THE OLD YARD MASTER
I was waiting on the ten o’clock train to leave the depot at Williamsport, Pa., when a vigorous old man came into the waiting room, accompanied by four children. It was an hour yet before train time, and I happened to be the only waiting passenger up to this time. I had come down from Lock Haven on the early morning train, and had two hours on my hands before the Reading train pulled out for Philadelphia. I had passed some of the time away talking to the vigorous scrub woman, who had mopped up the entire floor space of the station since daylight. She had gathered up her buckets and brooms and mops, and was leaving when the vigorous old man and the four children arrived.
He bade me good morning and then seated the children, but he did not sit down himself. He walked to the south window and looked out over the frozen river for several minutes, then turned to me and said: “The old river looks tame under her lid of ice, but some day she’ll get up and shove the lid off, and if the lid refuses to go, there will be a scene along here. I’ve seen her get her back up in my time and shove ice up on the tracks, right here in front of the station.”
“I wonder how deep the flood in 1889 was in the station,” I ventured. He put his finger on a spot a few inches up the window facing and said: “About here somewhere, I think. I was here at the time. You see, I was yard master here up to sixteen years ago. The boys went out on a strike, and I went out along and I never came back. I went into business and gave up railroading.”
“Do you never intend to railroad again?” I asked, by way of keeping up the conversation.
“Oh, no; the roads have no use for us old fellows any more. They want younger blood.”
“But you are not so old,” I said.
“Older than I look, sir. These are my grandchildren. We are off on a little trip together. You see, my youngest daughter is getting married today, and we are going along with the bridal party for a short distance. These grandchildren are very dear to me now since my own children are all married and gone off to build homes of their own.”
As the train drew near he took the children into the ladies waiting room, and other people came in and attracted my attention. Pretty soon a carriage drove up to the station. The horses were decorated with white ribbons and a few white bows on the carriage. Even the driver’s whip was decorated with a white bow. I knew by these signs that it was a wedding party. Two ladies and two gentlemen got out of the carriage, and I found myself guessing which couple were the bride and groom. They entered the ladies waiting room, and other young people appeared on the scene and began to throw rice and raise a great noise. They were having a great time, a jolly, happy time.
In a few minutes the old train master came back to me, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said: “They’re having their fun in there, as young people will. The bride in there is my youngest daughter, going off on her wedding trip.”
I could see that his voice was trembling and that his feelings were getting the better of him, but he walked to the window and looked out over the river and let the tears run quietly down his brave old face. He had escaped from the merry crowd to look out over the frozen river. What did he see? What was the fascination?
Intuitively I knew that the vision out there on the river was another wedding party of long years ago. I knew that the fair bride he saw out yonder was leaning on his own strong arm, and that they were going off on that journey this world and this life only gives but once to men and women—that journey which comes so near to making this world a heaven. Was that bride still alive? No, the tears in the old man’s eyes were silent witnesses to proclaim the sad news that she had gone on another journey—and gone alone.
The train pulled up and the crowd rushed out to get on board, and the old train master, with his untold story, drifted away from me, and I never saw him again.