University of Virginia Library

Junction -Station—Pilot Knob—
Say “the operator there
Is a girl—with auburn hair
And blue eyes, and purty, too,
As they make 'em!”—That'll do!—
They all know her 'long the Line—
Railroad men, from President
Of the road to section-hand!—
And she knows us—the whole mob
Of us lightnin'-slingers—Shoo!—
Brownie's got us all down fine!
Though she's business, understand,
Brownie she just beats the band!
Brownie she's held up that job
Five or six years anyhow—
Since her father's death, when all
The whole road decided now
Was no time for nothin' small,—
It was Brownie's job! Since ten
Years of age she'd been with him
In the office. Now, I guess,
She was sixteen, more or less—
Just a girl, but strong and trim,
And as independent, too,
And reliable clean through
As the old man when he died
Two mile' up the track beside
His red-light, one icy night
When the line broke down—and yet
He got there in time, you bet,
To shut off a wreck all right!
Yes, some life here, and romance—
Pilot Knob, though, and Roachdale,
And this little eight-by-ten
Dinky town of Washout Glen
Have to pool inhabitants
Even for enough young men
To fill out a country dance,—
All chip in on some joint-date,
And whack up and pony down
And combine and celebrate,—
Say, on Decoration Day—
Fourth o' July—Easter, or
Circus-Day, or Christmas, say—
All three towns, and right-o'-way
Fer two extrys,—one from here—
One down from the Knob. Well, then
Roachdale is herself again!
Like last Christmas, when all three
Towns collogued, and far and near
Billed things for a Christmas-Tree
At old Roachdale. Now mark here:—
I had leave, last Holidays,
And was goin' home, you see,
Two weeks—and the Company
Sent a man to fill my place—
An old chum of mine, in fact,
I'd been coaxin' to arrange
Just to have his dressin'-case
And his latest music packed
And come on here for a change.
He'd been here to visit me
Once before—in summer then,—
Come to stay “just two or three
Days,” he said—and he stayed ten.
When he left here then—Well, he
Was clean gone on Brownie—wild
And plum silly as a child!
Name—MacClintock. Most young men
Stood 'way back when Mac was round.
Fact is, he was fine, you know—
Silver-tenor voice that went
Up among the stars, and sent
The girls back to higher-tone'
Dreams than they had ever known!
A good-looker—stylish—slim—
And wore clothes that no man downed—
Yes, and smoked a good cigar
And smelt right; and used to blow
A smooth flute—And a guitar
No man heard till he heard him!—
Say, some midnight serenade—
Oomh! how drippin'-sweet he played!
Boys, though, wasn't stuck on Mac
So blame' much,—especially
Roachdale operator.—He
Kind o' had the inside-track
On all of us, as to who
Got most talk from Brownie, when
She had nothin' else to do
But to buzz us now and then
Up and down the wires, you know;
And we'd jolly back again
'Bout some dance—and “Would she go
With us or her Roachdale beau?”
(Boys all called him “Roachy”—see?)—
Wire her, “Was she ‘Happy now’?”
And “How's ‘Roachy,’ anyhow?”
Or, “Say, Brownie, who's the jay
You was stringin' yesterday?”
And I've sat here when this key
Shot me like a battery,
Just 'cause Brownie wired to say
That “That box o' fruit, or flowers,
That ‘I'd’ sent her came O. K.,—
To beguile the weary hours
Till we met again!”—Then break
Short off—for the Roachdale cuss
Callin' her, and on to us.
'Course he'd sent 'em—no mistake!
Lord, she kept that man awake!
Yet he kept her fooled: His cheek
And pure goody-goody gall
Hid from her—if not from all—
A quite vivid “yellow streak.”—
Awful' jealous, don't you see?—
Felt he had a right to be,
Maybe, bein' engaged.—And they
Were engaged—that's straight.—“G A!” —
Well: MacClintock when he come
Down from York to take this job,
And stopped off at Pilot Knob
For “instructions,” there was some
Indications of unrest
At Roachdale right from the start,—
“Roachy” wasn't awful' smart,
Maybe, but he done his best—
With such brains as he possessed.—
Anyway he made one play
That was brilliant—of its kind—
And maintained it.—From the day
That MacClintock took my key
And I left on Number Three,
“Roachy” opened up on Mac
And just loved him!—purred and whined
'Cross the wires how tickled he
Was to hear that Mac was back,
And how glad the girls would be
And the young-folks everywhere,
As he'd reason to believe,—
And how, even then, they were
“Shapin' things at old Roachdale
For a blow-out, Christmas-eve,
That would turn all others pale!—
First a Christmas-Tree, at old
Armory Hall, and then the floor
Cleared, and—”
“Come in out the cold!”
Breaks MacClintock—“Don't I know?—
Dancin', say, from ten till four—
Maybe daylight 'fore we go!—
With Ben Custer's Band to pour
Music out in swirlin' rills
And back-tides o' waltz-quadrilles
Level with the window-sills!—
Roachy, you're a bird!—But, say,—
How am I to get away
From the office here?”
Well, then
“Roachy” wires him back again:—
“That's O. K.,—I call a man
Up from Dunkirk; got it all
Fixed.—So Christmas-eve, you can
Collar the seven-thirty train
For Roachdale—the same that he
Comes on.—Leave your office-key
In the door: he'll do the rest.”
Then “old Roachy” rattled through
A long list of who'd be there,—
Boys and girls that Mac knew best—
One name, though, that had no bare
Little mention anywhere!
Then he shut off, as he said,
For his supper. ... About ten
Minutes Mac was called again—
With a click that flushed him red
As the signal-flag—and then
Came like music in the air—
“Yes, and Brownie will be there!”