac
that it antedated by several year
the construction and operation of th
Allegheny Portage Railroad and th
Main Line of Public Works of Penr
sylvania, the first combined rail an
canal transport system to cross th
State and connect Philadelphia an
‘Pittsburgh. This trans-state rout
was the forerunner of the preser
Pennsylvania Railroad.
“Madame, with your permissior
I am very fond of music.”
He was given a chair by th
stove. The girl played Chopin; Mac
ame's knitting needles clicked.
On a subsequent Sunday, sundr
Englishmen in khaki saw an Eng
lish major walking to church wit
two Belgian ladies. It appearedt
be a family affair. If there wer
grins, such expressions of huma
‘feeling were neither destructive nc
wholly cynical.
| The gay Sanger chose to be fact
tious in the mess. “Old uncle seen
to have gone in off the deep end.”
He tried teasing Manners, but ws
| 80 snubbed that in the future he r
|frained. Old uncle was not tt
man to be fooled with. His foil
if it was folly, was a delicate an
| personal affair.
| The people of St. Hubert sa
| what these English soldiers saw, an
each man and each woman saw
‘with the eyes of his or her secr«
soul. To some Manners was a ge:
|tleman; to others he was a con
| plaisant fool. Some might say 1
‘had stepped into the shoes of ti
| German; others, that he had falle
in love with Mademoiselle Gabriel
Lerrourc, who had the eyes of ti
Holy Virgin and whose hands mac
music. —Hearst’s International Co:
mopolitan.
Large numbers of Italian eggs a
| being imported into this countr
| We trust they are not the lays «
| Ancient Rome.