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HAT with cheer and comfort in the palatial parlor car of the Chicago Limited, with snow-capped ridge and ice-bound mountain stream outside, one can desire no season of the year for a more delightful trip over what has long been known as the "Picturesque B. & O." Thinking, however, that my ride to Pittsburg would be lonesome because of what I imagined would be a bleak speed across the barren Alleghenies, I slipped a book and a magazine into my traveling case to help me while away the hours. Even before the Limited had started on its threehundred-mile run from the Washington station I was deeply engrossed in a story that augured well to occupy me until my

think you daffy!"-it was with no mere casual interest that I became entranced, as did half a dozen other passengers, except perhaps a bride and groom who were left alone to enjoy the seclusion of the chair compartment for a portion of their honeymoon journey.

My first impression was that of two graceful, black lines running backward from the train, where silvery ribbons had marked the trackage when I made the same trip last summer seated on the rear observation platform. It seemed that Nature had endeavored to place under a beautiful white robe for a long rest, the earthly accoutrement of the railroad, leaving only the four rails, an occasional whistle or switch post,

destination was reached. What more pleasant place could I desire for the afternoon and evening's reading than the motionless easy chair in which I luxuriously domiciled myself for the trip?

Nature answered this question for me before the train had passed Harper's Ferry. A mere resting glance out of the window to my left showed me an entrancing picture. Dropping the book on my chair, I was soon stationed at the rear window of the observation end, lost in the fanciful winter wonderland. Naturally a nature-loverwith an incorrigible habit of strolling about the woodlands when I please, with no concern for the good-natured home scolding, "You awful man! Why, the people will

and the handsome train to serve through the winter. This snow also made one observe with his ears that the train was speeding up the mountain side with no noise; the merest word spoken was heard by all in the rear compartment. Now and again the whistle of the leading "doubleheader" would come to the ear in a muffled, shrill tone that contrasted our comfort with the cold outside.

As the Limited approached the Ferry I espied a bold mountain head outlined so plainly before me that at once my childhood fancy, from Hawthorne's beautiful "Great Stone Face," was recalled. This must have been the "grand old man" of that section, for he was staid but kindly

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and wise in mien, a few straggling dark evergreens draped downward from his bald head and his beard flowed downward, long and venerable. He watched me out of the corner of his hemlock-tree eye, and methought I saw him give a good-bye wink as the speeding train soon lost him to view.

Glancing down at the brink of the Potomac, I beheld Nature striving to be an artist; and not only striving, for the brush had been used to paint one of those pictures that make one hold his eye in wonder at the marvelous beauty that human hand cannot duplicate. Down over the rapids of the stream the water struggled against the artist, but ever and anon there were multi-formed and well-rounded ice plots and at places the river was entirely icebound. Here boys and girls glided along gracefully on their skates, making one wish himself to be again the schoolboy, lay his books on a dry twig and join in the glee.

The sound of sleigh bells just faintly reaching the ear now attracted attention for a moment, but ere one had time to more than note a two-horse bobsled, well laden with an anti-race-suicide pater-familias and his family, the train was gone, a redmittened hand waving from one of the boys seated in the bottom of the sled's "observation end." How gladly, too, would one have been seated there, himself a boy once more in the enjoyment of a trip to town, with a bag of peanuts or more fortunately, perchance, a new pair of copper-tipped boots that must be well oiled before wearing.

Long angular fences lead down from the cultivated hillside to the river now, and a trodden path is shown in the lane where the residents have traveled afoot or a-horse across the crest to and from the house where smoke is curling from the just-visible chimney that hospitably invites one to

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come over and have some of our fluffy buckwheats with genuine maple syrup, and savory smoked ham or bacon." Two children on their way home from school are stopping along the up-hill pathway, looking back at the magnificent Limited with that ever-present childhood longing to be "big men and women and ride on a fine train that doesn't stop at every fence corner."

Ah! I knew I should espy him sooner or later if I but kept my eyes open, for there scrambles a squirrel up that big maple. Now he's resting at a safe distance and is

doubtless "making faces," for he has seen these fine trains pass before; but he loves his snug den better, as does also that hopping rabbit love the old brush pile and the hollow log. Tracks of larger and smaller game can be seen faintly in the snow as the train glides swiftly along the wooded hillside, although just now the ruggedness is re-appearing. Again the river side of the car asks attention to the men who are harvesting a good crop of ice, fine large cakes that will be joyful in the sweltering days of next summer. Foot tracks back and forth along the road in the snow show where some flagman has had to run back to protect his own and possible approaching trains, and one shivers in sympathy, for it is a bitter cold that penetrates to the bone.

