On the New York Central, where the road-bed is quite
perfect and the steel rails continuous, I have heard this
irreverent train give the words of a certain popular revival hymn
after this fashion: "Hold the fort, for I am Sankey; Moody slingers
still. Wave the swish swash back from klinky, klinky klanky kill."
On the New York and New Haven, where there are many switches, and
the engine whistles at every cross road, I have often heard, "Tommy
make room for your whooopy! that's a little clang; bumpity,
bumpity, boopy, clikitty, clikitty, clang." Poetry, I fear, fared
little better. One starlit night, coming from Quebec, as we
slipped by a virgin forest, the opening lines of Evangeline flashed
upon me. But all I could make of them was this: "This is the
forest primeval-eval; the groves of the pines and the hemlocks-
locks-locks-locks-loooock!" The train was only "slowing" or
"braking" up at a station. Hence the jar in the metre.
I had noticed a peculiar Aeolian harp-like cry that ran through the
whole train as we settled to rest at last after a long run--an
almost sigh of infinite relief, a musical sigh that began in C and
ran gradually up to F natural, which I think most observant
travelers have noticed day and night.
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