I saw,
with regret, that the woodland was being cut regularly, tree after tree,
and stacked in cords for firewood.
At Chicago I was to change for Santa Fe, and finding my train in the
station I climbed aboard. My car was a tourist coach. Father had insisted
on buying a ticket for the California Limited, but I had argued that a
luxurious Pullman was not exactly the thing for a prospective forester.
Still I pocketed the extra money which I had assured him he need not spend
for the first-class ticket.
The huge station, with its glaring lights and clanging bells, and the
outspreading city, soon gave place to prairie land.
That night I slept little, but the very time I wanted to be awake--when we
crossed the Mississippi--I was slumbering soundly, and so missed it.
"I'll bet I don't miss it coming back," I vowed.
The sight of the Missouri, however, somewhat repaid me for the loss. What a
muddy, wide river! And I thought of the thousands of miles of country it
drained, and of the forests there must be at its source. Then came the
never-ending Kansas corn-fields. I do not know whether it was their length
or their treeless monotony, but I grew tired looking at them.
From then on I began to take some notice of my fellow-travelers. The
conductor proved to be an agreeable old fellow; and the train-boy, though I
mistrusted his advances because he tried to sell me everything from
chewing-gum to mining stock, turned out to be pretty good company.
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