And thus as the Royal Blue speeds over the crest and down the westward slope of the Alleghenies through the little mountain towns, all more or less widely known for some part in the pioneer history of Old Keystone, appear sights that gladden the heart and warm it towards humanity that populates the world and makes living after all the more worth while; for what would our cities be with all of their pretensions without the support that comes directly from every bit of American countryside.

Even as darkness comes on and an hour later I speed by the many-eyed coke ovens, the sight is entrancing. It remains for the last quarter hour of the journey, however, to furnish the delight of all after-dark rides a-train in America-through the very heart of the steel industry of the world; mill after mill, showing through the open space now and then long tongues of fire lengthening from the rolls. Hundreds of towering stacks send forth volumes of smoke that have caused Pittsburg to be heralded the "Smoky City;" and as the smoke curls upward and is lighted by the almost daylight radiance (although far grander) from the furnaces and mills, one gazes enraptured at the marvels that have been evolved by the ingenuity of man's mind and the support of the root of all evil.

Millions? Yes, millions have helped to build the railroad and some of the things we have seen on our trip, but it has cost us only a meager sum each to enjoy these sights and a mere mite extra to sit in the comfortable parlor car or enjoy one of the famous Baltimore & Ohio dining car dinners, meanwhile viewing the coke-oven sights by side glances between bites.

& Ohio Railroad, is one of the pictograph relics left by the red man. This rock takes its name from an incised or painted figure, which represents an Indian warrior. It is in a protected portion of the rock on the mountain's side-Jersey Mountain. That the pictograph or image has been in or on the rock for more than two centuries can easily be substantiated. Mr. J. W. Polen, one of the best citizens of Hampshire County, and who is now in his eightieth year, has lived all his life at South Branch. He declares that he has often heard his

handed down from generation to generation. I suppose the most reasonable one is, that a great Indian battle was fought here, and that one of the chiefs fell, and the warriors made the picture to mark the spot. Of course, everybody knows that Indians lived here long before white folks ever thought of such a place.

"Neighbor, it looks like the Lord has had some hand in preserving that picture on that rock, for people have picked out the stuff which forms it, but it comes right back. It seems that the figure is cut in the

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The pictograph, for such it is, appears to represent an Indian brave standing erect, with bow in right hand and the left hand reaching back on hip as if in the act of getting an arrow from his belt. Its height is a little more than six feet, and the "artist" succeeded in securing a very good drawing of an Indian warrior, save that there is a scarcity of feathers on his head. The red clay, or gummy substance, which fills in the incisions is difficult to pick out, and after a few weeks the places fill in again with the same stuff. Some of the mountain people claim that the Indians thoroughly saturated the immense bowlder with buffalo oil, and that this produces the substance resembling paint.

Similar pictures, or pictographs, are found in Washington State and a few other sections, and the Bureau of Ethnology has been unable to determine what tribe or race of people did this work. It is possible that this West Virginia pictograph may be the work of the Algonquins or the Cherokees, but there is no evidence to this effect. There has been no "key" discovered to determine definitely. The people who inhabited this section before the Algonquins and Cherokees and kindred tribes, did not differ materially from these in habits, customs or other features. It has now been more than one hundred and fifty years since the Indian was finally expelled from here.

Owing to the extremely difficult task of reaching the "Indian Rock," visitors are not numerous, but it is worth the tiresome trip to view this truly strange pictograph.

Ther fall is come roun' ag'in, an' soon throughout ther lan'

Yer'll see the chillun gather 'bout an' hus'le out ther pan;

An' yer'll see 'em git ther ole brown bag an' dump it on the floor

An' pile ther bresh upon ther fire 'til the chimbly 'gins ter roar.

Then yer'll see ther ole folks comin', too, pertendin' not ter keer,

But yer'll fin' they've got some interes' when each brings 'long a cheer;

An' they'll eat their fill o' good things 'til they're ready 'bout ter drop

An' they'll wear sich smilin' faces
When ther ches'nuts start ter pop.

Yer sat an' watch'd ther chillun, an' yer thoughts run on apace,

An' yer wonder how it all will end, an' tears run down yer face.

