Perhaps the only thing (besides, of course, our common mortality) which we have in common with the excursionists is our love of the trolley-line.  This, by its admirable equipment, and by the terror it inspires in horses, has well-nigh abolished driving; and following the old country roads, as it does, with an occasional short-cut though the deep, green-lighted woods or across the prismatic salt meadows, it is of a picturesque variety entirely satisfying.  After a year of fervent opposition and protest, the whole community—­whether of summer or of winter folks—­now gladly accepts the trolley, and the grandest cottager and the lowliest hotel dweller meet in a grateful appreciation of its beauty and comfort.

Some pass a great part of every afternoon on the trolley, and one lady has achieved celebrity by spending four dollars a week in trolley-rides.  The exhilaration of these is varied with an occasional apprehension when the car pitches down a sharp incline, and twists almost at right angles on a sudden curve at the bottom without slacking its speed.  A lady who ventured an appeal to the conductor at one such crisis was reassured, and at the same time taught her place, by his reply:  “That motorman’s life, ma’am, is just as precious to him as what yours is to you.”

She had, perhaps, really ventured too far, for ordinarily the employees of the trolley do not find occasion to use so much severity with their passengers.  They look after their comfort as far as possible, and seek even to anticipate their wants in unexpected cases, if I may believe a story which was told by a witness.  She had long expected to see some one thrown out of the open car at one of the sharp curves, and one day she actually saw a woman hurled from the seat into the road.  Luckily the woman slighted on her feet, and stood looking round in a daze.

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed another woman in the seat behind, “she’s left her umbrella!”

The conductor promptly threw it out to her.

“Why,” demanded the witness, “did that lady wish to get out here?”

The conductor hesitated before he jerked the bellpull to go on:  Then he said, “Well, she’ll want her umbrella, anyway.”

The conductors are, in fact, very civil as well as kind.  If they see a horse in anxiety at the approach of the car, they considerately stop, and let him get by with his driver in safety.  By such means, with their frequent trips and low fares, and with the ease and comfort of their cars, they have conciliated public favor, and the trolley has drawn travel away from the steam railroad in such measure that it ran no trains last winter.