Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the yard,
All the switchmen were switching, some working quite hard.
The grips were all hung by the shanty with care,
In the hopes that a time slip would soon show up there.
The trainmasters were nestled, all snug in their beds,
While visions of test failures danced in their heads.
The hogger in his kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a sneakey quick nap.
When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from our motor to see "what's the matter?"
Away from the cab, I flew in a flash,
To line all the switches, and stop a bad crash.
The moon on the field of new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a worn out SD40, dragging eight old reindeer.
Run by an old hogger, who looked like St. Nick,
I knew in a moment, I had to act quick.
At yard speed the 40 down my lead he now came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
"To the top of the yard, we'll cross over them all,
Now drag away drag away, drag away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the top end the old 40 flew,
With a gon full of toys, and Saint Nicholas too!
And then in a twinkling, I heard an old horn,
Blowing for the brakes, soft and forlorn.
As I threw down my lantern and was turning around,
Down the old 40s steps the old hogger bound.
He was twitchy and wormy, from his head to his feet,
His yard list all folded and sorted, quite neat.
A bundle of time slips he had flung on his back,
He looked like a peddler opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He filled all those grips, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, to the seat box he rose,
He notched out his 40, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
With sincere apologies to the Reverend Moore...
23 17 46 11
No apologies necessary, Ed.
A well-crafted ode to the season, railroad style. Always a pleasure to read.
Merry Christmas!
Larry Resident Microferroequinologist (at least at my house) Everyone goes home; Safety begins with you My Opinion. Standard Disclaimers Apply. No Expiration Date Come ride the rails with me! There's one thing about humility - the moment you think you've got it, you've lost it...
Would love to see that as a video . . .
Merry Christmas !!!!!
Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
KCSfan Very enjoyable reading. Thanks for sharing Ed. Here's one I wrote a few years ago about railroading as it was when I was a boy.
Very enjoyable reading. Thanks for sharing Ed. Here's one I wrote a few years ago about railroading as it was when I was a boy.
'twas The Night Before Christmas a Long Time Ago
by Mark Foster
The markers were lit and hung on back of the way car,
but because of the snow couldn't be seen from afar.
The lamps in the crummy cast a flickering glow
inside the car and out onto the snow.
The rear brakie had stowed his flagging kit
and climbed to the cupola with a cigarette lit.
On the conductor's desk inside the way car
sat a miniature tree topped by a silver star.
A wrinkled old hogger clenched a cigar 'tween his teeth
and its smoke hung round his striped cap much like a wreath.
After a few scoops of coal and blowing water gauge cocks,
the fireman settled down on his left side seatbox.
The head shack snoozed in his dog house atop the tender,
fitfully dreaming of Rule G 'cause he'd come off a bender.
The car knockers checked the journals for waste and for oil
and when finished were weary from all of their toil.
A switchman lined all the lead switches to the main just right,
then headed to his warm shanty for this was the last train tonight.
The conductor's lantern swung up and swung down,
letting the engineer know it was time to leave town.
With two shorts on the whistle he notched the throttle just back
and for good measure sanded the snow covered track.
Past dimly lit switch stands the train slowly rolled
onto the main through the snow and the cold.
The lightning slinger's key flashed an OS over the wire,
then he turned and warmed his fingers by the station stove's fire.
His thoughts turned to the kids and jolly Saint Nick,
'twould soon be the end of his second trick.
Through the snow down the track the headlight shone bright,
a most welcome beacon on such a cold stormy night.
The stack now barked briskly, the clean fire burned bright,
'twould please any brass hat who might chance see the sight.
For each grade crossing the whistle would moan
and all aboard thought of their family and home.
The semaphores all dropped from green to red
as by each one the fast manifest sped.
The head shack lined the switch for a mid-run meet,
then returned to his warm tender top retreat.
After the passage of the Night Owl Pullman train
it was out of the hole and back onto the main.
Side rods again wear a blur. Line side poles flashed by,
and the snow continued to fall from the sky.
The run would soon be over and every one safely back home.
