Sometimes we hear it down here in the valley, usually on a dark, still night. We might be sitting on the front porch, fanning away mosquitoes when we hear it from afar: A-whoo-whoo-whoo! That mournful whistle coming through the pines.
That's when we hush our talk, put out or cigarettes and pipes, bow our heads. It's Old Black #0, chugging down the mountainside, coming to take someone away.
Maybe one of us.
That's when we hush our talk, put out or cigarettes and pipes, bow our heads. It's Old Black #0, chugging down the mountainside, coming to take someone away.
Maybe one of us.
