have a deal of the bitter mingled with them, when a dear Mamma and baby-sisters have to be left behind.
The last bell has sounded, the last trunk been hurled into the baggage-car, the last “All aboard” has been shouted, and the “Shore-Line Express Train,” with its precious load of human life, is steaming out from under the shelter of the Grand Central, rushing through the Forties, Fifties, Sixties, and past the beautiful Park, with hasty glimpses at its trees, Casino, lakes, and glittering equipages.
The little travelling party have a section in the Palace Car, and there they are sitting very demurely; they are not used to travelling, for Mamma’s idea has always been that “Home is the best place for little folk,” and now they are somewhat stunned by the strangeness and excitement; but suddenly Rosie, who is not apt to stay “stunned,” screams—
“O, childerns, do look out of the window. We are riding on nothing, with all the world both sides of us.”
The sight which met the young, eager eyes was indeed wonderful. Ignorant of any danger, they seemed held in the air by some magic spell. They are fairly roused now; their spirits rise to the highest point, as they chatter of bridges, rocks, tiny men, women, and houses beneath, when suddenly, without any preparation, a “horror of great darkness” comes over them. What can it mean? The cold, damp dungeon, and the loud, clanging sounds? The little faces look ghastly white by the light of the flickering lamps above them, as they cling close to good Charlotte.
With the feeling of terror, to the older ones, comes back, in the twinkling of an eye, thoughts of Him to whom they have been taught “the darkness and the light are both alike.” Half unconsciously, little prayers linger on their lips, thoughts of dear Mamma, with resolves to be more “kindly affectioned,” and then they come out again into the welcome light, and as the heavy weight of fear is lifted from their childish hearts, their spirits rise with every advancing mile, till their merry peals and funny speeches call forth smiles from many travellers in the car without.
Still on they go, with the ceaseless jarring and unearthly whistle’s shriek, through towns and villages, woods and meadows; now journeying side by side with the blue waters of the Sound, with its grateful breezes, its tiny craft and pebbly shore; now hiding behind some hill or grove to come springing upon the smiling water-view again.
Little eyes are growing weary of sight-seeing. To little ears the cries of conductors, pop-corn and prize-package venders have lost their freshness; the sun seems suddenly to grow very hot. The cage seems very narrow. Artie is crowding Daisy, and Bear “thinks the Monkies might stop their chatter, for his head aches.” Suddenly a cool, fresh sea-breeze blows through the heated car,—a loud bell peals, a heavy jolt shakes the train, and Jack screams—
“Oh, childerns the cars is riding in a steamboat,” and Daisy reminds Charlotte—
“This is the time Mamma said we were to dine.”