"Ah! if he were only here!" sighed the Major; "with the lake in front of him, and under this moonlight, or with the shadows of the pines down by the water's edge, and the melody of the miniature breakers to whisper inspirations—eh! old boy, maybe we should lose the Deacon—at least for this trip," he asserted hastily, as if unwilling to commit himself, against experience, and with a knowledge that the sweetest things in life demand a change. "They get tired of us, you know," continued the Major.
"You talk as if the Deacon were in love."
"The symptoms are marked, my boy—he called the other fellow a 'dude,' you say. It looks bad; I fear he'll spoil the biscuit."
CHAPTER IV.
THROUGH THE SAGUACHE RANGE.
Much of the way from Granite to Leadville lies close to the Arkansas, and with the level of it, the river being but a few feet below the road. The Major and I conclude to occupy the rear platform and encounter an elderly lady on a camp-stool in possession of the car door. She is here evidently with a view to the scenery. As we squeeze past, we are regaled with an odor of rose leaves, suggestive of old-fashioned bureaus with obstinate drawers, catnip tea and grandmotherly tenderness. The velocity of the railroad train is not to be compared to the speed with which the perfume flashes one back through the decades, to the hard times, and I detect a sigh from the Major as he seats himself upon the car step.
"What are you sighing for, Major?"
With a hasty glance toward the car door: "For the happy times of nearly half a century ago."