I Been Working On The Railroad



"For Salt Creek, Vadis, White Station, Russell's Fork, Whiskey
Hill, Jacobsburg, Kelsey, Alledonia, Crabapple, Beallsville,
Woodsfield, Jerusalem, Malaga, Summerfield, Baltimore, and
...and all them points in between, all aboooooo-oard!"  Leroy
Watkins had spent his five years of railroading as a brakeman
and hadn't been a conductor on anything bigger than a hay wagon,
but he was heck on hollering.  There were forty-some flag stops
and stations between Jensen and Baltimore, and he had meant to
rattle them all off in one breath if he could, but not even
Leroy had that much wind.  Eight-year-old Frank Jensen was
awfully impressed.  The whole day was just too much to take:
first the teacher had surprised them with oranges for a
Christmas treat, then she'd let them all go home with no orders
to learn anything over the holidays, then he'd come home already
fit to burst from all the day's excitement and found out that Pa
had bought him and Ma tickets on the very first trip of Jensen's
brand new train.

The railroad had been a rumor for so long that Frank couldn't
remember.  Talk had been going around for long before Frank was
born.  At first there was talk, then there was a Civil War, then
the soldiers came home and recuperated for a few years, then by
the time Frank was born there were meetings and lots of
excitement.  After that, there were a whole bunch of fancy stock
certificates floating around town, then there was a lot of
nothing for so long that most of Jensen figured that the whole
thing had been hooey.  Pa and the bank trustees were all tied up
in it, so they were the ones who had to keep sending telegrams
to New York to see what was and wasn't getting done.  That
summer and fall, maybe because it was an election year,
everything got done all at once.  The work gangs were Irishmen
for the most part, new immigrants who took the work even though
the JB&S didn't pay what most railroads did.  Frank's people
were old settlers, so the Irishmen would have been fascinating
even if they hadn't been working all day on a real railroad that
would run right by Frank's house.  They cussed different cusses
and drank different drink and sang different songs than Frank
knew (even counting the ones he'd overheard while he was playing
behind the livery stable or hanging around the steamboat
landing.)  Of course, every kid in town followed the Irishmen as
far as legs and parental permission would carry a
seven-year-old.    

Work on the road had started with enormous ceremony on the
Fourth of July.  Frank's pa had been up on the platform with the
speakers.  A round-bellied old gent from New York made a big
windy speech, then picked up a sledge and dropped it in the
vicinity of a spike to start the project, just as if you could
heave rail on the rough ground and run a train on it.  Frank and
his friends all agreed that the New Yorker had missed a good
chance, and they decided that if they'd been doing the job
they'd have put off some firecrackers and done a sight better by
the Fourth.  Despite the lackluster start, the boys were happy
with the rest of the road crew's work, which was messy and noisy
and therefore immensely satisfying.  Through the steaming summer
and the soggy fall the Irishmen plowed on up Salt Creek, out the
ridge and down across Captina.  By November, work trains were
carrying iron and ties out to the crews, but not even the most
polite of children could thumb a ride.  Fritz the engineer was
equally polite, but very firm: not one single solitary passenger
was getting on the train until the first varnish run on
Christmas Eve, period.

Disappointed as Frank was at having to wait an eternity for a
train ride on the narrow gauge, he had to admire the timing.  If
the first train left on Christmas Eve, there was some hope that
Pa and Ma would be nice to each other over the holiday.  Pa and
Ma were happy to be married, they got along famously, and eleven
months out of the year they both dearly loved Ma's parents.  It
was that twelfth month that caused the hollering.  Pa always
wanted to go to Ma's parents' farm for Christmas.  It was his
idea, as Ma would remind him for a month after.  Every year, Pa
would be as gleeful as a little kid because he only worked a
half-day on Christmas Eve and could get a good start to
Crabapple.  He would yammer about the long haul up Salt Creek
and out to Grandma's for days beforehand.  It always sounded
like such a good idea--but Frank had done the Christmas trip
seven or eight times now, and he knew what was coming.  Every
Christmas Eve Frank hoped Pa would start out for Grandma's a
little earlier than he had the year before.  Grandma lived clear
to heck and gone (Frank wasn't allowed to swear or even think
swearing) over at Crabapple, which was in such a place that they
couldn't really do any better time by taking a packet boat and
hiring a wagon.  Pa really needed to take the whole day off and
get out of town earlier, but he wouldn't make any of his tellers
work on Christmas Eve unless he worked himself.  By the time
that Pa got home, Ma would already be mad because they wouldn't
have time to get where they were going by night.  They always
got stuck in at least a couple of places and got to Grandma's so
late that everybody was either in bed or mad because they were
waiting up.  Ma wouldn't talk to Pa, who would grouse about how
nobody appreciated how hard he worked running the bank.  Grandma
and Grandpa would get tired of the arguing, so they, the cousins
and Frank would hide in Grandma's kitchen and eat warm sugar
cookies.  Come to think of it, some things about getting a late
start at Christmas weren't all bad.

