the great events of the twenty-four hours in the country round about. A
local poet described it in the "live" paper of the town, cribbing from
an old Eastern magazine and passing off as original the lines--

"Again we stepped into the street,
A train came thundering by
Drawn by the snorting iron steed
Swifter than eagles fly.
Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked,
Far rolled the smoky cloud,
Echoed the hills, the valleys shook,
The flying forests bowed."

The trainmen, on the other hand, used no fine phrases. They called it
simply "Number Seventeen"; and, when it started, said it had "pulled
out."

On the evening in question, there it stood, nearly ready. Just behind
the great hissing locomotive, with its parabolic headlight and its
coal-laden tender, came the baggage, mail, and express cars; then the
passenger coaches, in which the social condition of the occupants seemed
to be in inverse ratio to their distance from the engine. First came
emigrants, "honest miners," "cowboys," and laborers; Irishmen, Germans,
Welshmen, Mennonites from Russia, quaint of garb and speech, and
Chinamen. Then came along cars full of people of better station, and
last the great Pullman "sleepers," in which the busy black porters were
making up the berths for well-to-do travelers of diverse nationalities
and occupations.

It was a curious study for a thoughful observer, this motley crowd of
human beings sinking all differences of race, creed, and habits in
the common purpose to move westward--to the mountain fastnesses, the
sage-brush deserts and the Golden Gate.

The warning bell had sounded, and the fireman leaned far out for the
signal. The gong struck sharply, the conductor shouted, "All aboard,"
and raised his hand; the tired ticket-seller shut his window, and the
train moved out of the station, gathered way as it cleared the outskirts
of the town, rounded a curve, entered on an absolutely straight line,
and, with one long whistle from the engine, settled down to its work.
Through the night hours it sped on, past lonely ranches and infrequent
stations, by and across shallow streams fringed with cottonwood trees,
over the greenish-yellow buffalo grass near the old trail where many a
poor emigrant, many a bold frontiersman, many a brave soldier, had laid
his bones but a short time before.

Familiar as they may be, there is something strangely impressive about
all-night jou