I was waiting on the ten o’clock train to leave the depot at
Williamsport, Pa., when a vigorous old man came into the waiting room,
accompanied by four children. It was an hour yet before train time, and
I happened to be the only waiting passenger up to this time. I had come
down from Lock Haven on the early morning train, and had two hours on my
hands before the Reading train pulled out for Philadelphia. I had passed
some of the time away talking to the vigorous scrub woman, who had mopped
up the entire floor space of the station since daylight. She had gathered
up her buckets and brooms and mops, and was leaving when the vigorous old
man and the four children arrived.
He bade me good morning and then seated the children, but he did not
sit down himself. He walked to the south window and looked out over the
frozen river for several minutes, then turned to me and said: “The old
river looks tame under her lid of ice, but some day she’ll get up and
shove the lid off, and if the lid refuses to go, there will be a scene
along here. I’ve seen her get her back up in my time and shove ice up on
the tracks, right here in front of the station.”
“I wonder how deep the flood in 1889 was in the station,” I ventured.
He put his finger on a spot a few inches up the window facing and said:
“About here somewhere, I think. I was here at the time. You see, I was
yard master here up to sixteen years ago. The boys went out on a strike,
and I went out along and I never came back. I went into business and gave
up railroading.”
“Do you never intend to railroad again?” I asked, by way of keeping up
the conversation.
“Oh, no; the roads have no use for us old fellows any more. They want
younger blood.”
“But you are not so old,” I said.
“Older than I look, sir. These are my grandchildren. We are off on a
little trip together. You see, my youngest daughter is getting married
today, and we are going along with the bridal party for a short distance.
These grandchildren are very dear to me now since my own children are all
married and gone off to build homes of their own.”
As the train drew near he took the children into the ladies waiting
room, and other people came in and attracted my attention. Pretty soon a
carriage drove up to the station. The horses were decorated with white
ribbons and a few white bows on the carriage. Even the driver’s whip was
decorated with a white bow. I knew by these signs that it was a wedding
party. Two ladies and two gentlemen got out of the carriage, and I found
myself guessing which couple were the bride and groom. They entered the
ladies waiting room, and other young people appeared on the scene and
began to throw rice and raise a great noise. They were having a great
time, a jolly, happy time.
In a few minutes the old train master came back to me, and jerked his
thumb over his shoulder and said: “They’re having their fun in there, as
young people will. The bride in there is my youngest daughter, going off
on her wedding trip.”
I could see that his voice was trembling and that his feelings were
getting the better of him, but he walked to the window and looked out
over the river and let the tears run quietly down his brave old face. He
had escaped from the merry crowd to look out over the frozen river. What
did he see? What was the fascination?
Intuitively I knew that the vision out there on the river was another
wedding party of long years ago. I knew that the fair bride he saw out
yonder was leaning on his own strong arm, and that they were going off
on that journey this world and this life only gives but once to men and
women—that journey which comes so near to making this world a heaven.
Was that bride still alive? No, the tears in the old man’s eyes were
silent witnesses to proclaim the sad news that she had gone on another
journey—and gone alone.
The train pulled up and the crowd rushed out to get on board, and the old
train master, with his untold story, drifted away from me, and I never
saw him again.