Hoosick Junction

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

To the author of “Traveling on the Branch,” in the Club for August, I would extend my greeting. I have known joys of a similar kind; though it is chiefly about the Junction — dismissed by this writer too hastily for strict Junction verisimilitude — that my affections hover. In fact, it has lately come to pass that when I find myself bored in society, when I cannot sleep at night, when my eyes fail me and I must not read, I retreat to Hoosick Junction, and all is well with me.

I am sure that some readers must know the spot. It connects the Boston and Maine Railroad with the Bennington and Rutland. It consists of a dingy, oneroomed station, a dilapidated saloon, a water tank, and that is all. High and dry in the glare of the sun it lies on the baking cinders, and not one solace does it hold out to the miserable wayfarers who spend grudging hours in it. Always hours. I never knew anybody who ever waited less than an hour and a half in Hoosick Junction. I have spent three hours there at a stretch; in the course of my life I suppose I have lived there a month. There is hardly a better example anywhere to be found of bare, practical utilitarianism. You are traveling; that is a business proceeding, to be undertaken in a businesslike manner. You require a room to wait in; good, here it is, — what more could you possibly ask ? You are hungry ? Really, you know, that is not the Railroad’s affair; bring a lunch, and stuff the box or the paper bag into the stove afterwards. Hoosick Junction holds itself sternly aloof from all the luxuries of life; those go through in trunks, along with your Sunday hat.

There was a time when Christian Science, realizing the possibilities of Hoosick Junction, laid hold upon it as a centre of propagation. Beside the stove stood a plain deal table strewn with pamphlets concerning the Faith, testimonials, magazines, sermons. It was a clever idea. I myself have held out against those documents for an hour and a quarter, and then have suddenly given in and devoured every page. I converse with a certain discriminating tolerance on the subject of Christian Science. Little does anyone dream that the husks of my knowledge have been snatched by a starving hand in the deserts of Hoosick Junction.

But Christian Science has withdrawn now, and Hoosick Junction is god-forsaken (impious term, but expressive!). Three framed timetables hang on the wall, an antiquated “Excursion” announcement, and a dusty clock. For the rest, there is but the row of seats all along the wall, the large, central, presiding stove, and half a dozen human beings despairing utterly.

Yet it is this dreary tarrying-place which now affords me unfailing refuge from the very ennui which itself used always to produce ? Certainly. That is the exquisite triumph and humor of circumstance in this mutable world. You never can tell from one day to another what curse is suddenly going to turn on you and bless you. I certainly had no anticipation of any sort of pleasure as I found myself once more caught in the net and being dragged Hoosick Junctionward about two months ago. I had managed, by dint of changing my winter residence to avoid the place for a year or two; but no long remittance of destiny could be vouchsafed me, I might have known. There was a portentous conjunction of stars the night when I was born.

I stepped out of the train, dispirited, hot, and exceeding dusty. The tunnel was no long way behind me, that other horror to which Hoosac, changing its spelling guilefully, has given its ill-omened name. Half a dozen people descended with me; we looked at each other askance. Our trunks were hurled out at us from the door of the baggage car, the engine rang an impatient bell, the train drew off and left us. Left us! No words can fitly denote the degree of that desolating desertion on the part of humanity. There were we, stranded, beyond the pale, ostracized in a No Man’s Land, utterly forlorn.

“Misery loves company,” it is said. But certainly we in Hoosick Junction kept our distance well. With a certain defiant resignation to the needs of humanity, we retreated, each to a remote section of the wooden bench, and opened our boxes of lunch. We were curiously shame-faced about this proceeding, strangely secretive and savage, — like primitive beasts going off to their lairs. One would think that to eat was a final disgrace. Then, all the crumbs being brushed away and our self-respect reëstablished, we glanced at the clock with a pathetic hope. A quarter past twelve, and our train was due at one-forty! Ah, then despair overwhelmed us quite. We collapsed on our uncomfortable benches, and the life went out of our faces, leaving us all dull masks.

