American fiction -- 19th century; Christmas stories; Love stories; Railroad stories; Railroad travel -- Fiction; Short stories
It must be admitted that as he entered he gave an expectant glance down
the aisle of the car; but the sombre curtains hanging from ceiling to
floor told no tales. Too sleepy to speculate and too learned in the
marvelous acoustic properties of a sleeping-car to engage the porter in
conversation on the subject, he found his berth, arranged himself for
the night with the nonchalance of an old traveler, and, laying his head
upon his vibrating atom of a pillow, was soon plunged into a dream at
least fifty miles long.
II.
It was snowing, and snowing hard. Moreover, it had been snowing all
night, and all the afternoon before. The wind rioted furiously over the
broad Missouri plains, alternately building up huge castles of snow and
throwing them down again like a fretful child; overtaking the belated
teamster on his homeward journey, clutching him with its icy hand, and
leaving him buried in a tomb spotless as the fairest marble; howling,
shrieking, racing madly to and fro, never out of breath, always the same
tireless, pitiless, awful power. Rocks, fields, sometimes even forests
were blotted out of the landscape.
A mere hyphen upon the broad white page lay the Western-bound
train, held fast by the soft but firm hand. The fires in the
locomotives--there were two of them--had been suffered to go out, the
fuel in the tenders was exhausted, and the great creatures waited
silently together, left alone in the storm, while the snow drifted
higher and higher upon their patient backs.
When Bob had waked that morning, to find the tempest more furious than
ever, and the train stuck fast in a huge snowbank, his first thought was
of dismay at the possible detention in the narrow limits of the Pullman,
which seemed much colder than it had before; his next was to wonder how
the change of fortune would affect Gertrude Raymond. Of course he had
long ago become acquainted with the brown traveling suit and fur collar.
Of course there had been numberless little services for him to perform
for her and the old gentleman, who had indeed proved to be her father.
Bob had already begun to dread the end of the journey. He had gone to
his berth the night before wishing that San Francisco were ten days
from Boston instead of six. Providence having taken him at his word and
indicated that the journey would be of at least that duration, if not
more, he was disposed, like no few of his fellow-mortals, to grumble.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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