Merry Christmas dear friends 'tis the end of this poem.
Thank ou, Robert for Mark's poem.
I enjoyed spending an afternoon and evening with Mark in the spring of 2014, as he showed me railroading as it was in Shreveport then--and some of the abandoned tracks in the area. I miss his posts. He was a delightful person.
Johnny
Two great reads! Thank you gentlemen and Merry Christmas to you and all.
Two great reads! Thank you gentlemen and Merry Christmas to you and to all.
While not a Christmas theme, this is a poem by Joyce Kilmer about a ride on a late night train on the Erie Railroad from Jersey City to Suffern, NY, circa about 1900. Merry Christmas everyone.
The Twelve-Forty-Five
Kilmer, Joyce, 1886-1918
(For Edward J. Wheeler)
Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head,
The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of night.
And now the grave incurious stars
Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
Against the kind and awful reign
Of darkness, this our angry train,
A noisy little rebel, pouts
Its brief defiance, flames and shouts
--And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For darkness holds its ancient place,
Serene and absolute, the king
Unchanged, of every living thing.
The houses lie obscure and still
In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
Our lamps intensify the dark
Of slumbering Passaic Park.
And quiet holds the weary feet
That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
What though we clang and clank and roar
Through all Passaic's streets? No door
Will open, not an eye will see
Who this loud vagabond may be.
Upon my crimson cushioned seat,
In manufactured light and heat,
I feel unnatural and mean.
Outside the towns are cool and clean;
Curtained awhile from sound and sight
They take God's gracious gift of night.
The stars are watchful over them.
On Clifton as on Bethlehem
The angels, leaning down the sky,
Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I –
I ride, I blasphemously ride
Through all the silent countryside.
The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare,
Pollute the still nocturnal air.
The cottages of Lake View sigh
And sleeping, frown as we pass by.
Why, even strident Paterson
Rests quietly as any nun.
Her foolish warring children keep
The grateful armistice of sleep.
For what tremendous errand's sake
Are we so blatantly awake?
What precious secret is our freight?
What king must be abroad so late?
Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night
And we rush forth to give him fight.
Or else, perhaps, we speed his way
To some remote unthinking prey.
Perhaps a woman writhes in pain
And listens -- listens for the train!
The train, that like an angel sings,
The train, with healing on its wings.
Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries.
My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.
He hurries yawning through the car
And steps out where the houses are.
This is the reason of our quest!
Not wantonly we break the rest
Of town and village, nor do we
Lightly profane night's sanctity.
What Love commands the train fulfills,
And beautiful upon the hills
Are these our feet of burnished steel.
Subtly and certainly I feel
That Glen Rock welcomes us to her
And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
And smile, because she knows the train
Has brought her children back again.
We carry people home -- and so
God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale
Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.
In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand
Houses that wistfully demand
A father -- son -- some human thing
That this, the midnight train, may bring.
The trains that travel in the day
They hurry folks to work or play.
The midnight train is slow and old
But of it let this thing be told,
To its high honor be it said
It carries people home to bed.
My cottage lamp shines white and clear.
God bless the train that brought me here.
Beautiful, thanks!
This one is by Edna St, Vincent Millay:
The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing; Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going.
And a Christmas classic:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKnHAUcW0Fk
Sorry.
_____________
"A stranger's just a friend you ain't met yet." --- Dave Gardner
Well, if you're going to do that, I'll just have to do this:
"The Spirit of Christmas Trains"
And poor red headed step child of Christmas is the day after Christmas.
Never too old to have a happy childhood!
Thanks so much for posting "The Twelve-Forty-Five" pajrr, that's a Joyce Kilmer poem I've never read before, and for a few minutes reading it I was home again, I know all those towns. It fills my head with visions of Russia Iron boilered Erie K1 Pacifics and G15 Ten-Wheelers barreling down the Erie Main Line through Bergen County NJ.
And rest in peace Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, 165th US Infantry (Old 69th New York)
KIA July 30th, 1918, Second Battle of the Marne.
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