Solon Denney’s home, in charge of Mrs. Delia Sullivan, late of Kerry, was four blocks up the shaded street from my own.  Within one block of its gate as I approached it that morning, the Sabbath calm was riven by shouts that led me to the back of the house.  In the yard next to Solon’s, Tobin Crowder, of Crowder & Fancett, Lumber, Coal and Building Supplies, had left a magnificent green wagon-box flat upon the ground, a thing so fine that it was almost a game of itself.  An imagination of even the second order could at once render it supremely fascinating.  My two babes, collaborating with four small Sullivans, had by child magic, which is the only true magic, transformed this box into a splendid express train.  The train now sped across country at such terrific speed that the small Sullivan at the throttle, an artist and a realist, crouched low, with eyes strained upon the track-head, with one hand tightly holding on his Sunday cap.

Another Sullivan was fireman, fiercely shovelling imaginary coal; still another at the side of the box grasped the handle of the brake as one ready to die at his post if need be.  The last Sullivan paced the length of the wagon-box, being thrown from side to side with fine artistry by the train’s jolting.  He arrogantly demanded tickets from passengers supposedly both to relinquish these.  And in his wake went the official most envied by all the others.  With a horse’s nose-bag upon his arm my namesake chanted in pleading tones above the din, “Peanuts—­freshly buttered popcorn—­Culver’s celebrated double-X cough drops, cool and refreshing!”

But the tragic eminence of the game was occupied by my woman child.  Perched in the middle of the high seat, her short legs impotently projecting into space, she was the only passenger on this train—­and she, for whose sole behoof the ponderous machinery was operated, in whose exclusive service this crew of trained hirelings toiled—­she sat aloft indignant, with tear-wet face, her soul revolted by the ignominy of it.

I knew the truth in a glance.  There had been clamors for the positions of honor, and she, from weakness of sex, had been overborne.  She, whose heart cried out for the distinction of train-boy, conductor, engineer, brakeman, or fireman, in the order named, had been forced into the only degrading post in the game—­a mere passenger without voice or office in those delicate feats of administration.  And she suffered—­suffered with a pathetic loyalty, for she knew as well as they that some one had to be the passenger.

I held an accusing eye upon my namesake and the train came to a sudden halt, much embarrassed, though the brakeman, with artistic relish, made a vast ado with his brake and pretended that “she” might start off again any minute.

My namesake poised himself on the foot that had no stone-bruise and began:—­

“Now, Uncle Maje, I told her she could be engineer after we got to the next station—­”