"You've got to be, to write good poetry. It must be lots of fun, Mrs. March, to dash off a rhyme just to while away the time--ha, ha, ha! My wife often writes poetry when she feels tired and lazy. I know that whirling this way through this beautiful country is inspiring you right now to write half a dozen poems. I'd like to see you on one of those lovely hillsides in fine frenzy rolling"--He said he meant her eye. The poetess blushed. A whimper of laughter came from somewhere, but one man put his head quickly out of a window, and another stooped for something very hard to pick up, while John explained that crowds and dust were no inspiration to his mother, who was here to-day purely for his sake. She sat in limp revery with that faint shade on her face which her son believed meant patience. He and the president moved a reverent step aside. "I hear," said Gamble, in a business undertone, "that your school's a success." "Not financially," replied John, gazing into the forward coach. "Mr. March, why don't you colonize your lands? You can do it, now the railroad's here." "I would, sir, if I had the capital." "Form a company! They furnish the money, you furnish the land. How'd I build this road? I hadn't either money or lands. Why, if your lands were out West"----the speaker turned to an eavesdropper, saying sweetly, "This conversation is private, sir," but with a look as if he would swallow him without sauce or salt, John mused. "My mother has such a dislike,"--he hesitated. "I know," the president smiled, "the ladies are all that way. If a thing's theirs it just makes 'em sick to see anybody else make anything out of it. I speak from experience. They'll die poor, keeping property enough idle to make a dozen men rich. What's a man to do? Now, you"--a long pause, eye to eye--"your lands won't colonize themselves." "Of course not," mused John. The president showed two cigars. "Would you like to go to the smoking-car?" March glanced toward his mother. She was looking at her two kinsmen with such sweet sprightliness that he had trouble to make her see his uplifted cigar. She met his parting smile with a gleam of terror and distrust, but he shook his head and reddened as Hamlet winked at Lazarus. "It means some girl," observed one of the Blackland matrons. "Well, I hope it does," responded the other. "Wait," said the giver of the cigar, "we're stopping for wood and water. It'll be safer to go round this front coach than through it." John thought it would not, but yielded. "Now, Mr. March," they stood near the water-tank--"if you could persuade your mother to give you full control, and let you get a few strong men to go in with you--see? They could make you--well--secretary!--with a salary; for, of course, you'd have to go into the thing, hot, yourself. You'd have to push like smoke!" "Of course," said John, squaring his handsome figure; as if he always went in hot, and as if smoke was the very thing he had pushed like, for years.