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Young trees grew out of the cold ashes in the blast-furnace.
All about was desolation. Strolling down by the river with the
editor of the local paper in East Brady, which had grown into a
slow little railroad town, my eye fell upon a wrecked hut in which
I recognized the company's office. The shutters were gone, the door
hung on one hinge, and the stairs had rotted away, but we climbed
in somehow. It was an idle quest, said my companion; all the books
and papers had been sold the summer before to a Pittsburg junkman,
who came with a cart and pitchforked them into it as so much waste
paper. His trail was plain within. The floor was littered with torn
maps and newspapers from the second term of President Grant. In a
rubbish heap I kicked against something more solid and picked it
up. It was the only book left in the place: the "draw-book" for
the years 1870-72; and almost the first name I read was my own,
as having received, on July 19, 1870, $10.63 in settlement of my
account with the Brady's Bend Company when I started for the war.
My companion stared.


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