When Mr. Atwood surveyed the station loop (oh, he does all his own surveying!) he branched it off this line about half a mile down from here. That’s the switch I told you we’d see when we went out. A train coming in off the bogs can go around the loop into the station, then keep on going just as we’re going now, over this track, and back onto the bogs again. [Illustration: (_Moody Photo_) A midget freight train puffs up the heavy grade back of Edaville village. ] Running to the upper end of the Atwood property the line swings east; to our right, it’ll be. Circles down the shore of big Number Two reservoir and, instead of re-entering the main stem again it comes into these yards from a totally different direction--on that track to your left, across the canal. A train coming in that way would head into the station just the opposite to our direction. But she could proceed around the little loop and come into the switch below us here and head onto the bogs the same way we’re going. Another way: if we’d left the station just now and thrown a switch at the other end of this yard, we’d have branched across the canal onto that track over there, and proceeded around the line just the other way from our present direction. Confusing, yes; but you’ll get it straightened out when we’ve been around. Western slants or eastern perspectives, it’s still the last two-foot gauge we’re riding on! We’re in the grove now. Pretty, isn’t it? Before the big wind of three or four years ago this was a forest of beautiful pines. That gale played havoc here as well as down on the coast; blew down over half of Mr. Atwood’s pet pine trees. He felt pretty sorry at the time but now agrees that maybe railroad yards are more pleasing than the whispering conifers were! How do you like the sound of No. 7’s whistle? Euphonious as any wide-gauge tooter, eh? He’s blowing for Barboza’s Crossing. We’re leaving the yards. See that cottage there--Mr. Barboza used to have a big, ugly rooster; that hellion would attack trains and humans alike. My shins used to be all gory where he’d clumb me and I strongly suspect that under his bristling feathers there were black-and-blue spots, too! No; the train didn’t mash him. We hoped it would, but he was too smart. Barboza had to chop his head off three times before the tartar went down for the count. There: here’s your first cranberry bog, Number Six. Pretty, too; especially when it’s in bloom. Looks like some strange kind of landscape gardening. This embankment under us is all “turf work”. Ever hear of “turfing”? Neither had I, until I came down here. It’s all right, too: instead of expensive retaining walls or rip-rap they just cut a lot of square sods and lay them in a just-so way; and there’s a strong, dependable vertical wall. Looks neat, I think.