The Call of the Cumberlands

It was late in the second afternoon when he stepped from the train at

Jersey City, to be engulfed in an unimagined roar and congestion. Here,

it was impossible to hold his own against the unconcealed laughter of

the many, and he stood for an instant glaring about like a caged tiger,

while three currents of humanity separated and flowed toward the three

ferry exits. It was a moment of longing for the quiet of his ancient

hills, where nothing more formidable than blood enemies existed to

disquiet and perplex a man's philosophy. Those were things he

understood--and even enemies at home did not laugh at a man's

peculiarities. For the first time in his life, Samson felt a tremor of

something like terror, terror of a great, vague thing, too vast and

intangible to combat, and possessed of the measureless power of many

hurricanes. Then, he saw the smiling face of Lescott, and Lescott's

extended hand. Even Lescott, immaculately garbed and fur-coated, seemed

almost a stranger, and the boy's feeling of intimacy froze to inward

constraint and diffidence. But Lescott knew nothing of that. The stoic

in Samson held true, masking his emotions.

"So you came," said the New Yorker, heartily, grasping the boy's hand.

"Where's your luggage? We'll just pick that up, and make a dash for the

ferry."

"Hyar hit is," replied Samson, who still carried his saddlebags. The

painter's eyes twinkled, but the mirth was so frank and friendly that

the boy, instead of glaring in defiance, grinned responsively.

"Right, oh!" laughed Lescott. "I thought maybe you'd brought a trunk,

but it's the wise man who travels light."

"I reckon I'm pretty green," acknowledged the youth somewhat ruefully.

"But I hain't been studyin' on what I looked like. I reckon thet don't

make much difference."

"Not much," affirmed the other, with conviction. "Let the men with

little souls spend their thought on that."

The artist watched his protégé narrowly as they took their places

against the forward rail of the ferry-deck, and the boat stood out into

the crashing water traffic of North River. What Samson saw must be

absolutely bewildering. Ears attuned to hear a breaking twig must ache

to this hoarse shrieking of whistles. To the west, in the evening's

fading color, the sky-line of lower Manhattan bit the sky with its

serried line of fangs.

Yet, Samson leaned on the rail without comment, and his face told

nothing. Lescott waited for some expression, and, when none came, he

casually suggested: "Samson, that is considered rather an impressive panorama over there.

What do you think of it?"