But wow, train tickets!  To dispel Frank's temporary alarm that
his notoriously cheap dad had gone spendthrift, Ma explained: he
and Frank and Ma got their tickets free because he was the
grandson of the town's founder and, not incidentally, the
president of Jensen National Bank.  He was an educated man, with
standing in the community, and besides, the bank had stock in
the railroad, so Pa was wearing his best suit and tall hat.  He
looked like a senator or the President or something awfully
dignified and noble.  Ma was dolled up fit to kill with her
fanciest hat and shawl over her fur coat and velvet dress.  They
looked fine even with all the New York people in the car.  The
whole rear coach held the most high-hatted crowd in town.  Most
of them would only ride out as far as Whiskey Hill station to
show off, then they'd either catch the next train back or have
somebody take them home in a wagon.  After that first seven
miles Frank figured he'd have room on another seat so that his
knees wouldn't be jammed into his ma's big fancy reticule, which
was overstuffed with all the Christmas presents they were
hauling along.  His buddies from school were all climbing in the
front cars or standing at trackside while he sat right in the
fancy car with the bigwigs.  Yep, it was promising.  

And my, didn't the crew look grand.  Leroy was a regular
railroad man in his brand-new blue serge suit with the cap and
the gold watch and chain.  The engineer up in the cab was Fritz
Jones, who'd been raised right next door to Frank right up until
he went away to work on the B and O.  He looked just like the
men Frank watched on the big trains.  It probably helped that
Fritz was just a hair over five feet tall, in scale with the
puffing little engine.  It was one minute to one o'clock by
Leroy's shiny new watch, which everybody knew was a railroad
watch and had to be right.  So what if the VIP car wasn't quite
as big and grand as the coaches on the fancy lines?  The little
pot-bellied stove in the end of the car warmed up the green
velvet upholstery and shiny varnished wood on the bench seats
that reminded Frank of stubby church pews.  He'd seen the
passenger cars go out a couple of times in the past week, making
little test runs over parts of the track.  That had been just
too much for a boy's heart to stand, seeing the black engine
puffing big clouds of coal smoke, hearing the slow-dinging bell,
even listening to the high yelping shriek of the whistle, but
not being able to get on board.  Frank couldn't believe that so
many people could fit into one car.  Every seat was full.  Fritz
rang the bell and the town band (or at least as much of it as
wasn't on the train) played something stirring that Frank
couldn't hear, what with his left ear being stuck up against his
mother's arm and his right mashed into his dad's ribs.  He
finally got his head forward so he could hear when the band
shifted into the Christmas spirit with "Good King Wenceslas". 
The engine started chugging.  Whoosh...whoosh... whooosh, um,
whoosh whoosh whoosh...  It sounded a little forgetful and
unsteady, as if it weren't sure just what it was doing.

"We aren't going very fast," Frank remarked.

"Hush now," said Pa in his bank boss voice, then whispered: "The
sleet made things kind of slick."

Whoosh whoosh whoosh...The band was trying to walk alongside the
train, but they were having trouble keeping a slow enough pace. 
Whooshawhooshawhooshawhoosh! The conductor eased out the front
of the car, trying to look nonchalant.  He came back in a few
seconds with his face red, trying very hard not to laugh.

"Leroy!" Pa hissed.  The conductor stopped.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen?"  That was a hang-over from Leroy's days
behind the counter at the bank.  Leroy never had been much on
working indoors.

"What is it?"

"I'm sure it's nothing serious, well, pretty sure.  The engine's
small, the load is big, the track's new and you know how the
sleet is.  Fritz says she's just slipping a little bit more than
the sanders can take care of on this grade."

"What are they doing about it?"  When in doubt, ask what 'they'
are doing about 'it'.  That was one of Pa's best lessons for
Frank.  'They' presumably meant whoever was in charge of
whatever was going on.  Frank kept a very serious face even
though he was thinking about the bank board and Senator Haskins
and Judge Greene sanding the rails.

