One could go to
the cigar factory and chat with the old German who raised canaries for
sale, and look at his stuffed birds. But whatever you began with him, the
talk went back to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course; I often went
down to see the night train come in, and afterward sat awhile with the
disconsolate telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to Omaha
or Denver, `where there was some life.' He was sure to bring out his
pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons, and
nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and faces.
For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was another
malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to officials
requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming where he could go
trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say `there was nothing in life for
him but trout streams, ever since he'd lost his twins.'
These were the distractions I had to choose from. There were no other
lights burning downtown after nine o'clock. On starlight nights I used to
pace up and down those long, cold streets, scowling at the little, sleeping
houses on either side, with their storm-windows and covered back porches.
They were flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light wood, with
spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe.
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