Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1921-10-05

in sharp, staccato banks, saying
something and then exploding with
"ha!" in our very ears. We made
innumerable stops, not long enough
for one to get out and stretch his
legs, but just sufficient for the
floating population to turn out and
stare at the disgusted-looking
foreigner
Three hours that seemed like
year, and we rounded an abrupt
Jagged erratically down over it's
broad shoulder. In the depth of a
distant gorge the spidery threads of
a cable suspension bridge crossed
the river. We contemplated it with
out interest. There were four hours
yet, and we were too tightly wedged
in and wet to care for scenery.
Just as we were about to murder
and jettison two Koreans, stop
was unaccountably made. A deep
voice said, ANY Ellsworth people
aboard there?" And we tumbled
out into the arms of Ed. Emerson,
with deep sigh of relief.
We fell into his arms, figuratively
speaking, of course, not being
Frenchmen, but if ever voyageurs
were relieved to make port after a
long and dangerous passage, we
were they. We watched the over
loaded carry-all disappear into the
thick weather without regret,
crossed the swinging suspension
bridge, went through power-house
that is one of Mr.. Emersons numer-
Gus charges, up hill and into a
building where as complete and
satisfying a home dinner as ever
was cooked awaited us. Dough-
nuts!
Go two years without a decent
doughnut, Become bored with
Oriental provender, ride cramped
all day among unsavOry natives
over a dirty road in wet weather.
When the end of the world is al
most in sight, have tall man with
a twinkle in his eye and an Ellis
worth accent lay home doughnuts
before you. The genius of Lamb
could not begin to tell about the
We said as much as we laid them
in for ballast for the stormiest part
of the trip yet to come. They were
desired.
Then we talked. The hours sped
by as we lolled in our chairs. To-
bacco was burnt. Under the spell
weaved by the man from Ellsworth,
the clouds on the montains and the
gorge with it's rushing river were
dispelled, and in their places was
Home. Scene after scene changed
as old times in Ellsworth came into
view, had their moment, and were
gone. People took the stage. Men
and women with familiar names
were called in from the shadowy
past, and men and women of our
own day passed slowly in review.
We saw Mr.. Emerson in school,
under Miss True, and learned some
thing of the regard that her schol-
ars hold for her. We saw him
work an example in arithmetic with
Miss Black. But the pen doesn't go
easily here. There is too much to
tell. Suffice it to say that he talked
of Home like it never was talked of
before.
A few more hours by Ford over
the same road as before brought us
to the mines. We were entertained
like people from Home see that one
is entertained. Little can be added
to that We talked with Mr.. EN- er-
sons co-workers and were proud
(Ellsworthially) to see the esteem
in which he is held by those re-
sourceful men that run great mines
in places where every pond of ma
chinery, every tool, every nut, must
be dragged fifty-one miles over the
hills by bullock-cart. We went
twenty-five hundred feet down a
black shaft and saw where gold
comes from. We inspected all the
ramifications of one of the biggest
gold mines in the world.
We saw skins and heard talk of
the great Bengal tiger with the thick
fur, that for some reason, probably
not unconnected with an old glacier,
sees fit to eat his men where it gets
thirty degrees below zero. But after
day and night, for the end of
the seven days was coming uncom-
fortably close, we were driven back
to the railroad by Mr.. Emerson him.
self Let it be recorded here that if
we live to be a hundred and fifty
years old, we will never forget Ed.
Emerson and the Unsankinko.
This letter is far too long already.
The mines must go untold of, as
must the things we learned there
about the tiger The long trip back
to Chinwangtao, Chang Tso Lin, the
tyrant of Manchuria, his armored
car, his punishment of muniteers
must wait for another time. 1t re-
mains to be said that we closed our
trip at Midnight in one of those
bowling storms that prowl about the
China sea. The four mules waiting
at the station for us leaned against
one another in various cock-eared
attitudes, and regarded us through
the driving rain with marked dis
favor. The mule-skinner whistled,
threw off the brake, yelled, Come
out of it, mule!" in honest American
fashion, and we reached camp in
safety only to find it blown down.
Wet, cold, hungry, with no place
in sight to sleep, we decided that
for nothing in the world would we
have missed it-and wouldn't