"Pat and them are going to it right now, using hot ashes out of
the depot stove.  They've got fifty feet of track done in front
of us.  It'll work fine, you'll see.  They're nipping ahead of
us to do the bridge right now.."

Frank half stood up in his seat to look out the window.  The
steep grade over the little bridge right by the station led up
to the new bridge over Salt Creek.  All the boys in school had
watched the railroad putting it up.  The lumber was still pale. 
Right about then Frank got a bothersome idea, but with all the
big shots being overly quiet he knew this wasn't the time to
mention it.  The little engine that almost could finally caught
up with the band.  They had, however unconsciously, been keeping
time with the engine, so Good King Wenceslas and his faithful
page would have frozen their feet off if they'd been waiting
around for the band to sing them home.  By the time the band
walked the railroad pioneers to where the hill bent toward Salt
Creek, the train was starting to pick up speed and Good King
Wenceslas was just about back to his castle.  When Frank looked
out the window again, Pat and Mike, the Irishmen who were now
the Jensen depot's own labor crew, were waving their hats and
cheering as the train clambered onto the bridge they had just
cindered.  Smoke and steam still rose from the hot coals. 
Relieved, the big shots started talking among themselves again.

"Pa," Frank said, keeping his voice down.  Trouble was, Pa's
ears weren't so good.  "Pa?"

"Hm?"  Pa turned toward him so he could hear better, and Frank
talked right in his ear.

"If the bridge is wood and they're laying out all them hot
cinders, won't the wood, um..."

Pa wasn't one of those fathers that expected children to speak
only when spoken to.  Just the same, Frank didn't expect much of
an answer, but he got one.  Pa stifled a snort and tried to look
serious while he muttered in Frank's ear.  "Glad the wood's
still kind of green.  Bet the track gang didn't think of that,
either."

"You think it'll hurt...?"

"It won't catch fire before we get over it, and they'll notice
before the next train comes along.  Besides, if we say much
about it right now people are liable to bail off in the middle
of Salt Creek."  Both of them had to laugh and couldn't, so they
snorted and giggled instead. 

"Now what are you boys going on about?" Ma demanded.  Quiet as
he could, Pa leaned up against her ear and told her.  She had a
coughing fit and bent over to rummage in her reticule.  It was a
pretty good try, but Frank could still hear her giggling.

The train made good time over the bridge and picked up speed on
the slight downhill grade beyond it.  The light snow had left
the valley along the tracks looking soft and white and pretty,
even the stubbly winter cornfields.  They had traveled a shade
over a mile from the station when the engineer blew the whistle
and Leroy stood up to yell.

"Salt Creek station.  Everybody for Salt Creek station, please
remain seated till the train comes to a complete stop." That was
some grand wording, because the railroad hadn't bothered to
build stations for most of its in-between stops, like the one at
Salt Creek.  For that matter, they hadn't changed a whole lot of
the landscape to accommodate the railroad.  When they ran out of
room beside the creek, the builders had run the tracks right
down the dirt road for a good quarter-mile.  Jess McFarland's
general store at the top of the first little rise was now the
Salt Creek station.  Jess had shanghaied some of the local
no-goods to build a new canopy out front so people could wait
for their trains in bad weather.  That same crowd of perpetual
loafers was out front trying out the shelter and watching for
the train.  The second that Old 97 stopped, the whole crowd of
loafers, Jess, his wife and their family bailed aboard the
packed coach.  Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the extra
charge for first-class tickets. 

"Jess!  Who'd you leave with the store?" Leroy asked, loud
enough that just about everybody could hear.

"Mother-in-law.  She says she's too old to get aboard one of
these fire-breathing contraptions.  Too bad the old bag had to
miss this.  Christmas cheer, Leroy?"

Good glory!  Jess was full of a good mood and he'd brought a
gallon of it with him to share.  "If they run out of coal Jess
can breathe in the firebox," Ma muttered.

"You didn't bring the whole creek with you?" Pa asked, ducking
Jess' fumes.  Even if Jess did drink too much, he was a heck of
a nice man and most of the neighbors would have been at the
store on a day this important.

"Most of 'em are up at Vadis station.  They liked the way old
man Whitney hung the awning out from the funeral parlor, and
anyhow he got a load of new furniture in off the packet boat
that he's selling real cheap, so they're all up there looking it
over while they wait."

"By the way...where will Leroy put them?"

