Santa Rosa High School - Echo Yearbook (Santa Rosa, CA)

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THE PORCUPINE ‘ the freight office and warehouses lounge negroes in lazy comfort, picturesque and unwashed, and enviable in their oblivion of the passage of time and its opportuni- ties. Beyond, the bumpy cobblestone levee siopes steep- ly down some fifty yards to the water's edge, where are moored the great steamboats, huge paddle-wheelers. Small wonder that the worn-out ‘traveler is delighted to find this part of the world at least fifty years behind the average of American progress. Quite natural that he should be impelled to embark upon Mark Twain’s own river—and does. “Shell most likely get away at 5:30 or thereabouts,” said the genial ticket agent, when asked about his time schedule. It was already after 5 o'clock. yet boxes and barrels were piled high on the deck, while from time to time a mule and dump-cart would come sliding and c¢lat- tering down the cobblestone levee and add its load to the pile on the landing. The sun dropped suddenly behind that ghostly rim of buildings that stood so stark at the top of the tevee. At once a great clamor arose in the city beyond and came hurtling over the barrier. One might have thought the fiery ball had dropped squarely in the midst of the city, and that one heard the shrieks of its seared and mangled citizens. But it was the factory whistles marking 6 o'clock. And still the mule carts came rumbling down with their loads and the negro roustabouts slouched back and forth in pairs from the heap of merchandise to the boat, carrying crates and boxes, like ants. slipping and reeling under their un- wieldly burdens. Tor all the loading and unloading is done by negro-power. Of course, it is a slow process, for’ only a small foree can use a gang plank at once. But no- body worries. The seraphie calm of officers and crew is contagious. If the boat does not start at 5:30, why, “thereabouts” suits everyb ody quite as well. The shadows deepen till the varigit-d raiment of the rousté morons is Silhouetted as darkly as their faces against the grayish stones of the levee. “W ell, Pll swan,” tw ang-

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1905 NO. 7 VOL. XI. Past the Edge No one would suspect that the great city of St. Louis, with its hundreds of factories belching soft coal smoke over its 600,000 seething inhabitants, is on the edge of things, that it stands as a bulwark to the undeveloped South, and has stemmed the tide of industrial enere’v that has crowded down from the North, sweeping away forests, scarring the earth with steel rails, and strewing volcanic factories in its course. In itself it seems a typi- cal city of the West—or the great Middle West—a busy commercial city like the rest. But its front door is to- ward the north, whence came its energy, and where still is its great interest. The forty tracks that center in the immense Union depot, ring constantly with the heavy traffic out and in. But it is chiefly a traffic between the north and east and west. It is striking how little of it filters through to the South that lies disregarded, almost forgotten at its back door. But once one has wearily battled his way past the miles of gorgeous alluring shop windows, through the clang of street car gongs, the shriek of whistles, the hum of ma- chinery, the rattle of trucks, the jostling of frantically busy pedestrians, to the Mississippi levee, he has sud- .denly come to the end of the turmoil and nerve-racking confusion. It is as the descent of peace on a warring na- tion, the bursting of the sun through the exhausted storm clouds, All about is a startling silence and repose. It is the beginning of the southland. The walls of the buildings that face the water front seem like stage scen- ery to shut out the noise of the city beyond. Under the awnings, in the little cigar stands, in the doorways, in

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THE PORCUPINE 3 0 ed a nasal voice near the railing, and the rest all peered through the darkness to remark the alien presence of a real Yankee. “Look at those poor creatures doing the work of a steam derrick, and not complaining about it, either, and see that slave driver up yonder with that club, driving them like a lot of mules,” continued the indie- nant nasal voice; and a well articulated finger pointed accusingly at the mild, jolly-looking mate, who did, in- deed, have a club. It was a chalk nge. As, for the mo- ment, no one answered it, the challenger elanced about with rising pride and triumph, as one who has utterly confounded his enemies by finding them without a ready answer. Then a quiet voice spoke: “Yes, they do have to drive them some down here,” it said slowly. “But it is the only way to get them to work. And it is best, both for themselves and for us, that they should work, isn’t it?” And there was a pause for the answer that was not made, . “Besides,” continued the deliberate voice, “if we haven’t found out the uses of machinery down here yet, it is to the negro’s advantage after all. This boat wouldn’t be carrying a pay-roll of forty negroes at $2.50 per day and board if they had a steam hoist on board to do the loading. If they have to stand a little driving, they do have work and get good pay.” Perhaps this ar- gument was not born of the deepest knowledge of econ- omics, but it rang true as the honest belief of a moder ate thoughtful man, and was spoken with decent hu- mility. It surely could not have been that the dogmatic Yankee lacked for an answer. Doubtless he was but pausing for a moment to collect his thunder. But the hesitation was fatal, for, meanwhile, the drummer “oot the floor.” “That’s so,” he cackled. “I remember last fall T was out to see Murphy—you know Murphy of Chi- cago?” he asserted rather than asked. Nobody knew Murphy of Chicago, or if he did, he did not see fit to own it. “Well, anyway,” pursued the drummer unabashed, “I was out to see Murphy at Joliet last fall: he was super- intending the enlargement of a sewage canal beyond ti:e