I was glad to learn that there is no truth in the popular notion that engineers are full of superstition. Buchanan told me he had never experienced any such feeling, and had never known a superstitious engineer, with the exception of Nat Sawyer, the veteran who is now at Chicago with Engine 999. It is Nat who runs "the bosses' engine"--that is, the luxurious observation car which takes the directors and officials of the road on their tours of inspection. In spite of his well-proven courage, Engineer Sawyer always hesitates to go out on his engine if he meets a cross-eyed person in the morning on his way to the roundhouse. That, however, is only the exception which proves the rule. As he was showing me about his house, which is furnished with taste and comfort, Buchanan stopped before two large portraits of his father and mother. Both of them are alive. His father is eighty-seven, his mother four years younger. Speaking of his parents, the engineer said reverently: "My father was a blacksmith and gave me a strong body, but my mother did more for me than that, because she has prayed for me every day of her life, and I have never had an accident on a train and never got so much as a scratch in the war." When I spoke of religion Buchanan showed some reticence. "How can I get time to go to church," he said, "when I run my engine every other day in the year, Sundays, holidays, and all? I guess my religion is hard work, and I don't know but it's as good as any other." The religion of hard work! Is it possible for the man who drives one of our great modern trains to have any other religion than that? Fifteen days in the month, twelve months in the year, he runs his engine three hundred miles; and besides that, does extra work when a sick comrade must be replaced, or the occasion demands. The remaining days of the year he is resting for the strain and responsibility of the morrow. He worships in the same place that he does his duty, under the broad arch of heaven; his creed is to keep the train on time, his prayer that danger may be averted. And when his eyes fail or his health breaks down, he says good-by to the old engine which has been his comrade on many a thrilling ride, and spends the years that remain in some quiet, vine-covered home like the one I saw up the Hudson. AMONG THE GORILLAS. A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS. BY R. L. GARNER, Author of "The Speech of Monkeys," etc.