Trust Ma to think of some silly little detail like that. 
"Crystal Coal's siding's got at least one more passenger car on
it waiting in case we need it," Leroy said on his way by. 
Belatedly, he thought to punch all the tickets with his own
heart-shaped ticket punch.  Frank tucked his ticket stub in his
pocket so he could always keep it.  The train took off again
with a little bit of a jerk and bounce after they waited for an
oxcart to get past on the road.

"Pa, don't this beat all the stuffings out of going to Grandma's
in the wagon?"

"I have to say it does, son," Pa agreed.  Ma smiled, waved away
the fumes of Jess's breath and started working on a piece of
tatted lace.  Those few people who weren't going on the train
waved as they passed.  Some of the boys were sledding on the
hill below the big blue house.  Some of the cattle out in the
snowy fields looked up at the strange machine going by,
especially Cassidy's bull--

--who decided to charge the train.  Frank had never liked that
bull, even if he did win blue ribbons at the county fair.  He
was a brown Swiss, three quarters of a ton of tough steak in a
bad mood.  He probably didn't like the train.  That was a safe
bet, because the bull hadn't liked anything yet.  He sailed down
the ties with a full head of steam, horns down.  Fritz the
engineer hit the whistle.  The bull screeched to a confused halt
on the tracks while Fritz fumbled for the brake.  Fortunately,
the bull turned tail and ran down the tracks, easily
outdistancing the train and diving into his shed before the
brakes even started to kick in.  "Durn burn it," Jess hiccuped,
"I'd like a few nice roasts."

"I don't feel so good," one of Jess's compatriots moaned. 
"Don't talk about food."

"Oo hell--" Jess tried to back away from his fellow traveler as
his hiccups became dangerous.  Pete the big young brakie
squeezed through the car just then and heard the conversation. 
Ma stuffed her lace into her reticule and mashed Frank between
her and Pa in case the drunk had some range on his imminent
heaving.  The brakie reached across Jess and lifted the rumbling
volcano out of his seat, swinging him high overhead and bearing
him heroically forth from the crowded car.  The back rows ducked
and screeched as the brakeman carried the drunk out of range
onto the back platform.  Frank watched in awe. 

"Gee, Pa, this is a lot more fun than the wagon!"

"Vadis!  All passengers for Vadis!"  Leroy looked downright
hopeful that somebody might bail off, but he was having no luck.
 A crowd of Salt Creek citizens, all dressed to the nines,
waited under the awning of J.L. Whitney's Undertaking and Fine
Furniture.  At the approach of the train, they all began to pile
aboard a coach that sat on the Crystal Coal siding.  A few
decided to wait while the train backed onto the siding to pick
up the extra car.  There was a brief discussion of whether the
first class car wasn't supposed to be on the tail end, but some
moree sensible soul allowed as it didn't matter.  Fritz thumped
to a stop and ground the engine into reverse while Leroy
struggled out to make the coupling.  The crash was enormously
satisfying, almost as good as a real train wreck.  Frank, who
had been standing up on his seat, got knocked right onto Mrs.
Schmidt's big floppy velvet hat and mashed one of her paper
cabbage roses.  Mrs. Schmidt, the Salt Creek schoolteacher and
Pete the brakie's wife, had the good grace to grin at him and
wink when she helped him back to his seat.  She was having an
awful time changing from a tomboy to a grown-up lady.  Frank
wished she were his schoolteacher.  The town schoolteacher was a
sour old maid who never liked anything the boys did because they
were loud and messy.  Mrs. Schmidt was loud and messy herself
sometimes, and here Frank was getting to ride the train with
her.  If Miss Fitzhugh had been on the train, everybody would
have been sitting bolt upright on the benches and Jess' buddy
would have had to belch permission to get sick.

When the train got over the little rise before the Presbyterian
church, it rolled like there was no stopping it.  They had a
clear two-mile run to the next station and a full firebox.  They
also had three passenger coaches stuffed to the gills with
everybody from railroad officials to the township constable. 
Frank knew that part of the scenery pretty well, so he started
looking at a picture book about railways that Ma had brought
along for him.  Pa turned around to talk to one of the board
members behind them.  Fritz whistled for all the crossings and
the places where the tracks took over the middle of the drovers'
road.

