ERIE SHORE.
"Amidst old logs, under a stooping willow tree, I made my bed."
The enormous freight trains told their tale of the internal trade of America; on no other lines of railway in the world could you witness such processions of produce. All sorts of things flew past on these lumberous trains—cars full of hogs with hundreds of motionless black snouts poking between the bars; refrigerator cars full of ham—dead hogs, dripping and slopping water as they went along in the heat, and the sun melted the ice; cars of coal; open cars of bright glistening tin-scraps going to be molten a second time; cars of agricultural machinery; cars laden with gangs of immigrant men being taken to work on a big job by labour contractors; closed cars full of all manner of unrevealed merchandise and machinery. On the cars, the names of the railways of America—Illinois Central, Wabash, Big Four, Lake Shore....
At Gypsum I returned to the highroad, and there once more had an offer of a job from a gang. I was surprised to see boys of thirteen or fourteen hard at work with spade and shovel.
"I see you're working for your living," said I.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I said 'You're working for your living.'"
"Wahn a jahb?"
"No; I'm not looking for one. I'm walking to Chicago."