Even now, in the deep watches of the night, when I hear the lonesome, haunting cry of a train whistle, echoing, and reechoing, between the buildings, and from the hillsides, something is reawakened in my heart and soul, and once again my wander lust is reborn. It has always been this way, even as a child.
We lived six miles from the nearest railroad, and yet on cold crisp winter evenings, whenever a train went through the little town of Englehart, heading north or south, heading to unknown, exciting place and blew the whistle, I ached, I hungered to be on board, to be lulled to sleep by the clickety-clack of iron wheels over joints in the long ribbon of steel.
Whenever a train rushes over the level crossing in the city where I live, and the wheels go clickety-clack, clickety-clack, they seem to whisper, come with us, come with us. Leave behind your simple quite life. Come, we will take you to exciting places. We will take you to the city by the sea, where waves pounding against the rocks, the sand, the coastline, sing their own siren song.
Come, come with us to where mountains tower high, where tall peaks pierce the sky, and where sometimes their snowy heads are buried deep within a mist that has risen from the sea, brought by winds born in the west.