He isn't right sure which
he wants to do the most.
Now and then a brakeman goes by swinging his lantern. The boys
would like to ask him what time it is, but for one thing they're
too bashful. Being a brakeman is almost as good as going with a
"troupe" or a circus. You get to go to places that way, too,
Marysville, and Mechanicsburg, and Harrod's - that is, if you're
on the local freight, and then you lay over in Cincinnati. Some
ways it's better than firing, and some ways it isn't so good. And
then there is another reason why they don't ask the brakeman what
time it is. He'd say it was "forty-five" or maybe "fifty-three,"
and never tell what hour.
"Say! Do you know it's cold? You wouldn't think it would be so
cold in the summer-time."
The maple-trees, from being formless blobs, insensibly begin to
look like lace-work. Presently the heavens and the earth are
bathed in liquid blue that casts a spell so potent on the soul of
him that sees it that he yearns for something he knows not what,
except that it is utterly beyond him, as far beyond him as what he
means to be will be from what he shall attain to. One dreams of
romance and renown, of all that should be and is not. And as he
dreams the birds awaken. In the East there comes a greenish
tinge. Far up the track, there is a sullen roar, and then the
hoarse diapason of an engine whistle.
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