The night's black as the coal that once fueled these trains, and black as the smoke that still spews from these trains, and the stars are hidden by the soft lights inside, and the towns only come in quick guesses as we pass. But the train rocks a lullabye with a sweet steady hiss as we're cradled so softly in its great iron arms like our very own mothers gently rocking and saying ''Shh, shh. It's all right. Shh, shh. Shh, shh.'' And when another train passes with its headlight - a beacon,and its horn blows by us like an owl on the wing, then, boy, that's something. Then, boy, that's something.