Yer can see a cheerless fireside; a woman bendin' low,

Yer can picter out her sufferins' amid ther flickerin' glow;

Yer can see ther marks o' agony, her face so pinched an' worn;

Yer can see she's sobbin' bitterly an' yer own sad heart is torn.

Yer try ter drive erway ther scene an' yer talk about ther crop,

But yer can't drive out them picters
When ther ches'nuts start ter pop.

So yer set alone in silence an' nuss mem'ries in yer heart,

Fer yer filled with Spartan braveness an' with them yer hate ter part,

An' yer wonder ef His Son on high will ever take ther pain

Thet's er-gnawin' at yer heartstrings an' give yer peace ag`in.

Then yer kneel down at yer bedside an' pray

God to give yer strength

Ter bear it all quite bravely 'til life has run its length,

An' yer lis'en ter ther others from yer lone room up a-top

As they're eatin' an' er-laffin'
When ther ches'nuts start ter pop.

P

CHAPTER I.

EACE had come to Con Keegan. The same beneficent spirit had entered the hearts of Mary Kearney and Margaret Foley. The visit in the one case was permanent, in the other it was decidedly transitory.

Con Keegan lay in his coffin, and the two women were of those who had responded to the advertisement in the papers inviting "relatives and friends to attend.'

Mrs. Kearney and Mrs. Foley were relatives of the deceased and of each other, but they were not friends. There had been war between them for years, for so many years that neither could now recall exactly how the trouble began. However, here they met upon neutral ground, and they smiled at each other and were glad for the present.

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Tis as natural as life he is," whispered Mrs. Foley.

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Aye," Mrs. Kearney nodded, "tis a habit wid the Keegans, fur his ould mother was so before 'im. D'ye mind the day?"

"Faith, I do that," said Mrs. Foley, taking a seat beside her old-time enemy. "Twas just sich another day, and, barrin' the poor ould mother was where Con is now, it's just the same in every way; fur I remimber the sight of ye settin' there at the corpse's head wavin' yer fan in swate charity, as ye're doin' this minute.” "The flies is very bad, Kearney.

said Mrs.

She was not disposed to take Mrs. Foley's remarks as a compliment to herself. Mrs. Foley had a knack of purring in that fashion, and Mrs. Kearney took such talk merely for what she knew it to be worth.

Mrs. Kearney waved her fan with monotonous and methodical precision over the upper half of the casket, withdrawing it now and again as some new-comer approached to pay his respects to the decased. Once the fan stopped for the convenience of an elderly man, who was very stout and evidently very near-sighted. He stooped low over the casket and gazed long and earnestly at the dead face. When he had

moved away, Mrs. Kearney whispered out of the corner of her mouth:

"Dan Cassidy's eyes is gettin' worse an'

worse.

"Poor man," said the other, "he thought a dale of Con, I make no doubt."

"Faith, then, he didn't think enough to hire a carriage of his own. He has as much right to have a carriage as annyone in the parish; him that's got a political job an' makin' his four dollars the day.'

Mrs. Foley winced at that, as the other woman meant she should. Mrs. Kearney had come in her own carriage; that is to say, the carriage of her cousin, Barney Flynn the night-hawk. Mrs. Foley had come afoot, expecting to ride to the cemetery in one of those vehicles which would be covered by the item of "transportation for mourners" in the undertaker's bill. Mrs. Kearney new that, and Mrs. Foley knew that Mrs. Kearney knew it. Accordingly, Mrs. Foley smiled in her benign way.

"Well-a-well!" said she, "Dan Cassidy's not the man to push himsel'. Mayhap he thought shame to bring his own carriage, where there'd be others nearer to the corpse that'd have a better right to ride behind it." Mrs. Foley smiled again.

If there was one thing about Mag Foley that irritated Mary Kearney more than another, it was the "lyin' smile of her." That smile was a delicate, rapier-like weapon which invariably disarmed the other lady, who preferred to fight with a bludgeon. She always knew when that smile had pinked her, but she invariably had to make a thorough examination of the vulnerable parts of her armor before she discovered the wound.

She was engaged in this slow mental process now. It was not Dan Cassidy's right to bring a carriage that Mag Foley had questioned, but hers. That was plain enough. Well, Mag Foley's first cousin, Delia Connor, was full cousin to Con Keegan's first wife, who was a McCarthy. Ah! but she, Mary Kearney, was nearer to Con than that. She was his own cousin, three times removed. She figured it out again, that there might be no mistake,