“The black steam-engine! steed of iron power; The wondrous steed of the Arabian tale, Launched on its course by pressure of a touch; Ha! ha! it shouts, as on It gallops, dragging in its tireless path, Its load of fire.” “How still Broadway looks so early in the morning,” said Norman Lester to his mother, as they drove down the street to take the early train. It was an unusual sight, the long vista of the beautiful street in deep shadow, peaceful and calm as if it knew no trampling footsteps nor jostling vehicles. It was just waking up from its brief hour of repose. Here and there a market cart, laden with vegetables, was jogging leisurely on, then a carriage with travelers and trunks hastened onward. A few waiters were standing at the doors of the hotels to speed the parting guests, and pedestrians not ignorant of sunrise and its demands were walking on the broad pavement. Soon the swelling tide of life would rush through this great channel; the anxious, earnest brow, the sad and troubled countenances; light and trifling, and bright and joyous faces, would all be borne down that mighty stream. Business and pleasure, noise, and hurry, and confusion would come, as the ascending sun chased away the shadows of the great thoroughfare, and with them its brief repose. Norman’s thoughts went beyond Broadway and its contrast. [Illustration: No. 666. NEW YORK CITY] “I have actually set out on my journey to the West to see my uncle, a journey I have been thinking of for two or three years. How I wish you were going with us, Edward,” he said to his tall cousin, whose manliness Norman greatly admired. “You are to be your mother’s escort to-day, Norman,” replied Edward; “I hope you will take good care of her. You are tall enough to make quite a respectable escort, but I have my doubts as to your care and thoughtfulness. I think you are rather a heedless boy, but I hope you will come back greatly improved.” “There is no saying,” said Norman, “what this journey may do for me.” “We shall see; but here we are at the depôt,” was Edward’s reply. The ferry was crossed, some oranges bought to quiet the noisy demands of the orange woman, seats secured, good-by said to Edward, and Norman and his mother were fairly off for a few days ride on the Erie Railroad to Niagara. How that terrible, untiring iron horse bore them on; how rapidly was the panorama of wood and plain, of rock, river, and valley, unrolled before them; how he snorted and panted, and shot onward, after a short pause now and then to refresh the mighty giant. “A little water, and a grasp Of wood sufficient for its nerves of steel.”