I had a book in my bag, of course; I never travel without a book. But Hoosick Junction has something about it inimical to all moods. If I start on my journey rejoicing in the Oxford Book of English Verse, by the time I reach Hoosick Junction I can tolerate nothing but Sherlock Holmes. Accordingly, on this particular day, I cast my companion volume from me, rose, shook myself, and left the station, intent upon a walk. There was nowhere to walk except along the track, but that did very well. No fear, at least, of a train’s arrival; — if there only had been! I tested my old-time dexterity by walking along the rails for a while; then I climbed the bank and picked strawberries; then I sat down under the shade of a tree and fell to surveying the country. It was not a bad little spot of earth, if one only looked at it honestly, freeing one’s mind from the prejudice which distorted the trees and fields. They were real trees and fields, after all, green and fair, clothed upon with the graciousness peculiar to their class. There were low, rolling hills in the near distance, and close at hand was a river, a wide and golden-brown, chattering stream, calling to mind the happy lines, —

What a pity, I thought to myself, that such a bit of earth’s beauty should be condemned to eternal perversion in the cause of dreariness!

Then suddenly, full-grown and strong, in the Minerva-like manner of all ideas, came one of the most exciting projects I had ever harbored in my life, and I gave myself over to its contemplation with such abandon that I nearly missed my train.

I had lately been longing to be of use, real, actual, tangible use to my kind. Very well, here was the chance at my hand. I would make my home at Hoosick Junction, and open a lunch and reading-room for the solace of the stranded souls cast up here every day. Not any lunch counter in the station (perish the fly-specked thought of the thing!), but even a little house down by the river, under the cool green trees. A board walk should run from the station thither; the distance was not very great; a neat little sign should direct the people; they could reach me easily. Once there, how their poor, tired hearts would rejoice! For they would find broad verandas, of course, with rocking-chairs and hammocks; inside the door a cool, wide hall should give them grateful welcome, with an open fire on chilly days, deep easy chairs, and all the books and magazines they could possibly desire. Beyond the hall a dining-room should wait their patronage, — round tables, pretty china, flowers, muslin-curtained windows. Upstairs there would be a few bedrooms for such as were more utterly forspent; hot water and soap for every one, best boon that I could offer. I myself would stand at the door to welcome all my guests as they came. I would charge them something for their lunch, that an attitude of independence and mutual respect might exist between us; but beyond that, all the house should be free, — their house as well as mine. I think I should love every one of them, they would have such need of me, and I should be so very sure I was helping them. Would it not be a happy life ? What could one ask for more ?

By the time my train whistled and I made off along the track to the station, I was all aglow with my project. I ran, casting my eye about for a pleasant site for my house. And ever since, my enthusiasm has waxed rather than waned; so that the name “Hoosick Junction” is now no symbol of gloom, but one of all possible high romance, of dream and aspiration; my heart leaps up when I hear it.

I have long since completed my house in thought, and furnished it, and received through its portal dear people of every kind. Farmers they are, for the most part; good, simple country folk whom I love; but also the tide of vacation travelers sets my way in the summer, and artists and poets come wandering by, and all sorts of ourious people. I have never taken such a wide view of humanity, nor loved it so well, as since I built my Hoosick Junction house. Now and then — what joy and surprise! — a familiar face approaches along the board walk, and I run to grasp the hand of a friend come up to visit me. In the evening, when the trains are all passed and the work of the day is over, what famous talks we have, to be sure, shut in by our seclusion, the open fire bright at our feet, the river singing outside ! That is comradeship for you, I take it.

Well, after all, what good in a dream ? I have not the fortune to build my house, and I shall never have it. The enterprise “would not pay,” you know,—hateful, damning term! — and one must be rich to undertake it. But still I think there may be some power in a multitude of eager thoughts, hovering daily to one end; Hoosick Junction must know my desire.

Poor wayfarers, at this moment propping your weary frames on the wooden benches beneath the Excursion announcement, do you realize how, if I had my way, you would all be lying in deep, soft chairs, reading novels and magazines ? Does the knowledge do any good ?