Now or then, it hardly ever snows on Christmas Eve in Jensen. 
We might get a few flakes or a flurry, but maybe once every ten
years we get more than a confectioners'-sugar sprinkle at
Christmastime.  Naturally, since the Junk, Busted and Scrap was
on its maiden voyage, Mother Nature decided to pull a fast one. 
It wasn't a whole bunch of snow or anything.  It probably
amounted to two or three inches by Christmas morning when the
last flurries finally quit.  It did look awfully pretty coming
down, even if some of it landed black from the soot off the
train's stack.

"White Station!" Leroy bellowed, really getting into his role. 
Nobody got off.  Ten more people crammed aboard.  The engine had
a heck of a time taking off.  Its whooshes turned into anguished
little squeaks.  The band could have walked a mile backwards and
had time for three choruses of "Good King Wenceslas" and "God
Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" to boot before the engine would have
caught up to them.

"Still better than the wagon?" Ma asked Frank, who had the air
squished out of him.

"Yep," he squeaked, sounding sort of like the engine.  Luckily,
they were running a fairly level stretch from White Station to
Russell's Fork at the foot of Whiskey Hill.  The engine had just
started to get some way on, as they say about riverboats, when
it had to stop for the station that was the front of Russell's
general store.  The whole big Russell family, the older girls'
beaux and five or six assorted neighbors climbed aboard Frank's
coach before it got too crowded for anybody as short as Frank to
see the door.  Nobody was sure how many more folks were holding
their breath and mashing their way into the cars up front or
hung on behind.  

 The track up Whiskey Hill took a route beside the drovers'
road.  Everybody who could get close to a window did and
groaned.  It doesn't take much to figure what was going to
happen when poor little Ninety-Seven tried to pull five
seriously overloaded passenger coaches and a stuffed baggage car
up two and a half miles of track so steep and bent that a big
broad-gauge freight engine would have grabbed its boiler and
keeled over at the very thought.  With the snow added to the
entertainment, Frank wanted to jump up and down and squeal at
the prospect of so much excitement, but he didn't have room.

Fritz the engineer got the fireman working overtime in case that
might help.  When they started up the first part of the grade,
the train was actually moving.  By the time they got to the
steep part by Emerson's farm, Old 97 was chanting "I think I
can't!  I (gasp) think I can't!"  Leroy went forward-- actually,
he jumped down, strolled leisurely up along the track and
crossed over to Fritz's side of the cab to chat with him--and
came back in a couple of minutes looking mightily embarrassed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, due to the load on the train today we're
going to have to double the grade here.  That means that we're
going to stop and uncouple one coach and the baggage car, take
these front coaches up to the Whiskey Hill siding, and come back
for the others.  We didn't want you to be alarmed."

That's when it started.  You have to remember that these folks
were sitting there right smack in the middle of the Victorian
age when New York thought everything was supposed to look
serious and dignified.  It didn't have to be that way, but
people were supposed to pretend that nothing strange ever went
on.  Unfortunately for the couple of railroad bigwigs from New
York, most of the people in Jensen were never great believers in
appearances.  The giggle started in the back and lapped up
around them like an incoming tide until it broke on the shore of
Mrs. Schmidt, who snorted and squeaked into one of the eight new
lace handkerchiefs that her class had given her for Christmas. 
Pa tried manfully to keep his snicker under his breath, but
couldn't quite manage.  Ma tried thinking about everything awful
and serious she could dredge up, but that didn't work either. 
Frank was afraid he would get swatted if he laughed first, so he
waited until the snorts and grins had risen to a safe level
before he joined in.

Leroy turned beet red, ducked up front and didn't come back for
a long time.  Once they dropped the two back cars, the train was
able to make slow headway up the steep hill until they came to
the sharp bend at Iverson's farm.  When the company had finally
started building the JB&S that summer, old man Iverson wouldn't
give away any of his pasture for a railroad he believed might be
either a hoax or a hallucination.  Therefore, the line, instead
of offering to pay him for ten feet or so, bent the tracks
around the corner of his property and went on past McNeill's
barn.  The little engine made a game run at the bend and the
hill, but once it got on the steepest part of the track there
was no way on earth that 97 could have budged even the first two
cars.

"Well," Leroy said when he came back.  By that time, he had
loosened his tie and taken his hat off and he was scratching his
head a lot.  There wasn't much use in trying to sound dignified.
 Jess hiccuped a little and offered him the bottle.  Leroy took
a long regretful look at it.  "No, thanks, Jess, not while I'm
working.  The engine might like some, though."

"How many of us, Leroy?" Jess asked as he squeezed toward the
door.

