to witness the dress parade of "The Boys in Blue."

The Platte River Valley is well known to most of my readers from its
romantic association with the struggles of the vast army of emigrants, who
not only braved the dangers of its uncertain fords and deceitful
quicksands, but the tomahawk and scalp knife, ofttimes leaving a nameless
grave beside its waters; and, were it not for a laughable incident in this
connection, I would pass it by unnoticed.

There are so many heroes of the Don Quixote school, who are so brave in
fighting wind-mills, who, in time of peace, are "soldiers armed with
resolution," but in the real conflict what Shakspeare designates as
"soldiers and afeard." There was in our train a young prig, who "played
the braggart with his tongue," telling of his brave exploits, like a very
Othello recounting the "dangers he passed," ending with a defiant show of
how he should act in the event of an attack from marauding Indians, to
which the trains were at that time so subject, after which he fell into a
profound slumber, resting upon his imaginary laurels. While he slept the
train had changed conductors, and it became necessary to see his ticket.
This new official passing by, and finding himself unable to arouse the
snoring sleeper by ordinary means, gave him a lusty shake, whereupon our
hero gave a hideous yell of "Indians! Indians!" his lips quivering and his
frame palsied with fear. The sound was so startling that the affrighted
passengers imagined themselves for the moment in the merciless grasp of a
band of Red Men.

The conductor gave this quaking coward another energetic shake and an
imperious demand for "your ticket, sir!" and the quondam man of war
"smoothed his wrinkled front," and humbly subsided into a semblance of
sleep, while the conductor was no doubt astonished at the loud laughter