The news & observer. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1894-current, 1904-06-19
The Scribe A-wing Over
Petersburg.
Continued from First Page.)

/
resigned himself to his fate.
1t found him there-that fate-still
pegging away at sunrise 1t leered at
| him there-that fate-an hour later
when the rosy draperies of Aurora
and her orient nymDhs and the flying
names of their radiant charges filled
all immensely with the splendor of
their rushing career
But then the Scribe laughed I'm
der his feet was a faint jar of starting
belts and wheels. The floor and walls
fell into rhythmic swing. Zoo-oo-oo,
Zoo-oo-oo! came floating up from be-
low. 1t was the great press once
core in motion. A tired operator
sprawled on stone" in the compos-
ing room whooped mildly. The
Scribe laughed again. face of forty
or more darted down stairs over a
pair of tWenty-year legs. 1t was the
Telegraph Scribe making for home
and tub and bed.
The latter, however. for two and a
half hours only. Restless, all un-
strung, his nerves had jumped under
the prod of a sudden inspiration.
Should he go? After fifteen long
years? Why? What was it that had
sent his thoughts flying back there?
What presence was this. unseen, UNI
known, Juggling at his heart with in
sistent baby fingers more powerful
than huge hand of warrior Sheathed
in mail?
Impossible to say What matter?
The train for the "Cockade City left
at eleven-fifty. AS it shot out of Raj
eigh on it's way to the "Old Dominion
and the billowing red and green pan
Drama of Piedmont Carolina, unrolled
in vast sweeps and curves 10 the
horizon, the face of the Scribe smiled
1,o Tho -. Il 70
was off. CIackety-lacki Clackety-lac
Clackety-lack! Spinning on to Peters
burg after fifteen years! Fifteen
clank- -lank! -a-lank- a-lank! - years.
my boy. YeS-clacket Lace. claclet"-
lack! clackety-lack going back tor
"a few hours after ifte"n years.
As in dream he remembers the
luminous eXDanse of daisies that
flashed into view just before the train
bridging the sinuOus CLEAN of Crab
tree; as in a dream, seen at long in
tervals, two or three great brick
buildings, their tall chimneyS smoke
less, their windows staring emptily,
around them clustering scores of neat
little cottages wrapped in Sabbath
repose-factory villages set in scenes
of idyllic charm; as in a dream a
town Of Dark-like beauty where plaza,
porch and gable peeped out through
ripping decps of foliage and flowers,
and on the rOSe-feStOoned portico of
che of the loveliest of these homes q
.gure OF exquisite feminine beauty,
looking as She stood there facing the
lIain with one fair hand holding back
| Ter flowing white draperies, like an
angel carved in light.
Eth? What town was this. you say?
Why, Henderson, of-What? oh,
ctl lace + nyIy 1t.tl1 CHI a
| know? Let us get on.
And getting on we come to Norlina
to Virginia; but a Virginia new to
| the eyes of this Scribe-a scrubby-
pinned, barren-looking region that
stretched away for mile on mile, it's
rock-strewn, slightly undulating sur
| face broken at infrequent intervals
only by the winding CLEAN of willow
and reed-fringed streams and by
fields Of wheat and oats billowine
lazily in the soft winds of the radiant
June day
Glad was the Scribe when this re-
gion was past-glad though the peo-
pie looked healthy and happy and
we'll able to wrestle with nature in the
somewhat forbidding guise it present
ed from the car windoW-glad when
the unmistakable approaches to Pc
tersburg began rushing up in broad.
grove-fiecked conveXities, wave after
wave, over the horizon. against which
one now saw superimposed steeple
and tower and the taller roofs of the
city's more aspiring buildings.
Ten minutes later-look here!
where the deuce am /? Off go the
Scribes wits wool-gathering. Is that
the Basin? Where the sand hills is
the Canal-the stream that used to
drive Davis and Ropers old mills?
Gone? And this railroad? Runs
down the bank of the old canal, you
say? Gee-whizz! The Scribes all up
side down. Reverse him and let him
get on his feet. What street is that?
Dunlop? Come. that has a familiar
sound. And that street crossing it
down yonder? Washington? Begob!
is that so? Hop out of the kinks. old
man. It's all right. Same old burg.
Grown q little younger, little bigger,
a little andsomer-thats all.
Five minutes more and-Whoop! a
genial face threatens to plunge
through a big window. and the Scribe
makes a dive for the interior. Then
a dozen pairs of eyes laughing a hap
by greeting, and God bless you,
Bob! "Why, Walter, who'd have
thought it,? Hello, Paeton"! $50
glad to see you, Charlie! "Give us
your Ripper Dave. "Where did you
come from. old sinner? Here, have
a cigar. my boy! and a rapidly in
creasng rotary motion of reminiscent
tongues into a gay confusion so con-
founded that until the printers art
has learned to griddle a round robin
across a rock muddle a reproduction
in type may be considered as a task
truly Sysiphean.
And this meeting was but one of
several. though none gave the Scribe
greater pleasure. Yet he could not
linger at any of them. He had only
few hours in this old city endeared
to him by early associations and as
he wanted to revisit as many of the
scenes of boyhood's memories as pos
Sihle he had to keep on the wing.
Down Washington Street leaving
behind the big handsome successor of
old st. Johns Chapel and the equally
aspiring pile of the new West End
Raptist-down the asphalt pave past
many well-remembered landmarks to
get a brief glimpse of the cathedral
like beauty of the comparatively new
st. Joseph's, to catch the low roll of
it's organ and, family. the chanting of
its choir;-up Sycamore past Central