Left Cincinnati this morning at ten o'clock and shall not arrive at Brushville before seven o'clock to-night. I am beginning to learn how to speak American. As I asked for my ticket this morning at the railroad office, the clerk said to me: "C. H. D. or C. C. C. St. L. and St. P.?" "C. H. D.," I replied, with perfect assurance. I happened to hit on the right line for Brushville. By this time I know pretty well all those combinations of the alphabet by which the different railroad lines of America are designated. No hope of comfort or of a dinner to-day. I shall have to change trains three times, but none of them, I am grieved to hear, have parlor cars or dining cars. There is something democratic about uniform cars for all alike. I am a democrat myself, yet I have a weakness for the parlor cars--and the dining cars. At noon we stopped five minutes at a place which, two years ago, counted six wooden huts. To-day it has more than 5000 inhabitants, the electric light in the streets, a public library, two hotels, four churches, two banks, a public school, a high school, cuspidores, toothpicks, and all the signs of American civilization. I changed trains at one o'clock at Castle Green Junction. No hotel in the place. I inquired where food could be obtained. A little wooden hut, on the other side of the depot, bearing the inscription "Lunch Room," was pointed out to me. _Lunch_ in America has not the meaning that it has in England, as I often experienced to my despair. The English are solid people. In England _lunch_ means something. In America, it does not. However, as there was no _Beware_ written outside, I entered the place. Several people were eating pies, fruit pies, pies with crust under, and crust over: sealed mysteries. [Illustration: "PEACH POY AND APPLE POY."] "I want something to eat," I said to a man behind the counter, who was in possession of only one eye, and hailed from Old Oireland. "What 'd ye loike?" replied he, winking with the eye that was not there. "Well, what have you got?" "Peach poy, apricot poy, apple poy, and mince poy." "Is that all?" "And, shure, what more do you want?" I have always suspected something mysterious about mince pies. At home, I eat mince pies. I also trust my friends' cooks. Outside, I pass. I think that mince pies and sausages should be made at home. "I like a little variety," I said to the Irishman, "give me a small slice of apple pie, one of apricot pie, and another of peach pie." The Irishman stared at me. "What's the matter with the mince poy?" he seemed to say. I could see from his eye that he resented the insult offered to his mince pies. I ate my pies and returned on the platform. I was told that the train was two hours behind time, and I should be too late to catch the last Brushville train at the next change. I walked and smoked. The three pies began to get acquainted with each other. * * * * * _Brushville, March 12._ Oh, those pies!