The transfer of baggage and passengers is soon made, and by the time the beautiful sun has opened like a rich red rose in the east, we are once more on our way towards New Orleans.
All the usual transit arrangements have been thrown out of gear by our accident, and we have to run on what is called “a wild cat train,” that is to say, we have no time of our own, and have to get along as well as we can, without any legitimate chum to the “right of the road.” We shriek and whistle, and wriggle along for a few minutes, and then are ignominiously shunted; our engine gasps, and swallows its own smoke, and droops its iron wings in a most forlorn condition; even the fireman hides his face, as the triumphant express dashes joyously by, as though rejoicing in our humiliating condition. Even the usually despised freight train passes _us_. We are something lower than an “immigrant train”--we are a “wild cat.” We struggle on a little farther and then are signalled out of the way again; we are always backing, pulling up short, and being shunted into unexpected sidings--never knowing what we are going to do from one moment to another, or where we shall get anything to eat, or whether we shall have to starve till we get to New Orleans. Sometimes during this weary waiting we get out and promenade the track; it is rather rough walking, and we don’t do too much of it. Or if we are brought to a standstill in the wilderness, we ramble for half-an-hour through the sweet wet woods, for the gentle rain has bathed the tall trees and brought out the perfume of the wild flowers, and clothed all the wooded wonders with a dainty freshness. Who cares to wander through the hot dry woods in the scorching summer time, when the thirsty trees droop their long branches as though trying to reach the running water, whose gentle gurgling they hear from afar off; and the pale flowers, sick and sorely laden with their own perfumes, open their parched lips prayerfully and wait for the freshening rain? Well, it has fallen to-day, and the wild woods are chirping with vigorous life--birds, and shrubs, and flowers, and all the insect world, fresh from their showery bath, are waking and whirring joyously in the soft sunshine; then we come upon a clump of magnolia trees, whose long buds are slowly opening into flower, and somebody presents me with a magnolia as large as a young cabbage.