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CHRISTMAS ALONG THE WIRES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Junction-station - pilot knob
Last Line: "I'll be there on number nine.'"
Alternate Author Name(s): Johnson Of Boone, Benj. F.
Subject(s): Christmas; Office Work; Telegraph; Nativity, The; Telegrams


Scene -- Hoosier railway station, Washout Glen
Night -- Interior of Telegraph Office -- Single operator's table in some
disorder -- lunch-basket, litter of books and sheet-music -- a flute and a
guitar -- Rather good-looking young man, evidently in charge, talking to
commercial traveler.

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!"

Folks tell me, that Christmas-Tree,
Dance and whole blame' jamboree,
Looked like it was goin' to be
A blood-curdlin' tragedy.
People 'long the roads, you know --
Well, they've had experience
With all sorts of accidents,
And they've learnt some things, -- and so
When an accident or wreck
Happens, they know some man's "break"
Is responsible, and hence --
Well -- they want to break his neck!
So it happened, Christmas-eve,
At Roachdale, -- MacClintock there
Cocked back in the barber-chair
At eight-forty, and no train
Down yet from the Knob, and it
Due at eight-ten sharp. The strain
Was a-showin' quite a bit
On the general crowd; and when
Purty soon the rumor spread --
Wreck had probably occurred --
Some one said somebody said
That he'd heard somebody say,
"Operator at the Glen
Was to blame for the delay --
Fact is, he had run away
From his office -- Even then
Was in Roachdale -- there to be
Present at the Christmas-Tree
And the 'shindig' afterward,
Wreck or no wreck!" . . . Mac sat up,
Whiter than the shavin'-cup. . . .
Back of his face in the glass
He stared into he could see
A big crowd there -- and, alas!
Not in all that threatening throng
One friend's face of sympathy --
One friend knowin' right from wrong!
He got on his feet -- erect --
Nervy; -- faced the crowd, and then
Said: "I am MacClintock from
The Glen-office, and I've come
To your Christmas festival
By request of one that all
Of you honor, gentlemen, --
Your most trusted citizen --
Your own operator here
At the station-office -- where
He'll acquit me of neglect,
And will make it plain and clear
Who the sub. is he sent there
To my office at the Glen --
Or, if not one there, -- who then
Is indeed the criminal? . . .
I am going now to call
On him. -- Join me, gentlemen --
I insist you come with me."
Well, a sense of some respect
Caught 'em, -- and they followed, all,
Silently, though sullenly.

Fortunately, half a square
Brought 'em to the station and
The crowd there that packed the small
Waiting-room on every hand,
With a kind o' general stand
Round the half-door window through
Which "old Roachy," in full view,
Sat there, smilin' in a sick
Sort o' way, yet gloryin', too,
In the work he had to do.
Mac worked closer, breathin' quick
At the muttered talk of some
Of the toughest of the crowd;
Till, above the growl and hum
Of the ominous voices, he
Heard the click of "Roachy's" key, --
And his heart beat 'most out 'loud
As he heard him wirin': -- "Yes,
Trouble down at Glen, I guess.
Glen's fool-operator here --
What's-his-name? -- MacClintock. -- Fear
Mob will hang him. -- Mob knows he
Left his office. -- And no doubt
Wreck there on account of it.
People worked-up here -- and shout
Now and then to 'Take him out!' --
'Hang him!' -- and so forth." . . . Mac lit
Through the half-door window at
"Roachy's" table like a cat: --
He was white, but "Roachy's" face
Made a brunette out o' his!. . .
Mac had pinned him in his chair
Helpless -- and a message there
Clickin' back from Pilot Knob. --
"Tell these people, word-for-word,"
Mac says, "what this message is! --
"Tell 'em. --Hear me?" "Roachy" heard
And obeyed: -- "'We sized your job
On MacClintock. -- Knob here sent
A sub. there. -- And all O. K.
At Glen-office. -- Tie-up here --
One hour's wait -- all fault of mine.
"Hang MacClintock," did you say?
"Hang MacClintock?" -- Certainly, --
Hang him on the Christmas-Tree,
With a label on for me, --
I'll be there on Number Nine.'"





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