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And
then
they
were
at
the
end
of
the
line
,
the
silver
tracks
,
abandoned
for
eighteen
years
,
ran
on
into
rolling
country
.
In
1910
people
took
the
trolley
out
to
Chessman
’
s
Park
with
vast
picnic
hampers
.
The
track
,
never
ripped
up
,
still
lay
rusting
among
the
hills
.
"
Here
’
s
where
we
turn
around
,
"
said
Charlie
.
"
Here
’
s
where
you
’
re
wrong
!
"
Mr
.
Tridden
snapped
the
emergency
generator
switch
.
"
Now
!
"
The
trolley
,
with
a
bump
and
a
sailing
glide
,
swept
past
the
city
limits
,
turned
off
the
street
,
and
swooped
downhill
through
intervals
of
odorous
sunlight
and
vast
acreages
of
shadow
that
smelled
of
toadstools
.
Here
and
there
creek
waters
flushed
the
tracks
and
sun
filtered
through
trees
like
green
glass
.
They
slid
whispering
on
meadows
washed
with
wild
sunflowers
past
abandoned
way
stations
empty
of
all
save
transfer
-
punched
confetti
,
to
follow
a
forest
stream
into
a
summer
country
,
while
Douglas
talked
.
"
Why
,
just
the
smell
of
a
trolley
,
that
’
s
different
.
I
been
on
Chicago
buses
;
they
smell
funny
.
"
"
Trolleys
are
too
slow
,
"
said
Mr
.
Tridden
.
"
Going
to
put
busses
on
.
Fusses
for
people
and
busses
for
school
.
"
The
trolley
whined
to
a
stop
.
From
overhead
Mr
.
Tridden
reached
down
huge
picnic
hampers
.
Yelling
,
the
children
helped
him
carry
the
baskets
out
by
a
creek
that
emptied
into
a
silent
lake
where
an
ancient
bandstand
stood
crumbling
into
termite
dust
.
They
sat
eating
ham
sandwiches
and
fresh
strawberries
and
waxy
oranges
and
Mr
.
Tridden
told
them
how
it
had
been
twenty
years
ago
,
the
band
playing
on
that
ornate
stand
at
night
,
the
men
pumping
air
into
their
brass
horns
,
the
plump
conductor
flinging
perspiration
from
his
baton
,
the
children
and
fireflies
running
in
the
deep
grass
,
the
ladies
with
long
dresses
and
high
pompadours
treading
the
wooden
xylophone
walks
with
men
in
choking
collars
.
There
was
the
walk
now
,
all
softened
into
a
fiber
mush
by
the
years
.
The
lake
was
silent
and
blue
and
serene
,
and
fish
peacefully
threaded
the
bright
reeds
,
and
the
motorman
murmured
on
and
on
,
and
the
children
felt
it
was
some
other
year
,
with
Mr
.
Tridden
looking
wonderfully
young
,
his
eyes
lighted
like
small
bulbs
,
blue
and
electric
.
It
was
a
drifting
,
easy
day
,
nobody
rushing
and
the
forest
all
about
,
the
sun
held
in
one
position
,
as
Mr
.
Tridden
’
s
voice
rose
and
fell
,
and
a
darning
needle
sewed
along
the
air
,
stitching
,
restitching
designs
both
golden
and
invisible
.
A
bee
settled
into
,
flower
,
humming
and
humming
.
The
trolley
stood
like
an
enchanted
calliope
,
simmering
where
the
sun
fell
on
it
.
The
trolley
was
on
their
hands
,
a
brass
smell
,
as
they
ate
ripe
cherries
.
The
bright
odor
of
the
trolley
blew
from
their
clothes
on
the
summer
wind
.