"Uhhh...whoever wants to," Leroy sighed.  He took off his fancy
coat and handed it to Mrs. Schmidt.  Pete the brakie piled his
chore coat on her lap, too.  Some of the coal miners and farmers
in the second coach handed their coats to their wives and got
out and pushed.  That didn't help, so Pa rolled up his coat
sleeves and went out with some of the bankers and shopkeepers. 
When that didn't help, Ma and Mrs. Schmidt and the Salt Creek
women got out and stood in the snow at the back of the train to
lighten the load.  Frank went with Ma, not sure whether he was
big enough to offer to help.  Pretty soon, the women started to
help and the kids had their chance too.  Just to be polite, the
women were making sure they put their hands only on their own
husbands' backs to push.  The kids were shoving anyone who
didn't mind, including Mrs. Schmidt, who turned out to be very
ticklish.  The engine steamed and huffed; the soft snow swirled.
 A couple of draft horses wandered out of the Iversons' barn to
stare at the spectacle of all those amateurs trying to move
freight.  "On three," Leroy panted.  "One, two, THREE!"

When everybody put their weight against the back of the last
car, men and women and children all trying not to laugh harder
than they were pushing, the train gave a mighty grunt and surged
up the steep slick part of the hill.  They trotted after it,
cheeks rosy in the crisp air, and when they looked back the last
two carriages were coming slowly up the hill behind two teams of
mine mules and in front of a crowd pushing and laughing.  One of
the New Yorkers let out a mighty groan and tried to disappear
into the woods, but the Jensen shopkeepers pelted him with
snowballs until he gave in and came back.  At the top of the
steep part of Whiskey Hill, right where the track goes flat, the
engine finally had a siding to drop off the cars.  Since it was
just out of sight of the station around the bend, everyone who
could run fast enough jogged back to help the engine drag the
other two cars up the hill.  The passengers climbed aboard,
still grinning at one another.  Leroy stopped before the mirror
in the front of the car to button his coat, adjust his tie and
set his cap back squarely on his head.  He turned around to the
carful of people.  "Everybody set?"

The conspirators all nodded, knowing what they were going to say
about the trip, or rather, what they weren't going to say.  When
they pulled into Whiskey Hill station, Fritz cut loose with the
whistle and rang the bell, the Whiskey Hill people yelled,
somebody took a picture, and most of the Salt Creek crew bailed
off.  Mrs. Schmidt told Pa and Ma that all the Presbyterians
were going to the Christmas program at the Whiskey Hill church
and that they'd catch the first train bound back to Jensen in
the evening... provided that there was one.  A woman who hadn't
been aboard asked what she meant by that.  Mrs. Schmidt hastened
to explain that the weather was getting awfully bad and she
didn't know anything about how railroads dealt with it.  That
wasn't a lie.  She really didn't know what big railroads did
about passenger trains and bad weather, let alone what the JB&S
might have to do.  

Whiskey Hill station was the general store, so while they were
taking on water and coal Ma handed Frank a quarter and told him
to go get some sandwiches and keep the change.  Store-bought
sandwiches, imagine!  The storekeeper thought he was ready for
his first trainload of passengers.  He had ham, sausage and
cheese sandwiches all made up, and Frank got the last three of
them and took his change in a couple of licorice whips before
those ran out too.  This was definitely a whole lot better than
going to Grandma's in the wagon.

Jacobsburg station was just a hop, skip and jump down the road,
and then Kelsey was just a half-mile beyond that.  Kelsey
station wasn't much more than the front two rooms of Jan and
Ingrid's big white house.  Some of the neighbors had come over
for coffee and Christmas cookies and a look at the train, and
once they saw it about half of them decided to ride.  They had
to get tickets from Jan and Ingrid, because Leroy was fresh out
of any to use.  At least as many people got off as got on, so
there was room to sit down in all the coaches.  Frank took a
seat of his own across the narrow aisle from Mrs. Schmidt.  It
was about three o'clock and the afternoon had turned soft and
wintry gray.  Frank started to doze off as the train pulled out
from the house.  There was the old road, and here were the rails
plunging into a hole cut through the thick second-growth woods. 
The hole didn't look any taller or wider than the engine. 
Branches brushed the windows.  The steady rhythm of the wheels
was so good and the stove was so warm and the afternoon was so...

