THE westward bound passenger on the Fitchburg
Railroad, emerging from the long roar of the
Hoosac Tunnel, sees the smoke-blurred electric
lamps quenched in sudden daylight, shuts his
watch, and finds himself in North Adams. The
commercial travelers leave the car, and a boy
comes in with the Troy papers. A grimy station
hides the close-built town, though upon the left
one can see row above row of boarding-houses
clinging to the face of a rocky foothill of Grey-
lock, and further to the south a bit of meadow
land not yet covered with railroad sidings. Then
the train moves on, and in a moment plunges
into another tunnel, and so out of the Tunnel
City.

Thirty years ago, the traveler's first glimpse
of North Adams was more picturesque. The big
six-horse coaches, starting from Rice's, away
over in the winding valley of the Deerfield, and
climbing Hoosac Mountain, used to swing at full

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