Through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio.--Columbus.--The Beautiful Station.
--Church Service.--Nearing Home.--Parting Thoughts.--Our Amusements.
--To Ethel Asleep.--A Parting Wish.--Pilgrimages of Patriotism.
It was well on in Sunday morning when we reached our next
stopping-place, Columbus, Ohio, where we stayed until Monday forenoon.
The morning light, as we journeyed on in the early hours, showed us the
smiling country in its Sabbath rest. It was all such a contrast to the
far West, and the Pacific Slope, and not an ungrateful one.
We were passing through Ohio, which, one might say, is no longer the
West, but the centre of our land. It is a glorious country, rich,
fertile, and prosperous-looking.
Columbus quite pleased us, by the evidences of its bustling activities
and improvements; as well as by a certain old-fashioned dignity and
state. It is the governmental seat of Ohio, and has some quite
respectable public buildings, all done in the American-Greek-Classic
style--rows of pillars, pediments, and all that--which, I confess, I
like better than the strained effort after effect, seen in some more
modern structures.
A new piece of architecture at Columbus, however, the beautiful
railroad station, was charming. It is full of beauty, like a rich
Italian palace, all warm with golden carvings, yellow marble walls, and
mosaic pavements.
The interior effect of the waiting-rooms was exquisite, with the arched
and coffered roof, and the graceful outlines of all.
On Sunday night we all attended church, where we heard a good sermon,
and joined, with keen relish, in a fine choral service, rendered by a
well-trained surpliced choir of men and boys. The leader of the choir
evidently had a heart for the noble effects of Gregorian music, while
not such a purist as to rule out all modern compositions. In this he
was right. Gregorian music is like salt, really necessary as a
healthful adjunct in church song, but too much of it is as bad as none
at all.
It was toward evening when we reached Pittsburg, where we made but a
short stay; and in the early morning hour we were once more at the
Pennsylvania Depot in Jersey City, where we took reluctant leave of
each other and our good car "Lucania."
Sleep had refreshed us, as we flew, all unconscious, through the
splendid scenery of the Alleghanies. But what were such mountains to us
now, who had seen the Rockies; and what was the Horseshoe Curve,
compared to the daring engineering of Colorado railroads! Nothing. We
were more than satisfied with all we had seen.
But before closing this scattering record of our "Flight in Spring,"
surely it will be well to look back, once more, at its pleasant hours,
and sweet companionship.
In those six weeks of our trip, equal almost to a lifetime of contact,
under ordinary circumstances, how well we got to know each other.
Surely the more each knew of each, the more did trifling fault fade
away, and clear goodness come out into pleasing prominence. Was it not
so?
So that when we came to part at the station, it was with a regret for
that parting, and a hope that friendships were cemented on our journey,
which nothing ever could dissever.
Let us think, too, with gratitude of the unwearying attention given to
our comfort by Mr. Payson, in whose charge were all the details of our
transportation, involving so much of most serious importance, as well
for our safety, as our comfort. How wonderful to think that our eight
thousand miles of travel was all conducted like clockwork, with entire
reliability, and precision, from point to point, across the continent
and back again, without hitch or accident.
Then we must remember the Pullman employees, to whom the whole journey
was but an episode, in lives of such journeys; and yet how enthusiastic
and attentive they were, at all times.
And we must remember Delia and Charles, in their sphere of usefulness,
ever ready and willing to carry out the hospitable intentions of our
good host and hostess.
It is all over, our "Flight in Spring," with all its pleasant
incidents. Some of the sweetest moments were, when we turned in upon
ourselves for amusement and pleasure, at the evening hours, when formal
sightseeing was over; or in those hours of travel, when the eyes
refused to gaze longer on the flying landscape.
Then came the Nonsense Verses, and the Stories, and the Songs, and the
Machine Poetry, and all the fun. Shall we not gather up some of those
trifles, as worthy of preservation in our record? Yes, certainly we
will.
We will first start out with the machine poetry. Rhymes were furnished,
which were these dreadful collocations, "give, live, dove, love, merry,
cherry, go, slow, tease, squeeze, muddle, fuddle." A hopeless list
surely.
Dear Fred, who said he could not write poetry, evolved the following: