EDAVILLE RAILROADThe Cranberry Belt

Well, well, well; just look at this—

The Edaville Railroad. Eighteen hundred acres long and only two feet wide!

Let’s look it over. There’s nothing like it anywhere. As if Plymouth County and the town of Carver weren’t famous enough already, not to mention Ellis Atwood’s model cranberry plantation, this little narrow gauge railroad now vies with cranberry crops andMayflowerpackets in spectacular “firsts”.

Plymouth, you know, is famous far and wide for being the stern and rockbound coast where the Pilgrims debarked three hundred and twenty-seven years ago. That’s Fourth Grade stuff. Also pretty well known, this historical region is first in world cranberry growing. Yes. Grows more little red berries on its pleasant, frugiferous acres than the rest of the world combined. To top this off Carver boasts first place among the cranberry towns, its 2,800 acres of bog harvesting 100,000 barrels a year—fifteen per cent of the whole world’s crop! No argument about our list of “firsts” so far, is there?

While we’re firsting: ages ago, when Carver was the first iron producing corner of the New World, the very first iron teakettle made in America is said to have been cast here—from Carver iron, Carver smelter, and moulded in Carver sand.

But, back to that corner of the town that’s Ellis Atwood’s own, private first—eighteen hundred acre Edaville.

Edaville, 210 acres of actual bog, is the biggest privately owned cranberry business in the world. Nearly 10,000 barrels of the sour little things grow here every year.

All this, with ultra-attractive buildings and equipment, is enough to set Mr. Atwood and his Thanksgiving sauce up as high as a block-signal. But wait: his Edaville Railroad!

(Moody Photo)One of the first Edaville freight trains, with railroad fan John Holt at the throttle of Monson engine No. 4.

(Moody Photo)

One of the first Edaville freight trains, with railroad fan John Holt at the throttle of Monson engine No. 4.

The Edaville Railroad is maybe the most spectacular of all these interesting “firsts”. It’s even more so because it’s the last—but we’ll come to thislastpart later. Let’s consider thefirst, first.

The first of all these famous Massachusetts cranberry lands to have a real, he-man, tobacco-chewing railroad, complete to the last fishplate, resplendent to the last parlor-car, and unbelievably efficient with its excellent big-railed track, stout little engines, and wonderland cars. Its importance as a plantation utility and, finally, the holiday fun it gives you thousands of visitors who’re making it a Sunday spa and a railroad fans’ Mecca.

That’s the Edaville Railroad, the Cranberry Belt: first of its kind, you see.

It’s the last one, too.

A cloud of nostalgia dims the brilliance of Edaville lights when we think of this side of the story.Last of the two-foot gauges.Finalsurvivor of the colorful midgets that once puffed around our heterogeneous land.

Want to look it over? I thought so; Mr. Atwood is busy right now, and why wouldn’t he be with the biggest one-man cranberry plantation on earth, plus a little million civic and philanthropic affairs to see to? I’ll show you around. Come on!

Here we are—the screenhouse. Cranberry bogs have screenhouses the same as railroads have trains. These screenhouses, where berries are cleaned and graded and prepared for market, may be anything from a rough shed to this super structure here. This is the first one of its kind, too: a big, yet compact, brick show-place housing not only the berry equipment and the car shops, the company offices including Mr. Atwood’s own private sanctum (most admired spot in Edaville!), but brimming with storage space as well.

(Hosmer Photo)Mr. Atwood’s model screenhouse, the finest in the world, built in 1940 at a cost of—well, that doesn’t matter.

(Hosmer Photo)

Mr. Atwood’s model screenhouse, the finest in the world, built in 1940 at a cost of—well, that doesn’t matter.

The railroad really begins here. Maybe that’s because the first rails were laid into it for car repairing. There, clustering aroundlike chicks with Mama Hen, is the railroad station and most of the yards.

(Moody Photo)No dieselization on the Edaville. Here passenger extra No. 7 sails past work train on sandpit spur.

(Moody Photo)

No dieselization on the Edaville. Here passenger extra No. 7 sails past work train on sandpit spur.

What a sight! Cranberry architecture and railroad artistry all mixed together under the green pine trees. See the vivid contrast—yellow sand and the bright blue sky. The red freight cars, and green passenger coaches sporting their goldleaf name ofEdavillealong the sides.

Eh? Those other names? Oh; Mr. Atwood restored these cars to their original appearance and part of his pristine program was to letter several of them as they were in the beginning. The parlor-car isSandy River & Rangeley Lakes, one ancient coach isBridgton & Saco River, and that other one once rolled over the oldWiscasset & Quebecrails. The idea makes a hit, too.

