This night of mine was spent in the open; where men came and went and where the rush of many feet, and the babel of countless voices could be heard even in its stillest watches. In my wanderings up and down the land, speaking first in one city and then in another, often with long distances between, I have had the good fortune to enjoy many such nights. Some of them are filled with the most delightful memories of my life. * * * * * * * The following telegram was handed me as I left the stage of the Opera House in Marshall, Mich., some months ago: "Can you speak in Cleveland to-morrow afternoon at 2.30? Important.--Answer." I looked at my watch. It was half past ten o'clock. Cleveland was two hundred miles away, and the Night Express to Toledo and the East, due in an hour, did not stop at Marshall. I jumped into a hack, sprang out at the hotel entrance and corralled the clerk as he was leaving for the night. For some minutes we pored over a railway guide. This was the result: Leave Marshall at 1.40 A.M., make a short run up the road to Battle Creek, stay there until half past three, then back again through Marshall without stopping, to Jackson--lie over another hour and so on to Adrian and Toledo for breakfast, arriving at Cleveland at 11.30 the next morning. An all-night trip, of course, with changes so frequent as to preclude the possibility of sleep, but a perfectly feasible one if the trains made reasonable time and connections. This despatch went over the wires in reply: "Yes, weather permitting." To go upstairs and to bed and to be called in two hours wouldn't pay for the trouble of undressing; better pick out the warm side of the stove, take two chairs and a paper two days old and kill time until one o'clock. I killed it alone--everybody having gone to sleep but the night porter, who was to telephone for the hack and assist with my luggage. It was a silent night. One of those white, cold, silent nights when everything seems frozen--the people as well as the ground; no wind, no sounds from barking dogs or tread of hoof or rumble of wheels. A light snow was falling--an unnoticed snow, for the porter and I were the only people awake; at eleven o'clock a few whirling flakes; at twelve o'clock an inch deep, packed fine as salt, and as hard; at one o'clock three inches deep, smooth as a sheet and as unbroken; no furrow of wheels or slur of footstep. The people might have been in their graves and the snow their winding-shroud. "Hack's ready, sir." This from the porter, rubbing his eyes and stumbling along with my luggage. Into the hack again--same hack; it had been driven under the shed, making a night of it, too--my trunk with a red band outside with the driver, my fur overcoat and grip inside with me.