Then came stock cars, from between the
slats of which strange and envied cattle looked out on their way to a
wondrous city; and there was a car of squealing pigs, who seemed not to
want to ride on a real train; and some cars of sheep that were stupidly
indifferent about the whole thing. At the last was a palatial "caboose",
and toward this, over the tops of the moving cars, a happy brakeman made
his exciting progress, not having to hold on, or anything. He casually
waved an arm at us, a salute that one of our number, in acknowledging,
sought to imitate, for the cool, indifferent flourish of its arm, as if
it were a common enough thing for us to be noticed by the mighty from
their eminences.
This was my namesake's most beautiful of butterflies. Any one could
understand that. As the train lost itself in smoke I knew well what he
felt. I knew that that smoke of soft coal was so delicious, so wonderful
of portent in his nostrils, that throughout his life it would bring up
the wander-bidding in him--always a strange sweet passion of _starting_.
Even now the journey-wonder was in his eyes. I knew that he saw himself
jauntily stepping the perilous tops of cars, clad in a coat of padded
shoulders bound with wide braid, a lantern on his arm, coal dust
smudging the back of his neck, and two fingers felicitously gone from
his left hand.
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