I had already instructed the baggage-agent on the Pennsylvania Central train to send my trunk to my residence, and I was just stepping forth from the depot, at Thirty-first and Market streets, with the view of walking home through the jovial snow-storm, when a familiar voice accosted me with:
“Hallo, Smith! Where have you been this long time? Where are you going?”
I recognized a young friend named Feeny, who was standing near a sleigh, to which two handsome and spirited horses were attached. In the sleigh sat another friend named Aaron, who also said:
“Why, Smith! How do you do? Glad to see you. Where have you been?”
“O, don’t do that! Get into the sleigh with Feeny and me, and ride.”
“Are you going directly home?” They lived near my residence.
“N—no—but that need make no difference. We were just taking a little sleigh-ride. You don’t mind a ride of an hour before you go home?”
“I am rather weary,” I replied. “I have been rattling along in the cars for two days and two nights. Have come all the way from Peoria, Illinois.”
“Well, jump in. We will at least take a little drive down Darby Road. You must feel chilly. Here is something to warm you.”
This was an article of glassware, containing a genial fluid, designed for the interior of mankind. Having availed myself of this blessing, I sprung into the sleigh; Feeny jumped in after me; and we dashed away in the blinding storm.
“We were just at the depot to meet a friend we expected,” said he, “but he did not come.”
Away we went out Market street, defying even the wintry wind to outstrip us. Instead of turning down the Darby Road, as proposed, we kept on out Market street.
“We’ll take a little ride out this way first,” said Mr. Aaron, “then we will return, go down Darby Road, cross Gray’s Ferry Bridge, and go home.”
We had an extensive ride through West Philadelphia; and candor compels me to say that some of the proprietors of hotels in that vicinity lost nothing by it.
At last, we found ourselves dashing down Darby Road: the noble steeds still fresh and vigorous, and we three “jolly boys” suffering nothing at all from the malady known as “depression of spirits.”
Rest! I thought not of it now. I remembered not that I had slept none for two nights. Away we went in the snow-storm; the wide fields of snow my imaginary bed, the murky clouds my curtains, the wind and sleigh-bells singing a merry song in concert to lull me to—wakefulness and mirth.