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The day book. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, April 13, 1915, NOON EDITION, Image 18

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1915-04-13/ed-1/seq-18/

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By Harold Carter
Mooney remembered me when I
stepped, into his cab, though it was
four or five years since we had met.
At that time I rode with him a good
deal. I was getting up material for a
series of articles upon the railroads.
Now I was merely a claimant upon
his hospitality for the sake of old
times. I had had a longing to feel
the sweep of the wind from inside of
an engine-cab and see the lights flash
by. And the man in charge of 64 was
He knew me, as I said, and pres
ently I began to recall the old route
we had traversed so often. I recol
lected that Mooney's cottage stood
two miles down the track and that
his wife, a pretty young woman, and
their little girl of five used to stand
in front and wave to him as the train
flashed past. I waited. Sure enough,
the woman was there, but the child
at her side could not have been four
years old.
"I lost her my little Margaret,"
said Mooney.
"I'm sorry," I answered lamely.
"Yes, we both felt it prety hard
even though the other came," he an
swered. "I euess she felt it most.
We don't talk about it now, didn't
much anyway but tnat sort 01
thing hurts deep enough, especially
when you don't believe in a future
What answer could I make to
that? I did not attempt to. Mooney's
state of mind must have been hope
less indeed.
"I said when you don't believe in
nothing more," went on Mooney ag
gressively. "Yes," I answered.
"Well, I do now," retorted Mooney
sullenly, and suddenly clasped my
hand. "Man, you don't know what it
means to me now to think that I
haven't lost her forever. It makes
everything different, somehow. m
"You see," the wife Used to bring
her down to the edge of the cutting
when it was growing dark, so that I'd
be sure to see them. The run, as you
remember, ends seventeen miles from
here and often I wouldn t get home
till it was beginning to be morning.
And that seeing them used to be a
sort of comfort when I was coaxing
the old 64 up Geddes hill and over the
old wooden bridge.
"It was diphtheria took Margaret
away, and after that I asked the wife
There Stood the Little Girl
not to stand at th door, because I
didn't feel like seeing her alone. She
understood my feelings. And so I
wouldn't, see her, and I'd fall to brood
ing as tie old engine went on her
way. Then the night came when I
saw her again."
"Margaret!" I exclaimed,
He nodded and turned his eyes pa-
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