The rhythm of the wheels picked up quite a bit.  It didn't
happen all at once, but when the clickety-clack heartbeat turned
into more of a watch ticking Frank woke up and started to look
out the window.  He decided pretty quickly that he shouldn't
have.  The scenery was going by in a hurry and Ma was looking a
little wide-eyed.  Mrs. Schmidt forgot that she was a dignified
teacher and pressed her nose up against the window like a real
tomboy. "Think we're going to wreck?" Frank whispered to her. 
She thought about it for a second.

"Depends if we slow down before we hit the turn at the bottom of
the hill.  If we don't, we'll up-dump for sure."

"Oh, boy!  I never been in a real train wreck before!"

"Me neither!" Mrs.  Schmidt replied breathlessly, and then she
remembered that she was supposed to be a grown-up lady and worse
yet a teacher.  " I mean, I haven't either."

The brakes started to squeal fit to burst eardrums.  Pa
mentioned that it was lucky some of the people had bailed out at
Whiskey Hill or they would never have slowed down at all.  The
trees were still galloping past when Frank saw what Mrs. Schmidt
meant: right there at the foot of the hill, for reasons known
but to God and maybe the railroad designers, the track took a
right turn on what looked like way too tight a radius for
anything bigger than a donkey cart.  Everybody must have had the
same thought at once; they scooted to the inside of the curve
and leaned.  The train skidded around on half its trucks and
landed with a bump as they passed a crossing.  "Yahoo!" Pa
crowed.  Nobody from Jensen even pretended that they weren't
having a good time.  Leroy took off his conductor's cap and
wiped the cold sweat from his face with his sleeve, pasting on a
nervous grin.

"Guess it would be a good idea to take her a little bit slower
down Mooney Hill next time.  We made all them runs with just one
of these cars empty and we ain't used to running with a load on
behind."

"Couldn't tell by me," Pa chuckled.  He had been sipping on
Jess's bourbon while they were all out behind the Whiskey Hill
station.  Frank wasn't going to tell on him, but Ma knew anyhow.
 She said Pa got all pink in the face when he drank liquor. 
Something told Frank that she only minded because she was
supposed to.

"Armstrongs Mills!" Leroy called, remembering why Fritz was
slowing down.  "Armstrongs station!"

"Two more stops for us," Ma sighed.  "Susie, are you going to
your mother's?"

"Yes, all the way to Jerusalem," Mrs.  Schmidt said, and then
she realized what she'd said.  "The one in Ohio, I mean.  I
don't think I'd get to the regular one by Christmas."

"We came pretty close a mile or so back," Pa observed.

"Robert!" Ma hissed.  "And on Christmas Eve!"

The train left Armstrongs, paused at Alledonia, then chugged
very slowly, but at least steadily, up the steep hill to the new
stopping place at Crabapple, almost opposite the long lane that
went back along the side of the ridge to Grandma's farm. 
Grandpa and his team were waiting with the wagon.  Grandma was
getting supper while she tried to watch from the big windows in
the front of the house.  When they got off the coach in the
twilight--not staggering out of the wagon in the middle of the
night, the way they usually did, and only slightly spattered
with mud rather than coated up to the eyeballs-- Frank ran to
Grandpa, who was staring wide-eyed at the chugging train.  "I
never thought I'd live to see the day," he breathed.  "Ain't
been on a train since 'sixty-five.  I have to get me an excuse
to get on board her one day soon.  Frank, how is it?  And how in
the Sam Hill did you get your pants legs all wet like that?"

"It's great, Grandpa!  You shoulda been there when--" Frank
stopped, mindful that there were people who were about to get on
the train.  Why should he spoil the fun?  "I'll tell you all
about it later.  It was great!  Now you can come and see us
anytime you want, even when the roads are muddy, and we can come
and see you, and maybe I can help on the farm this summer, and--"

"Merry Christmas, Daddy," Ma interrupted as soon as the first
break in Frank's gushing words gave her a chance.  They climbed
aboard the wagon.  Once they were out of earshot of anyone who
was getting aboard, Ma started to laugh and explain both at once.

"Well," Pa said defensively, "so there are a few bugs they need
to work out."

"I suppose...but I wouldn't have missed it for the world!  Oh,
Daddy, you should have been there.  When we all had to get out
in Ingram's pasture field and push..."

"But nobody in Jensen knows yet," Pa added quickly.  "Far as
they know, it's perfect!"

"Hmmm."  Grandpa grinned and stroked his chin.  "That could
might explain why the new telegraph says they had the fire
brigade out on the trestle all afternoon?"

"The cinders," Pa groaned.

