My companions, chiefly women, were of the homely American type whose New England drawl has been modified by a mingling of foreign accents.  They took advantage of this time for “visiting” with neighbours whom the winter snows and illnesses had rendered inaccessible.  Their inquiries for each other were all kindliness and sympathy, and the peaceful, tolerant, uneventful way in which we journeyed from Rochester to Perry was a symbol of the way in which these good people had journeyed across life.  Perry, the terminus of the line, was a frame station lodged on stilts in a sea of surrounding mud.  When the engine had come to a standstill and ceased to pant, when the last truck had been unloaded, the baggage room closed, there were no noises to be heard except those that came from a neighbouring country upon whose peace the small town had not far encroached; the splash of a horse and buggy through the mud, a monotonous voice mingling with the steady tick of the telegraph machine, some distant barnyard chatter, and the mysterious, invisible stir of spring shaking out upon the air damp sweet odours calling the earth to colour and life.  Descending the staircase which connected the railroad station with the hill road on which it was perched, I joined a man who was swinging along in rubber boots, with several farming tools, rakes and hoes, slung over his shoulder.  A repugnance I had felt in resuming my toil-worn clothes had led me to make certain modifications which I feared in so small a town as Perry might relegate me to the class I had voluntarily abandoned.  The man in rubber boots looked me over as I approached, bag in hand, and to my salutation he replied: 

“Going down to the mill, I suppose.  There’s lots o’ ladies comes in the train every day now.”

He was the perfection of tact; he placed me in one sentence as a mill-hand and a lady.

“I’ll take you down as far as Main Street,” he volunteered, giving me at once a feeling of kindly interest which “city folks” have not time to show.

We found our way by improvised crossings through broad, soft beds of mud.  Among the branches of the sap-fed trees which lined the unpaved streets transparent balls of glass were suspended, from which, as twilight deepened, a brilliant artificial light shot its rays, the perfection of modern invention, over the primitive, unfinished little town of Perry, which was all contrast and energy, crudity and progress.

“There’s a lot of the girls left the mill yesterday,” my companion volunteered.  “They cut the wages, and some of the oldest hands got right out.  There’s more than a thousand of ’em on the pay-roll, but I guess you can make good money if you’re ready to work.”

We had reached Main Street, which, owing to the absence of a trolley, had retained a certain individuality.  The rivers of mud broadened out into a sea, flanked by a double row of two-story, flat-roofed frame stores, whose monotony was interrupted by a hotel and a town hall.  My guide stopped at a corner butcher shop.  Its signboard was a couple of mild-eyed animals hanging head downward, presented informally, with their skins untouched, and having more the appearance of some ill-treated pets than future beef and bouillon for the Perry population.