THE WEST.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE RAILWAY.
“The black steam-engine! steed of iron power;
The wondrous steed of the Arabian tale,
Launched on its course by pressure of a touch;
Ha! ha! it shouts, as on
It gallops, dragging in its tireless path,
Its load of fire.”
“How still Broadway looks so early in the morning,” said Norman Lester to his mother, as they drove down the street to take the early train.
It was an unusual sight, the long vista of the beautiful street in deep shadow, peaceful and calm as if it knew no trampling footsteps nor jostling vehicles. It was just waking up from its brief hour of repose. Here and there a market cart, laden with vegetables, was jogging leisurely on, then a carriage with travelers and trunks hastened onward. A few waiters were standing at the doors of the hotels to speed the parting guests, and pedestrians not ignorant of sunrise and its demands were walking on the broad pavement. Soon the swelling tide of life would rush through this great channel; the anxious, earnest brow, the sad and troubled countenances; light and trifling, and bright and joyous faces, would all be borne down that mighty stream. Business and pleasure, noise, and hurry, and confusion would come, as the ascending sun chased away the shadows of the great thoroughfare, and with them its brief repose.