om "John Burroughs, Boy and Man," by Dr. Clara Barrus. Copyright,
1920, by Doubleday, Page & Co.

The following letter[15] was written when J. J. Hill--perhaps the
greatest railroading genius America has ever produced--was twenty years
of age. It is one of the few letters written by him at this time of his
life that have been preserved:

Saint Paul, February 11, 1858.

Dear William:

Your epistle bearing date of seventeenth ult. came to hand on
good time and your fertile imagination can scarcely conceive
what an amount of pleasure I derived from it, as it was the
first epistle of William to James at St. Paul for a "long
back." My surprise at receiving your letter was only surpassed
by my surprise at not receiving one from you after you left
St. Paul, or sometime during the ensuing season. Still, a good
thing is never too late or "done too often." It gave me much
pleasure to hear that you were all well and enjoying
yourselves in the good and pious (as I learn) little town of
Rockwood. I did intend to go to Canada this winter, but it is
such a long winter trip I thought I should defer it until
summer, when I hope to be able to get away, as I intend to go
on the river this summer if all goes as well as I expect.
Capt. W. F. Davidson wrote me from Cincinnati about going with
him as first clerk on the side-wheel packet _Frank Steele_, a
new boat about the size of the _War Eagle_. The Captain is
Letter A, No. 1, and I think I shall go with him. If not, I
have two or three good offers for coming season on the levee,
besides my present berth, which is nevertheless very
comfortable.

I think it mighty strange that some (of my letters) have not
reached home as I wrote several times to my brother Alex. and
I never was more surprised in my life than when old Bass
handed me a letter of inquiry as to my whereabouts. But after
the boats stop running our mails are carried so irregularly
that whole bags of mail matter are often mislaid at way
stations for weeks and some finally lost or otherwise
destroyed. On the tenth of November last I was returning from
the Winslow House with Charley Coffin, Clerk of the _War
Eagle_, about eleven o'clock, and when we were coming down
Fourth Street passing one of those rum holes, two Irishmen,
red mouths, came out and, follo