ACROSS MISSOURI. 
W. H, NELSON. 
Leavine Cincinnati (at 2s Pai 
reached St. Louis at 7:30 A. M. next day. 
The hours passed quickly, being spent 
chiefly in sleep. I found the train and sleep- 
er conductors polite and obliging. The for- 
mer, especially—an old gentleman, pre- 
sumably a soldier—was particularly affa- 
ble. The porter, on the other hand, seemed 
to have a grudge against the whole trav- 
eling public. Why is it that a man occu- 
pying a position so exalted, who has the 
traveler at his mercy, who can compel 
him to wait on his ebon pleasure for a 
berth, to have his shoes polished, to ask 
humbly for any little act of kindness, and 
to pay well for it afterward—or before— 
cannot be more content with his rank and 
authority? Why is it he cannot find breath 
to answer a humble inquiry in an audible 
voice and articulate his words intelligibly? 
Why does his language sink into half- 
heard grunts as soon as he dons his white 
jacket? Why does he give the old gentle- 
man in plain clothes 2 flips front and 2 
back with his whisk broom and a crushing 
smash on the poor hat, and sullenly 
pocket a half dollar without a word of 
recognition, then go obsequiously off to 
the next man, who happens to be a dude 
in fine raiment, dust him solicitously and 
content himself smilingly with a smooth 
quarter? Verily, the porter is a law unto 
himself, with just little enough humanity 
in him to show off well the arboreal traits 
of his quadrumanal ancestors. 
I had the honor to ride in the section ad- 
joining one occupied by 
granddaughter of Capt. Peabody, chief 
official of the road. It was pleasant to see 
the extreme affability of our porter as he 
served that section; how quickly his icy 
majesty would thaw beneath the gentle 
eyes of the silver haired lady, whose se- 
rene kindliness would never have disclosed 
the authority she might have assumed. 
Heaven is always near to a sweet woman. 
In St. Louis Union depot my business 
led me to the Burlington agent, EF. L,. 
Williams. I wish I could tell how grateful 
I am for the kindness he showed me. 
Rushed as he was with business, hav- 
ing a hundred hurrying things and people 
to attend to, a score of feverish explana- 
tions from impatient travelers to listen to, 
and a thousand questions to answer, he 
never for a moment lost his tranquil pa- 
tience; he heard everything, answered 
every question, helped every one. When J, 
a crippled invalid, in my turn, came to 
him, he listened politely to my statement, 
told me what I would have to do, and, in 
view of my helplessness, did it for me, 
going through a drenching storm to do it, 

the wife and’ 
478 
and all kindly, promptly, gladly. I should 
have found ample excuse for him had he 
been gruff, but he wasn’t. Not a cloud 
crossed his brow; not a rasp fell from his 
lips. God bless him! Nor is my debt of 
gratitude the less that I remember with a 
glow his kindness to a girl who made the 
long journey from the East to Denver 
alone a year ago, and who, like myself, 
received the kindness of a courteous gen- 
tleman at his hands. I should have been 
grateful under any circumstances for any 
girl’s sake, but she was my daughter, and 
so, for a reason doubly dear, I am his 
debtor. Words are but weak instruments, 
and I found my tongue stiff when I tried 
to offer my thanks, but I hope Mr. Will- 
iams may chance upon this page of REc- 
REATION, that he may know the lame 
old man, who so stiffly and stumblingly 
tried to say “I thank you” on that stormy 
morning in St. Louis, carries his generous 
courtesy in warm remembrance—a glow- 
ing gladness shared, I am sure, with many 
another traveler. 
It was 8:35 P. M. when my train pulled 
out of the Union station, bound for Den- 
ver, over the great Burlington route. The 
train was crowded from the engine to the 
hind draw-bar of the rear sleeper. The 
officers of the train made me comfortable 
at once, relieved me of my tickets and al- 
lowed me to go to bed. 
Across Missouri I rolled in comfort that 
would have been celestial luxury to a boy 
who wore the same kind of colors I did 
eight and thirty years ago, when Pap 
Price and Gen. Lyons disputed for the pos- 
session of that fertile State. But Quan- 
trell and his grizzly riders ride no more. 
Pap Price sleeps, doubtless .as peacefully 
as if he had never tried to steal Missouri. 
Lyon, gallant, indomitable Lyon, has Jone 
rested in that slumber which war’s harshest 
thunders cannot disturb, and the boys in 
blue and the boys in gray have bridged 
the bloody chasm with a structure whose 
foundations were laid in cement which can 
never crumble—the blood of the best and 
bravest of the North and the South—at 
Manila and at Santiago de Cuba. 
The sun was shining bright and clear, 
the storm was over, the trees were radiant 
in the freshened glow of their new dress 
of green, as we rolled by the sand bluffs 
that wall in Saint Jo, that healthy young 
giant of the West—a city made thrifty by 
the railroads and famous by the assassina- 
tion of Jesse James. 
Here I left the sleeper and went into 
the day coach to try for a day and a night 
the qualities of that thing unknown in 
the sordid East—the reclining chair. Yes, 


