At last came the railroad. No landlord, stage driver or sage had vision of the fateful meaning of steam travel for the ancient town of the hills, or for society, whether of city or country. "Come, boys, the railroad is going through: let's go to work and raise potatoes." So said a father of dissipated habits and impoverished home to his strapping sons. He thereupon promised them if they would work with him he would stop drinking, and they would soon be rich. He was as good as his word, as they cleared $1,000 a year from the potatoes sold to the workmen along the line of the railroad.
But when at last the railroad came, then began the grassing over of the ways and the settling down to a new regime. Not all at once, to be sure, but with the resistless movement of the decades. It spelled "West" to many a lad and lass and many a hitherto established family whom the prairie schooner had failed to attract. It also spelled "City" whether West or East, until now the hilltop is once more, for a brief annual season at least, the refuge of throngs wearied and distraught by the feverish stress of urban life.
The people of Blandford generally believed in the railroad, as a favorable resolution passed in town meeting bears witness. But the favoring sentiment was not unanimous. Down at Chester Factories the road was building, and the enterprise proceeded not without the onlooking of many curious visitors, among them the lad of the old Beard tavern, who used to have his daily ride on the stage. When he returned home again, he found an intelligent old gentleman at his father's house, who listened attentively to the young man's description of that he had seen, to all of which the old gentleman replied, "Well, my boy, the building of that railroad is a visionary idea; if they ever get it done, it will make a beautiful thoroughfare from Boston to Albany, but you will never see the day when vehicles will be drawn by any other power than horses or cattle." Today the submarine and the flying machine are less of a novelty than the railroad was to our forbears.
When at last the road invited the patronage of the countryside, this same young man of the old tavern was among the first to try its merits. This is his story: "The cars were like the old stagecoach, with doors on both sides, and three seats in each car, each seat accommodating three persons. The conductor did not enter the car to collect tickets, but came on a rod of iron that ran the length of the car below the door; holding on to another rod above, he let down the window in the door to take up the tickets. The wheels of the cars ran on timbers laid lengthwise of the railroad. On these were spiked bars of iron. Twice the train was stopped, and on looking out of the car the conductor and trainmen were to be seen ahead of the train, spiking down what they called snakeheads. The train ran about fifteen miles an hour.
But when at last the railroad came, then began the grassing over of the ways and the settling down to a new regime. Not all at once, to be sure, but with the resistless movement of the decades. It spelled "West" to many a lad and lass and many a hitherto established family whom the prairie schooner had failed to attract. It also spelled "City" whether West or East, until now the hilltop is once more, for a brief annual season at least, the refuge of throngs wearied and distraught by the feverish stress of urban life.
The people of Blandford generally believed in the railroad, as a favorable resolution passed in town meeting bears witness. But the favoring sentiment was not unanimous. Down at Chester Factories the road was building, and the enterprise proceeded not without the onlooking of many curious visitors, among them the lad of the old Beard tavern, who used to have his daily ride on the stage. When he returned home again, he found an intelligent old gentleman at his father's house, who listened attentively to the young man's description of that he had seen, to all of which the old gentleman replied, "Well, my boy, the building of that railroad is a visionary idea; if they ever get it done, it will make a beautiful thoroughfare from Boston to Albany, but you will never see the day when vehicles will be drawn by any other power than horses or cattle." Today the submarine and the flying machine are less of a novelty than the railroad was to our forbears.
When at last the road invited the patronage of the countryside, this same young man of the old tavern was among the first to try its merits. This is his story: "The cars were like the old stagecoach, with doors on both sides, and three seats in each car, each seat accommodating three persons. The conductor did not enter the car to collect tickets, but came on a rod of iron that ran the length of the car below the door; holding on to another rod above, he let down the window in the door to take up the tickets. The wheels of the cars ran on timbers laid lengthwise of the railroad. On these were spiked bars of iron. Twice the train was stopped, and on looking out of the car the conductor and trainmen were to be seen ahead of the train, spiking down what they called snakeheads. The train ran about fifteen miles an hour.