"I reckoned.  They said it wasn't too bad and if they hustled
they could get it all fixed for the trip back.  Let's face it,
boy, you had help and money from New York, but you're never
going to make New York out of Jensen, and you couldn't make
Jensen out of New York, and the same kind of railroad just won't
suit both of them.  If we wanted a nice quiet life where nothing
interesting ever took place we'd all have stayed wherever t'heck
we came from a hundred years ago.  We don't have the big-city
toughs New York has, so we have to get some excitement somehow. 
S'pose your uncle Joe might pick up the slack on the farm over
New Year's, Frank?  Wonder if your ma would mind some company
for a few days?  Your grandma will pretend like she doesn't
think much of the idea, but she'll be packed and standing at the
station before I get done saying when I'd like to go."

Grandma had supper for them and his cousins, and Frank ate four
of her big molasses jumbles before they all went to the church
on the hilltop at midnight.  When they came back, their feet
crunching in the snow, they felt cold and holy and glad that the
stove in the big old house would warm all of them at once. 
Grandma had been soaking cherries in brandy ever since last
summer, and since the grown-ups were so cold they had some while
the children had hot chocolate.  Afterwards, Frank went up to
the big spare bedroom in the attic and lay there in the nervous
happy Christmas morning dark with the boy cousins and tried to
get to sleep.  His cousins all wanted to know about the train
ride, even though most of them were older than him--in fact,
they wanted to hear the story over and over.  Life just didn't
get any better than that.

That was a pretty good Christmas all around.  Frank got a tin
whistle, a Barlow knife and a checker set in his stocking, and
under the tree he had a red wagon from Ma and Pa and a sweater
from Grandma and a bow and arrow from Grandpa.  He felt richer
than King Solomon with all his mines.  It was almost too much
when they all left with their arms and their hearts full, and
Frank was almost glad when their ride back turned out to be
rather smooth and uneventful with just a regular load of
passengers.  Grandma and Grandpa did come to Jensen on New
Year's Eve, and they spoiled Frank rotten.  By the time school
went back in session, Frank and the other boys and even some of
the girls had watched the workmen make permanent repairs to the
trestle.  When they got done, there were only a few little
scorch marks left on the top timbers.

Frank turned eight that winter of the trains, old enough that he
was already, in a way, leaving home.  The JB&S only helped him
along.  He rode the trains to fishing, then when he got through
high school he rode the trains as close to Muskingum College as
he could get, and when the paper got up the money for him to
report on the Spanish- American War he caught the soldiers'
train right there in Jensen.  When he came back disgusted with
the newspaper business he hired out on the line as a brakeman. 
That scandalized his family for a while, but they got over it. 
The girl he married was Jenny Schmidt, the daughter of Pete the
brakie.  Jenny grew up to be a competent, rough-cut Salt Creek
schoolteacher like her mother.  Frank worked the railroad for a
good fifteen years until the Number Four out of Jensen up-dumped
off the trestle beyond Whiskey Hill one day and the lead coach
fell over on him and broke his hip.  He limped the rest of his
life, but the JB&S gave him a small pension and a free pass as
long as they ran.  When he healed up and haired over enough,
Frank dusted off his teacher's license and settled in at the new
high school.  

His students said he would break off right in the middle of a
history lesson, go to the window, and watch the trains.  Frank
took his whole class on what was supposed to be the line's last
run and told them that since the trains had quit he was retiring
from regular work too.

For years after, way into his seventies, Frank substituted for
sick teachers.  The luckiest classes were the ones that drew
Frank for a teacher just before Christmas.  In those days,
schools still did holidays.  There would be crooked paper chains
and needle-shedding wildly flammable trees and candles and all
kinds of snowmen made out of construction paper, people
practicing carols for the program, classes munching cookies for
a special treat, and if that wasn't enough excitement for a body
sometimes one of the teachers caught a bad cold on one of the
last few days.  If the class was really lucky, Frank got the
substitute job.  He'd sit down with his cookies in one hand and
a cup of punch in the other, nod out the window to the rail
yards, and say "I was on that very first run Christmas Eve..."

He would tell the whole story, then if the class got him going
he'd tell all the rest of his railroad tales, even the true
ones, and we'd laugh till our ribs hurt.  When Frank got done
with his stories, or most often when he ran out of time, he
always ended the day the same way:

"And whatever happened on that run, or any other one the
railroad ever went on, it was sure a lot better than going to
Grandma's in a wagon!"