SOUTHWARD BOUND. 



" The man who goes alone can start to-day; but he who travels with 

 another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long time 

 before they get off." Thoreau. 



March 3, 1899. This morning I leave Louisville, 

 Kentucky, southward bound, seeking, as did Ponce 

 de Leon, renewed health and vigor in the "Land of 

 Flowers." A heavy mist at first veils everything 

 from view. Occasionally it lifts for a few rods back 

 from the railway, and I see a clump of Kentucky cof- 

 fee trees, Gymnocladus dioica L., still bearing their 

 last year's crop of thick, chocolate brown pods; or, 

 perchance, the curly head and ebony face of a smil- 

 ing pickaninny gleams for an instant through the 

 mist, which quickly settles down about him as the 

 train rushes on. 



I change my title twice within twenty minutes. 

 The Pullman conductor, as he collects my berth fare, 

 dubs me "Captain." He hails from St. Louis, where 

 captains are plentiful on the Mississippi Kiver boats. 

 Shortly comes along the regular train conductor, a 

 portly gentleman from Louisville. True to his Ken- 

 tucky instinct, he calls me "Colonel." I am not pos- 

 sessed of that universal accompaniment of a Ken- 



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