See—there are some trains scurrying about their cranberry work, while that string of shiny passenger cars at the station, headed by the impatient little homuncular engine, is waiting to take you for a ride.

(Moody Photo)No. 7 hauls Mr. Atwood’s passenger train, loaded with a hundred of his guests.

(Moody Photo)

No. 7 hauls Mr. Atwood’s passenger train, loaded with a hundred of his guests.

We’ll walk over. (No; that dog won’t bite.) Some station, isn’t it? Just built this Spring. Thousands of people visit Edaville every week; I guess lots of them hurry right by Plymouth Rock to come over here. That’s why Mr. Atwood decided he needed a passenger station.

Yes, it’s quite a place; besides the usual station fixtures it has a real Fred Harveyish kind of restaurant, a museum, waiting-room, and social hall besides. That’s where they get together for club meetings, speeches when some speechster is here, yarn-swapping, and to look at all the interesting railroad relics and pictures on display there. There’ll be some barracks upstairs someday, where visitors may bed down for a night or two.

End of the line? No, not exactly. The tracks go right by the station. That’s because it’s on a little loop encircling Mr. Atwood’s model Edaville village—screenhouse, railroad, and all those cozy cottages where his employees live—and joins the main line again halfa mile away. We’ll see the switch when we go out. Trains can go out of this station three different ways. You’ll see.

(Moody Photo)Mr. and Mrs. Atwood smile beside of their de luxe coach “Elthea”, named in her honor.

(Moody Photo)

Mr. and Mrs. Atwood smile beside of their de luxe coach “Elthea”, named in her honor.

No. 7’s hauling the excursion train today. Want to see her? A trim little pot, don’t you think? Baldwin built her thirty-four years ago and she was the biggest two-foot gauge engine ever built then. Thirty-five tons wrapped up there. Doesn’t look it, does she? Her outside frames enclose four thirty-five inch drivers that can really roll. Hundred and eighty pounds of steam, twelve-by-sixteen inch cylinders. You won’t see it today but she can bat ’em off at a sixty mile clip!

Like most of this equipment No. 7 came from the Bridgton & Saco River, up in Maine.

This tricky little car hooked to her tail was the B. & S. R.’s Railway Post Office, Express, and Baggage car. Yes, they used to have a regular mail contract, postal clerks and all. That was before the other war.

This coach, too, was a Bridgton car, the oldPondicherry. Laconia Car Works built her and a mate, theMount Pleasant, when the road was new, sixty-four years ago. Of course, Mr. Atwood has refinished and renovated them all. When we go out on the train please notice those coaches down in the yard: the one with double windows and stained glass was a fine idea of two-foot de luxe coach accommodations. She’s theElthea, named for Elthea Atwood, Mr. Atwood’s wife. A proper tribute, too, because she works right with him in everything—cranberry business, railroad, and all.

Now: this smooth little wagon on the rear here,that’sthe parlor car.

Ever hear of the old Sandy River parlor car? You must have! It’s been in print ever since Jackson & Sharpe built it, 'way back when. In 1901, to be exact.

(Moody Photo)Old Coach “Mount Pleasant”, identical to the “Pondicherry”, both built in 1882 by Laconia Car Co.

(Moody Photo)

Old Coach “Mount Pleasant”, identical to the “Pondicherry”, both built in 1882 by Laconia Car Co.

Want to walk through it? We’ve got time. Here’s the smoking end: two leather seats and a couple of chairs. And in here is thelavatory in one corner and the car heater in the other—hot water. This spacious cubical to your left is the toilet; no shoe-horn needed there, eh? Plenty of room for the old bustles and hoop skirts to swish around.

(Atwood Photo)Interior of parlor car “Rangeley”.

(Atwood Photo)

Interior of parlor car “Rangeley”.

Now we’re in the parlor car proper: just see those swivel chairs with their lush, green upholstery; the deep, filigreed carpet covering the floor. Fit for the millionaires who used to ride in her, eh?

Each seat has a number, up over the window. Time was, years ago, when you coughed up an extra simoleon to ride in this buggy. A colored porter, who’d left New York the night before, stepped from his big Pullman into this baby-carriage to brush off your dandruff on the forty-seven mile run through Franklin County’s hills to Rangeley—a swanky resort in those days.

Rangeleywas the car’s name, too:Rangeley No. 9.

When the Sandy River was abandoned in 1935 the littleRangeley, none the worse for her generation of scooting through sunny valleysand boreal storms, was bought by a doctor in Strong, Maine for two hundred dollars. His big house was right beside the old main line and they left the parlor car in his own dooryard, sitting on four sticks of sixty-pound rail she’d rolled over so many times.

(Moody Photo)With all the decorum of her wide gauge sisters the little “Rangeley” trails the passenger train along the twisting dikes.

(Moody Photo)

With all the decorum of her wide gauge sisters the little “Rangeley” trails the passenger train along the twisting dikes.

He died. Then a connoisseur of antiquity who just couldn’t see her sold for a hen-house or a camp, bought her. Later on Mr. Atwood got her from him. Came down here on a big trailer one twenty-below-zero morning. Imagine a parlor car breezing along the highway!

Well, looks like we’re ready to go. Let’s stay here on the rear platform. Good place to view the sights.

Starts smoothly? Sure: could be theFederalleaving Grand Central. These little trains ride all right. When track’s kept up you can’t tell ’em from standard gauge.

The enginehouse will be over there. Six stalls: four for the enginesand two for some of the motor cars. Motor cars? Oh yes, there are motor cars. You’ll see some before we get back.

Look up there at the screenhouse: those big doors are the car shop tracks. Holds six or eight cars in there. These are the main yards we’re going through now; storage, mostly. See that track on the higher level over there? Goes to the screenhouse door where berries are unloaded in harvesting time. Screen and grade ’em in there. Stiff climb up that bank, too. Makes the little engines grunt.

This is quite a yard. Confusing, too, until you get it fixed in your mind. It’s like this: the track we’re on now is the original main line out of Edaville—down through these yards and out onto the bogs. Now, since the railroad was completed, it’s kind of an alternative cutoff, I’d say.

(Hosmer Photo)In the shade of Mr. Atwood’s beautiful pine grove the baby cars enjoy a Cape Cod siesta.

(Hosmer Photo)

In the shade of Mr. Atwood’s beautiful pine grove the baby cars enjoy a Cape Cod siesta.

When Mr. Atwood surveyed the station loop (oh, he does all his own surveying!) he branched it off this line about half a mile down from here. That’s the switch I told you we’d see when we went out.A train coming in off the bogs can go around the loop into the station, then keep on going just as we’re going now, over this track, and back onto the bogs again.

(Moody Photo)A midget freight train puffs up the heavy grade back of Edaville village.

(Moody Photo)

A midget freight train puffs up the heavy grade back of Edaville village.

Running to the upper end of the Atwood property the line swings east; to our right, it’ll be. Circles down the shore of big Number Two reservoir and, instead of re-entering the main stem again it comes into these yards from a totally different direction—on that track to your left, across the canal. A train coming in that way would head into the station just the opposite to our direction. But she could proceed around the little loop and come into the switch below us here and head onto the bogs the same way we’re going.

Another way: if we’d left the station just now and thrown a switch at the other end of this yard, we’d have branched across the canal onto that track over there, and proceeded around the line just the other way from our present direction. Confusing, yes; but you’ll get it straightened out when we’ve been around. Western slants or eastern perspectives, it’s still the last two-foot gauge we’re riding on!

We’re in the grove now. Pretty, isn’t it? Before the big wind of three or four years ago this was a forest of beautiful pines. That gale played havoc here as well as down on the coast; blew down over half of Mr. Atwood’s pet pine trees. He felt pretty sorry at the time but now agrees that maybe railroad yards are more pleasing than the whispering conifers were!

How do you like the sound of No. 7’s whistle? Euphonious as any wide-gauge tooter, eh? He’s blowing for Barboza’s Crossing. We’re leaving the yards. See that cottage there—Mr. Barboza used to have a big, ugly rooster; that hellion would attack trains and humans alike. My shins used to be all gory where he’d clumb me and I strongly suspect that under his bristling feathers there were black-and-blue spots, too! No; the train didn’t mash him. We hoped it would, but he was too smart. Barboza had to chop his head off three times before the tartar went down for the count.

There: here’s your first cranberry bog, Number Six. Pretty, too; especially when it’s in bloom. Looks like some strange kind of landscape gardening. This embankment under us is all “turf work”. Ever hear of “turfing”? Neither had I, until I came down here. It’s all right, too: instead of expensive retaining walls or rip-rap they just cut a lot of square sods and lay them in a just-so way; and there’s a strong, dependable vertical wall. Looks neat, I think.

Right ahead now is the switch where the loop swings off to the station.Right here—see! Pretty piece of track, isn’t it? Winding up through those woods with sunlight and shadows playing across the rails. Over here—see all those timbers? They’re old ties the New Haven took out of their Cape lines. All creosoted and mostly hard wood. The New Haven and the Boston & Maine have been pretty good about helping the Edaville, and Mr. Atwood bought those ties for less money than the Maine cedar’s cost. He saws ’em in two and gets a couple of four foot, three inch ties from each one. Makes wonderful track for these mites to run on.

(Moody Photo)A track crew, under the supervision of Foreman Hatch (third from left), keeps the section clean.

(Moody Photo)

A track crew, under the supervision of Foreman Hatch (third from left), keeps the section clean.

We’re skirting the little Number One reservoir now. Cranberry bogs must have plenty of water. Mr. Atwood has a system of ditches and canals, controlled by floodgate-thingamajigs, that supply quick water to any or all his bogs. This flooding may be for pest control or, in the late fall, to cover berries as a frost protection. Remember how we often hear radio reports in late September or October, telling what temperatures can be expected on the cranberry bogs tonight?Run some water in ’em and old Jack Frost is frustrated! More gates drain it off quickly when the danger’s past.

This country is flat. All the water must be pumped into these reservoirs from some pond or river. His pumping-station is up beyond the Ball Park; two or three big electric pumps. I forget how many million gallons these reservoirs hold. Enough to get you all wet, anyway.

Pretty along here; brown sand and blue water and green woods. We think the narrow gauge railroad adds a lot to the charm, too. We’re blowing for Plantation Center now. Will stop there probably. Want to get off a minute?

The Atwoods are strong for landscaping; keep all their grounds so neat and attractive.

(Moody Photo)Big Lorain-40 shovel ready to load sand.

(Moody Photo)

Big Lorain-40 shovel ready to load sand.

There: this is the western side of the big, eighteen hundred acre loop; track runs a couple of miles along the west bounds of Mr. Atwood’s property and past several of the sand-piles and bogs. Bogsmust be sprinkled with an inch of sand every winter to keep their bed in proper trim and to combat weeds and bugs. Sand also radiates heat to prevent the vines from freezing in our cold New England winters. While vines may freeze into the ice without harming ’em they mustn’t be chilled by the cold wind, if you can figure that one out. Mr. Atwood spreads nearly ten thousand yards of sand each year. He’s got a lot of grit, wouldn’t you say?

This big bog—that’s Fourteen Acre; a record breaker. Shells out nearly eighty barrels to the acre!

Where did that pile of sand come from? A mile up the line is his sand-pit. A power shovel loads it onto flatcars and the train hauls it to these different sand piles; there’s seven or eight thousand yards in that pile there. When sanding time comes—but you aren’t interested in all this; you want to see this pocket-edition railroad.

(Atwood Photo)Berry-pickers swarm over 14-Acre Bog, scooping its 80 barrels per acre.

(Atwood Photo)

Berry-pickers swarm over 14-Acre Bog, scooping its 80 barrels per acre.

Look 'way across the big reservoir there: that’s the railroad coming down the east side. Remember I showed you where it enteredthe yards just below the station? The smudge of smoke is a work train. We’ll meet ’em either at the Ball Park or the sand pit.

(Atwood Photo)Loading a train at 14-Acre Bog. Here’s a season when freight trains come before the passenger specials.

(Atwood Photo)

Loading a train at 14-Acre Bog. Here’s a season when freight trains come before the passenger specials.

Ball Park? Yes; or more correctly, theAtwood Athletic Field. He built a baseball ground, picnic spot, and a few buildings there. Plenty active all summer, too. We’ll be up there shortly now.

Incidentally, it’s when we leave the Ball Park that the track swings east and south again to go down the opposite side of this reservoir, where the work train is now. It passes Sunset Vista, winds along the lower end of the reservoir, and finally enters Edaville yard where I pointed it out to you.

I guess we’re off again. Can you make it?

Isn’t Fourteen Acre a neat looking bog? Not all growers keep their bogs as neat and trim as Mr. Atwood does. Sure, it costs. There’s something satisfying in owning the finest cranberry plantation in the world. When the railroad’s completed and there’s sometime to spare he intends to erect signs around the bogs and at different points of interest, explaining about cranberry culture, history, production, and how bogs are built and cared for. Like a self-conducted tour your ride’ll be then.

(Moody Photo)A passenger train smokes across the dike and along the shores of the big 300-acre reservoir. 60-pound rail from a White Mountain logging road, supported by ex-New Haven ties, makes a wonderful track.

(Moody Photo)

A passenger train smokes across the dike and along the shores of the big 300-acre reservoir. 60-pound rail from a White Mountain logging road, supported by ex-New Haven ties, makes a wonderful track.

We’re crossing a corner of undeveloped swamp now: just plain mud and bushes. Potential bog land, though. Clear that jungle off, dig out some of the mud and dump in clean sand, set out the cranberry vines—as you’d plant strawberries or rosebushes—and presto! A new bog.

New bogs cost close to three thousand dollars an acre. You must wait four years before the berries come, too. In the end, though, it pays off: a well built, properly kept bog, like these around here, should be good for pretty nearly five hundred dollars an acre every year. Yes, there’s gold in them swamps, but you and me needn’t conjure up dreams of owning any. It’s a complicated and expensiveproposition. Takes years to learn. More men have gone broke in the swamps than ever got rich out of ’em.

What do you say: want to walk up through the train and see who’s riding?

Yes, this parlor car sure is cute. Mr. Atwood’s pet, too. (Look out! don’t fall over that woman’s feet; she’s spread out there like a pumpkin-vine.) He had painters and repairmen working half the winter restoring this car to her school girl complexion. Most of her’s solid mahogany. She would cost a queen’s dowry to build now: all those inlaid woods, the filigree designs on her ceiling, the brass lamps, expensive upholstery, plate glass windows—the splendor of the legendary Nineties. Can’t buy those things for a song now. Notice how contagious it is—that traditional humor of those old days. Seems to have infected our carload of passengers today—even the old girl with her feet clear across the aisle!

Careful now: watch your step when we cross from theRangeleyover to this coach ahead, thePondicherry. These little puppies can nip off your leg as quickly as the wide gaugers can.

Quite a car, thePondicherry, isn’t she? That was the name she had when she was new in 1883, up on the Bridgton & Saco River. Pondicherry was the original name of the town up there; changed it to Bridgton later. I don’t know what it means but somehow I seem to think of it along with County Down, Galway, or Connemara. Could be Swedish or an Indian name, though.

Thirty people can sit in these little one-butt seats. Notice the carved wood and old fashioned windows. Mr. Atwood’s renovating job was about perfect, wasn’t it? She was some little hack in 1883; still is, too. Look into that nut-shell toilet—that’s where you need the shoe-horn!

These cars don’t sway much, do they? Steady and serene as a Shore Line job. Edaville track is just as good, too, comparatively speaking. This big rail—mostly fifty-six pounds to the yard—is heavier in proportion than the New Haven’s big hundred and thirty pound steel.

How fast are we going? Oh, about twenty-five, I guess. Sometimes when he’s feeling extra kipper the engineer inches her out abit and No. 7’s two-bit drivers will really roll. Mr. Atwood doesn’t approve of that, with a train load of his guests aboard.

(Atwood Photo)Little Monson No. 3, en route from the junkyard to Mr. Atwood’s railway empire, will soon be repaired and scooting around the bogs.

(Atwood Photo)

Little Monson No. 3, en route from the junkyard to Mr. Atwood’s railway empire, will soon be repaired and scooting around the bogs.

Well, let’s go up into the baggage car now; watch your step again!

Cute little rig, isn’t she? See the mail-racks; and the slots in the doors where you could mail a letter once upon a time. Some of these philatelist fellers think it would be a super idea for Mr. Atwood to arrange with the Postal Department for a one-day Railway Post Office on the Edaville; mail clerks cancelling lettersEdaville & Cranberry Bogs R.P.O.or something like that. Gosh! We’d pay off the national debt with stamps that day. You know how wild stamp collectors get about such things?

Up here from the head platform, or blind end, as it used to be called, you can get a closeup of No. 7 batting off the rail-joints. See how she—Oh! here we are at the sand pit. He’s stopping. Let’s drop off and see where all that sand comes from.

(Atwood Photo)Here’s how the flatcars were trucked down from Maine; loaded three-deep on a C. E. Hall & Sons diesel trailer.

(Atwood Photo)

Here’s how the flatcars were trucked down from Maine; loaded three-deep on a C. E. Hall & Sons diesel trailer.

Wonder why everyone else is jumping off? I see: that work train’s got in; they’re loading sand to grade the Sunset Vista picnic ground, a flag stop down the east side. Their engine, little No. 3, came from another of those Maine roads, the Monson. They had two just alike, No. 3 and No. 4. Mr. Atwood bought them from a concern in Rochester, New York, where they’d been taken when the Monson road was scrapped in 1945. Yes, she’s lots smaller than No. 7. Weighs only eighteen tons. She has inside frames, like wide gauge engines do. No. 7 and No. 8’s frames areoutsidethe wheels, you know.

The Monson engines were built by the Vulcan Iron Works down in Wilkes Barre, one in 1912 and the other in 1918. Their cylinders are much smaller, too; only ten by fourteen inches. Carry a hundred and sixty pounds of steam. The inside frames, which make a narrower support for their balance, makes ’em ride different from the big engines. Slop around more. They’ll scare you, too, until you get used to them. Actually these inside framers are as safe asthe others; it’s just that their equilibrium is kind of emotional. Nearly all the early two-foot locomotives had inside frames and they’re the ones that hung up most of the slim gauge speed records.

See: the big Lorain shovel over there is loading sand onto the flatcars; ten cubic yards to a car, about fifteen tons. There’s usually a work train out, doing routine plantation work along with construction and maintenance duties. That’s what she’s doing: building the station grounds at Sunset Vista.

Wish you could have seen those flatcars when they first landed here. Ready to fall apart. Sills rotten, flooring gone, and not a brake working. Mr. Atwood hired Roland Badger, a millwright up to Walter Baker’s; Badger is quite a railroad fan himself, has built lots of little scale models for 0-gauge outfits. He was planning on buying a pasture somewhere and making himself some quarter-scale iron colts to run in it. However, the Edaville fits into his dreams pretty well. He’s repaired or rebuilt about every car here: new sills and floors, and got the brakes to working.

(Moody Photo)A work train at Sunset Vista. The tricky caboose, built by the Maine Central many years ago, adds a realistic touch to Mr. Atwood’s pint-sized railroad.

(Moody Photo)

A work train at Sunset Vista. The tricky caboose, built by the Maine Central many years ago, adds a realistic touch to Mr. Atwood’s pint-sized railroad.

(Moody Photo)Passenger train in the deep cut at the Ball Field. The elegant coach “Pondicherry” brings up in the rear.

(Moody Photo)

Passenger train in the deep cut at the Ball Field. The elegant coach “Pondicherry” brings up in the rear.

They’re going out ahead of us! See how easily little No. 3 snakes her train out of the pit. That tricky little caboose they’re hauling came from the Sandy River, like the parlor car. When the Maine Central owned the Sandy River, thirty years ago, they built a number of those cabooses in their Waterville shops. About as perfect a molecular reproduction of a wide gauge buggy as anything could be, eh? I like that cupola. It’s quite a treat to ride up there surveying Mr. Atwood’s eighteen hundred acres from such a vantage point. We’ll see the work train again at Sunset Vista. Let’s go on to the Ball Park now.

Are you especially interested in railroads? This may not mean much to you, but if a standard gauge car was built to these same proportions it would be nearly twenty feet wide and twenty-two feet high! Actually they’re only ten feet wide and around twelve or thirteen feet high. Shows you how large, in proportion, these two-footers are. An overhang on either side that’s greater than the gauge of track!Still, they don’t feel like you’re riding a tight rope, do they? Personally, I think what this country needs is more two-foot gauges!

(Moody Photo)As fine a consist as any “Empire Builder” or “Minute Man”, if you only have eyes to see it!

(Moody Photo)

As fine a consist as any “Empire Builder” or “Minute Man”, if you only have eyes to see it!

The Ball Park! We’re two and a half miles from the screenhouse now. Pretty well to the farther end of Mr. Atwood’s cranberry empire.

They’re having a ball game up here today; South Carver Sunday School playing the West Wareham Firemen—seems to be an appropriate analogy there, don’t you think? Sunday Schools usually do oppose people who’re heading for the Fire! Two hundred people watching that game; came up on a special train right after dinner. Those people 'way over at the edge of the woods, they’re Plymouth Kiwanians having their annual clambake. They’re great for clam bakes down here; say it makes ’em tough.

Oh: you wanted to see one of the motor cars. Here’re two of them. This Model T touring car I like best; Sandy River built her in their Phillips shop. Master Mechanic Lee Stinchfield designed them all. He ought to be with Electro-Motive; he’d design diesel locomotives better’n they have now! They’re the neatest little rail cars I’ve ever seen. Mr. Atwood has two of these T Models; this touring, and a canopy body truck. They have a wholly different rear-end arrangement: kind of a “take-off” idea; put a little lever in forward gear and they’ll scoot away in high. Put it in back position and you fly backwards in high! This touring car was Superintendent Vose’s private car; he thought nothing of dropping down from Redington in twenty minutes; sixteen crooked, hilly miles. In winter he’s often pushed snow ahead of her radiator. They saved the Sandy River lots of money when otherwise a steam train would have gone out with fire-fighters or a repair crew. They save Mr. Atwood a lot. Quicker and cheaper than a pickup for cranberry men to run around in.

This other one here, the G4, is quite a wagon: something like the big gas-electrics on wide gauge roads. She seats fifteen people and used to haul a four-wheel trailer for mail and express. In summertime the Sandy River ran two of these rail-buses in place of steam passenger trains. Mr. Atwood occasionally uses this one to carry some visitors over the road but it’s mostly a sort of de luxe work car for his own crews.

Well, there goes No. 7’s bell: must be we’re leaving again. Want to ride the engine down to Sunset Vista? Mr. Atwood won’t like thisif he sees us as it’s strictly against the rules; insurance company, or something. All settled? Keep off that steam pipe or you’ll be settled in Doc Nye’s office down to Wareham.

(Hosmer Photo)Cold nor snow can stop the midget Edaville trains from scooting like a field-mouse among the bogs.

(Hosmer Photo)

Cold nor snow can stop the midget Edaville trains from scooting like a field-mouse among the bogs.

Here we go. You can see lots of bog from here. Nearly half the whole plantation’s in sight. There’s the big reservoir, Number Two, three hundred acres. Holds millions of gallons. Water is all pumped in from the river over back of the Ball Park. Fish come in through the pump, too, believe it or not!

These are new bogs he’s building; started ’em last year. Aren’t the pitch-pines pretty along the shore there? This ride down the east side is better scenery than we got coming up. Nights this whole shoreline is twinkling with little bug-lights where people are fishing for bass; come from miles around.

Sunset Vista’s about a mile down here. They called it Ridge Hill before the railroad came. Mr. and Mrs. Atwood used to come outhere and sit in their Packard to watch the sunset. They enjoyed it. Said it was so restful and quiet. Must have been kind of a sacrifice, too, when they gave it up so others could enjoy it. Certainly is nothing restful nor quiet around here now, since everyone and their inlaws took it over for sunset picnics. Trains drop ’em off late in the afternoon and pick them up again along in the evening. There’s even talk of band concerts. It’s here that the Atwoods will probably have their big Christmas pageant this year—but maybe I’m letting the tabby out of the bag. Well, we’re almost there. He’ll stop, because that work train is out ahead of us.

(Moody Photo)The Edaville has everything the B. & A. has got: speeding passenger trains, grade crossings, and camera-minded girls who take pictures of it!

(Moody Photo)

The Edaville has everything the B. & A. has got: speeding passenger trains, grade crossings, and camera-minded girls who take pictures of it!

How did No. 7 ride? Like it? Ever on a midget engine before?

You said awhile ago that you wanted to take some pictures. Movie camera? Good! Here’s what we can do: one of Mr. Atwood’s pickup trucks is here at Sunset Vista. We can take it and run ahead of the train to Edaville, about a mile. Want to? The railroad and Mr. Atwood’s auto road are side by side along the foot of the reservoir.All right: you climb in back of the pickup and get your Hell & Bowell flicker-box ready for action. I’ll keep just far enough ahead so you can shoot the whole train. Ready?

(Hosmer Photo)In the quiet shade of the pine grove No. 7 backs sleepily onto her train, ready for the daily grind again.

(Hosmer Photo)

In the quiet shade of the pine grove No. 7 backs sleepily onto her train, ready for the daily grind again.

Hang on! This tipcart doesn’t ride likeRangeley No. 9. She should make a dandy picture back there—smoke rolling up over the pitch-pines and the three varnished cars glittering in the sun. See ’em swing through that reverse curve!

See this big iron along here? Seventy-five pound steel, biggest ever laid in two-foot track. Proportionately it’s equivalent to about two-hundred pound rail in wide gauge track: heavier than anything made yet.

Getting some good shots? I hope the reflections in the water show up clear; reservoir’s like a mirror.

Take a quick peek over 'cross there: that’s Plantation Center station, on the line we just went up over. Remember? The two linesare hardly a hundred yards apart right here. Sometime Mr. Atwood may lay a connecting track across this dike. Only a stone’s throw. Notice this big fill here: all new grade across the corner of the swamp. Kind of sags in the middle; will be filled and raised sometime. See No. 7 puffing up out of there!

Look: we’re beside the canal now. There’s the grove and yard ahead. We’re coming in on that line I told you about—from across the canal.

There’s the work train’s smoke. She came in ahead of us and it looks to me like No. 4 engine is out there too. Where could she have been when we left town?

Take it easy: I’m trying to stop this jalopy. We’re back in the yards again. Quite an array of power, eh? No. 7; the work train; No. 4 engine; the railbus which beat us down from the Ball Park; and there’s even little Plymouth No. 14 with a string of bog dumpcars. You couldn’t get so much action short of North Station.

(Moody Photo)Look out—stand back! Here comes a freight train, cuffing the wind up Mt. Urann with the little red kiboose lurching and swaying behind.

(Moody Photo)

Look out—stand back! Here comes a freight train, cuffing the wind up Mt. Urann with the little red kiboose lurching and swaying behind.

(Hosmer Photo)The switch by the little reservoir, where trains may go left through the grove, or around the curve through the woods to Edaville. No. 7 is about to swing through the switch for the climb up the hill.

(Hosmer Photo)

The switch by the little reservoir, where trains may go left through the grove, or around the curve through the woods to Edaville. No. 7 is about to swing through the switch for the climb up the hill.

All set? Then take a look at this Plymouth: all right, isn’t she? Mr. Atwood bought her up to Quincy a year or so ago. Alec MacLellan, a railroad fan, told him about her. You should have seen her then: about the sorriest little mill you could imagine. No cab, no bell, no nothing. Mr. Atwood’s crew took over and, patterning their dream-engine after those big he-Plymouths, they built her into this trim little cock-sparrow!

For real economy she puffs black all over the ledger. Will haul two or three cars like nobody’s business; will do shifting and light work as well as a steam engine. One man can run her without continually getting down to tend his fire. Has her limit, of course; but she weighs only four tons.

There: the work train’s going out; the passenger is hauling up to the depot to swap passengers for her next trip; I think that No. 4 is going out around the Edaville loop into the station that way. Why don’t we ride in on her?

(Moody Photo)John Holt and Charlie Smith have invaded the sacred precincts of pullman cars by bringing the sooty freight train right into Edaville station—and see the crowd stare!

(Moody Photo)

John Holt and Charlie Smith have invaded the sacred precincts of pullman cars by bringing the sooty freight train right into Edaville station—and see the crowd stare!

(Moody Photo)But those passengers hadn’t long to wait; the passenger train came in, and see ’em pile aboard the open excursion cars for their ride through Mr. Atwood’s blooming lands. It isn’t unusual for 3,500 people to ride in a single day; sometimes 600 to a single train!

(Moody Photo)

But those passengers hadn’t long to wait; the passenger train came in, and see ’em pile aboard the open excursion cars for their ride through Mr. Atwood’s blooming lands. It isn’t unusual for 3,500 people to ride in a single day; sometimes 600 to a single train!

LOOK OUT! Oh, heavenly days;lookat your shirt!

Well, people just have to learn that an engine full of water will spew that black slush all over you. Gosh! What a mess. Married?

Jump on: and be careful not to spatter your shirtful all over me.

Sit up there on the fireman’s shelf. There; how does this engine ride? A little more jerky than No. 7 but still no worse than lots of wide gauge pots I’ve been on. She’s got steam brakes. No. 7’s and 8’s are vacuum. Those two-footers used all kinds of things for brakes, from modern air to such childish devices as brakemen dragging their feet. They always managed to stop, though. And now they’ve stopped for good—all excepting the Edaville.

There’s the parlor car, for instance: got air and vacuum both on her. She used to run over the Sandy River and the Phillips & Rangeley, so when they built her she had the kind of brakes used by each road—vacuum and Westinghouse. No. 4 can pile you through the front window, with those steam stoppers of hers!

(Moody Photo)The excursion train is ready to leave.

(Moody Photo)

The excursion train is ready to leave.

(Moody Photo)The new station at Edaville is swarming with expectant people; No. 7 puffs across No. 2 Bog to disgorge her crowd and take a new load on. Often 600 automobiles are parked here at one time.

(Moody Photo)

The new station at Edaville is swarming with expectant people; No. 7 puffs across No. 2 Bog to disgorge her crowd and take a new load on. Often 600 automobiles are parked here at one time.

Yes, these little pigs did a lot of work up there in northern Maine. You should have seen them settle down to dragging a train of slate up the hill. That Monson road always used link-and-pin couplers, too; never changed over to automatic. I don’t know how they sidestepped the Government laws, but they did. Common carrier, at that. Link-and-pin couplers, stub switches, and hand brakes; just about as modern as a ramrod rifle. Far as I know it was the last road left that hadn’t turned the century.

Here’s that switch again: he’s throwing it for the loop. In a minute we’ll be backing up through the woods and into the station. Two tracks there; we’ll clear the passenger.

Quite a trip, wasn’t it? Have a good time? Everyone does; even old timers who’ve railroaded for years. Mr. Atwood’s Edaville Railroad’s got something they never saw before!

We’re back. See the crowd on the platform! Soon’s the train is unloaded there’s a fresh batch to take out. It’s like that all the time now. Lots of folks keep getting back on again, riding all day. Mr. Atwood doesn’t mind as long as there’s room for the new-comers. Wouldn’t some big railroads enjoy a passenger trade like this? It sure costs plenty for the Atwoods to give everyone these rides, but they’re like that: never satisfied unless they’re doing things to make other people happy—kind of sharing their good fortune with the world at large, you might say. It’s not lost, though: all adds up to good cranberry advertising, and cranberries is what makes Edaville the top-pucker plantation in the world, and this manikin railroad a lucky survivor of a less lucky kind of railroad design. Let’s go into the station.

Why! Good afternoon, Mrs. Atwood; where’s the boss—Oh; I see him.

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