It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.

When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.

Not until he stood at the altar did he achieve a sense of being hale and furnished. It was strange, he thought, that a man would find his surest current in the spot where he felt least worthy.

There was a train that would come by our house every night, and I'd hear the whistle blow. That is the sweetest memory I have.