The Washington times., 1903-10-18

furnish forth more appetite than all
the nostrums of the age. That meal cost
but so cents pert
And then to bed. and to sleep the ur-
ban folk read about. I have had what
is apparently ten minutes of the most
refreshing slumber can remember, and
yearn for ten hours more of the same. as
comes to my ears the rat-tap-tap OF the
landlord on my door.
What's up" I inquire. 'Is any,
thing amiss?''
Five o'clock Is the time you wanted
to be called. was it not?" he answers.
And what has become of the differences
between the apparent ten minutes and
the actual eight and one-half hours I
leave to psychologists to determine.
Jef-Jack and Rosa Dartle are har-
messed. and we are of without breakfast.
The Artist is willy. He's been to the
construction camps before. and, in the
vernacular of the region, is acquainted
alongside Of their hospitality. Besides.
5 o'clock Is as unearthly an hour in
Orange as it is in-ahem-other metrop-
olises-or Is 1t metropoli7
We retrace our steps. The fog hangs
about the earth, a great white cloud,
and we seem to cleave our way along
the road until we mount a hill and reach
height from which gentle eastern
breeze has driven creeping Johnny" as
the morning fog is called by our trans
Caribbean neighbors. And when the
summit Is reached, below and around US
in the Rapidan Valley, through which
the Southern road runs. and which is
the scene of its present activity, is a
sight never to be forgotten. The heavy
fog filled the valleys to the very tree
tops, and looked for all the world like
the ocean at night. save that the waves
of fog which the east wind was blowing
in far-reaching pillows rolled up the
slopes Of the hills and broke into spray,
nor did they recover themselves and
rush out into the fog-sea again to chal-
lenge the unwearying wind to another
test of strength, but were dissipated into
less dense air. The Artist relaxed his
attention from the team. and Jeff-Jack
and Rosa Dartle shared our enjoyment
OF the scene; II they did not. the cult
which teaches the TRANSPORTATION OF
souls has builded it's theory upon senti-
mental sands.
Dissipation of the Fog.
But the sun is rising and the fog Is be-
ing resolved into its original elements.
The water sinks into and refreshes the
earth; the air It held. joyous at it's re-
lease from captivity. bounds into the
upper reaches and gambols with the
slanting rays OF Old Sol.
1t is now down hill 10 Spottswood the
elusive. but we find it at last, only to
drive into q cul de sac in search of the
scene of the construction train wreck
and the camp with it's hotel car" for
sleep, and the morning air, and little
something for the stomachs sake" have
reawakened that hunger which we
thought we had, the night before, eaten
into submissiveness for a day at least.
We tether Rosa; Jeff-Jack is a rein
carnated Tammany politician; he'll stand
without hitching. Across ties and over
the impedimenta of groups OF tents we
wend our way to the superintendent
hotel car" Here a man is sent back for
our team. We climb UP into the din
ing room" II is Spotless Town here
for sure An oilcloth-covered table at
least forty feet long. a bench on either
side. Hunger assails us, but most
savory odor treasures. Only one of the
foremen remained with us. for II is $50;
confusion reigns down the road