Label: A Christmas tradition
With apologies to the estate of Clement Clark Moore.
T'was the night before Christmas when all through the freight
yard,
Not a switcher was stirring, not even a car.
The knapsacks were hung by the coal stove with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas would fill them there.
The track-gang was slouched in their bunk-beds while visions
of rail tools danced in their heads.
And I in my red/green striped P.J. overalls and cap had just
settled my brains for a long winter's nap.
When down on the mainline there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my crew-bunk to see what the matter.
Over to the window I flew in a flash, ripped off the shade
and kicked out the sash.
The moon reflected off the dusting of snow and gave the quiet
rail yard a nocturnal glow.
When what to my groggy eyes should now display,
But eight tiny boxcars and a miniature locomotive, type Shay.
The little old engineer, lively and quick, gave me pause;
his antics reminded me of Santa Claus.
Faster than a speeding passenger train they came,
The driver blew the whistle, rang the bell and called each
car by name.
Now Northwestern! Now New York Central! Now Milwaukee and
Penn!
On Baltimore! On Frisco! On Chessie! On L&N!
To the top of the shed! To the top of the wall! Roll away,
roll away all!
As cinders blow upward when the fast express rolls by, the
train in passing sends them toward the sky.
So on to the crew cars they flew, with cars full of goodies
and the Claus-engineer too.
And then in a moment I heard on the roof above, a jolt and
bang as each car stopped with a shove.
As a pulled my head back through the wrecked window and was
turning around,
down the stove pipe and out the fire door came the little
engineer with a bound.
He was dressed in white denim with green and red stripes from
his head to his foot,
And his overalls were all tarnished with cinders and soot.
A bundle of goods he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a paymaster happily opening his sack.
His eyes glowed like stars! His dimples were merry!
His cheeks were like ash-dusted roses, his nose like a dusty
cherry!
His mouth was turned up in smile, and his snow-white beard
looked a little shorter than a mile.
The smoke-stack looking pipe he held in his teeth, the
billowing smoke circled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a boiler shaped belly that shook when
he laughed, like a bowl of jelly.
He spoke not a word but filled the hanging knapsacks with new
tools then turned with a crack and next went up the stove pipe on his way back.
He sprang to his engine and pulled on the whistle and away
the little freight rolled like a wind driven thistle.
But I heard him exclaim as they rolled out of sight
“Merry Christmas to all and To all good night!”
I couldn't have said it better myself. omscaler
