The Western Division of our road runs through a very mountainous part of
Virginia, and the stations are few and far between. About three miles
from one of these stations, the road runs through a deep gorge of the
Blue Ridge, and near the centre is a small valley, and there, hemmed in
by the everlasting hills, stood a small one-and-a-half-story log cabin.
The few acres that surrounded it were well cultivated as a garden, and
upon the fruits thereof lived a widow and her three children, by the name
of Graff. They were, indeed, untutored in the cold charities of an
outside world—I doubt much if they ever saw the sun shine beyond their
own native hills. In the summer time the children brought berries to the
nearest station to sell, and with the money they bought a few of the
necessities of the outside refinement.
The oldest of these children I should judge to be about twelve years, and
the youngest about seven. They were all girls, and looked nice and
clean, and their healthful appearance and natural delicacy gave them a
ready welcome. They appeared as if they had been brought up to fear God
and love their humble home and mother. I had often stopped my train and
let them get off at their home, having found them at the station some
three miles from home, after disposing of their berries.
I had children at home, and I knew their little feet would be tired in
walking three miles, and therefore felt that it would be the same with
these fatherless little ones. They seemed so pleased to ride, and
thanked me with such hearty thanks, after letting them off near home.
They frequently offered me nice, tempting baskets of fruit for my
kindness; yet I never accepted any without paying their full value.
Now, if you remember, the winter of ’54 was very cold in that part of the
State, and the snow was nearly three feet deep on the mountains.
On the night of the 26th of December, of that year, it turned around
warm, and the rain fell in torrents. A terrible storm swept the mountain
tops, and almost filled the valleys with water. Upon that night my train
was winding its way, at its usual speed, around the hills and through the
valleys, and as the road-bed was all solid rock, I had no fear of the
banks giving out. The night was intensely dark, and the winds moaned
piteously through the deep gorges of the mountains. Some of my
passengers were trying to sleep, others were talking in a low voice, to
relieve the monotony of the scene. Mothers had their children upon their
knees, as if to shield them from some unknown danger without.
It was near midnight, when a sharp whistle from the engine brought me to
my feet. I knew there was danger by that whistle, and sprang to the
brakes at once, but the brakesmen were all at their posts, and soon
brought the train to a stop. I seized my lantern and found my way
forward as soon as possible, when what a sight met my gaze! A bright
fire of pine logs illuminated the track for some distance, and not over
forty rods ahead of our train a horrible gulf had opened its maw to
receive us!
The snow, together with the rain, had torn the whole side of the mountain
out, and eternity itself seemed spread out before us. The widow Graff
and her children had found it out, and had brought light brush from their
home below, and built a large fire to warn us of our danger. They had
been there more than two hours watching beside that beacon of safety. As
I went up where that old lady stood drenched through by the rain and
sleet, she grasped my arm and cried:
“Thank God! Mr. Sherbourn, we stopped you in time. I would have lost my
life before one hair of your head should have been hurt. Oh, I prayed to
heaven that we might stop the train, and, my God, I thank thee!”
The children were crying for joy. I confess I don’t very often pray, but
I did then and there. I kneeled down by the side of that good old woman,
and offered up thanks to an All Wise Being for our safe deliverance from
a most terrible death, and called down blessings without number upon that
good old woman and her children. Near by stood the engineer, fireman,
and brakesmen, the tears streaming down their bronzed cheeks.
I immediately prevailed upon Mrs. Graff and the children to go back into
the cars out of the storm and cold. After reaching the cars I related
our hair-breadth escape, and to whom we were indebted for our lives, and
begged the men passengers to go forward and see for themselves. They
needed no further urging, and a great many of the ladies went also,
regardless of the storm. They soon returned, and their pale faces gave
full evidence of the frightful death we had escaped. The ladies and
gentlemen vied with each other in their thanks and heartfelt gratitude
towards Mrs. Graff and her children, and assured her that they would
never, never forget her, and before the widow left the train she was
presented with a purse of four hundred and sixty dollars, the voluntary
offering of a whole train of grateful passengers. She refused the
proffered gift for some time, and said she had only done her duty, and
the knowledge of having done so was all the reward she asked. However,
she finally accepted the money, and said it should go to educate her
children.
The railway company built her a new house, gave her and her children a
life pass over the road, and ordered all trains to stop and let her get
off at home when she wished, but the employés needed no such orders, they
can appreciate all such kindness—more so than the directors themselves.
The old lady frequently visits my home at H— and she is at all times a
welcome visitor at my fireside. Two of the children are attending school
at the same place.
—_Appleton’s American Railway Anecdote Book_.