 Ladies and gentlemen, the Railroad Hour. And here comes our star-studded show train. Tonight, the Association of American Railroads presents a new American operetta, Night Music, starring Gordon MacRae and his charming guest Dorothy Warren Show. Our choir is under the direction of Norman Luboff and our music is prepared and conducted by Carmen Dragon. Yes, tonight another musical premiere is brought to you by the American Railroads, the same railroads that bring you the food you eat, the clothes you wear, the fuel you burn, and the multitude of other things you use in your daily life. And now, here is our star, Gordon MacRae. Thank you, Marvin Miller, and good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Our story tonight is based on the words and the romance of one of the best loved of American poets, the Walterith Longfellow, Night Music. Journal of H.W. Longfellow, 1836, Interlochen, Switzerland. On this, the summer of my 29th year, I have met a girl. Her name is Frances Elizabeth Appleton. Tonight, I walked by her hotel. All the windows of the inn had shut their eyes for the night. And I knew she was there. And so, under the starlight, I wrote a verse to her. Of the sun. The next day, in the sunny silence of Medellacan, we walked together. You're a poet, Mr. Longfellow. Well, yes, Miss Frances, as a hobby, you might say. Oh, I love poetry, particularly colleridge. He tells such good stories. Stories? Well, everybody loves stories, Mr. Longfellow. Why don't you tell me one? Well, I don't quite know how to begin. What sort of stories? Oh, old stories. They're the best ones. The tales that told me were so deep. Right, Miss Frances, a story. Once upon a time, how do I go from there? Oh, I want a beautiful story. It shouldn't be difficult telling you a beautiful story, Miss Frances. I know. I'll tell you about a tree that I love. A tree? Miss Frances stretched across Battlest Street in my leafy blossoming village of Cambridge. I've begun a poem about that tree and about the man who works under its cool green shade. It begins, under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands. Journal for July 13th, 1843. Seven years have passed since that day in Interlochen. Today, Frances became my wife and I am the happiest man on the face of the earth. Frances and I live in Craigie House in Cambridge, the village that is a fringe to Harvard Square. Each day, I tip my hat to my favorite chestnut tree. Each evening, I tuck my daughters into bed and by candlelight, I greet the lovely night. Well, let me read to you, Henry. Be very nice, my love. Now close your eyes. There's something I want you to hear. Good. Something light and frivolous. No. Now listen. Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream. Where did you get that? This is the Nickerbocker magazine for October 1838. A Psalm of life, author, anonymous. Oh. Well, I suppose it was written by somebody we know? Yes. And his name is Henry Longfellow. Why have you hidden it, Henry? Well, it's a voice from my inmost heart, Frances. Besides, I never thought too much of it. It's just a little verse. A little verse. Oh, like a little diamond or a little child. Oh, my beloved, it sings. The words sing. Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream. For the soul is dead at slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest, and the grave is not. But enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end away. But to act that each tomorrow finds us farther than. Muffle drums are beating funeral marches partingly behind us. Has made my life sublime. Journal of H.W.L. Tuesday, the ninth day of July, 1861. I sat in my study. Frances was downstairs, seating some letters with wax. I was composing a verse. And suddenly I heard a scream. I rushed downstairs. A match had fallen unnoticed from her hand. It caught on her frail dress. My Frances was enveloped in fire. I tried to smother the flames with a rug. Her face twisted in agony. The flames died out, but she fell to the floor. All the medical skill of Cambridge in Boston could not save her. So I sit staring into the night. A terrible lonely empty night. Black night. Oh, her distance dies. It's hard to realize that about half the history of railroads in the United States could have been covered in the working lifetime of one man. Intraven movements are guided these days by automatic electric signals, which tells the engineer what is ahead. Then there is centralized traffic control so that one man can direct the movements of trains over maybe two or 300 miles of track by simply throwing the switches and setting the signals to control the movement. To supplement these signals, they are trained telephone so that the conductor and the engine man may talk to each other or they may talk to the man in the signal, tower or station. Yes, Railroad has come a long ways in my work and lifetime. But when I started, we never dreamed that we would live to see such things as air-conditioned panjacars clean and comfortable in the summer as well as in the winter and streamlined trains. In those days, the railroads had just bought about the use of standard time zones all over the country and had just achieved standard gauge of track. And of course, Mr. Haycock, that made it possible for the cars of any railroad to run on the tracks of any other. You know, I wonder how many people ever stopped to think what that means. Not just to the railroads, but to you and me and all the rest of us to be able to make through shipments all over the American continent anywhere the railroads go. Thank you, Mr. Haycock, for this glimpse of the changes in railroading in your lifetime. With all these changes and improvements and with the others that certainly will be made in the future, the fundamental idea of trains of cars pulled by locomotives and running on rails will remain. For there is nothing like railroads which can do so well and so economically. The big, basic job of transportation which this country of ours needs to stay healthy and strong. Now here is act two of night music starring Gordon MacRae as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Dorothy Warren Schold as Francis. Oh, the night shall be filled with you, and the care of the rest of the day. Journal of HWM. No date. Any date. For 18 years I was a happy man. Now I am emptiness. How can I live any longer? How can I walk the stairs of Craigie House? How can I sit here and write? Hey, who is it? Alice Allegra? No child, go away. I'll see you tomorrow. Probably tomorrow. Yes, father. What am I going to do? Francis, I am nothing. It's not a father, not a poet, not even a human being. Francis? Francis, where are you? I hear you. I hear your voice like music in the night. I am here, my beloved. Francis, stay with me. I need you. Your children need you, too. I can't reach them. Help me. A poet should read his own poetry. And you remember? If you'll help me. If you'll come to visit me like this and give me my inspiration. Every night, every night, my beloved. I'm glad to see you. You're always hidden away in your study. Well, now that's all going to be changed. Edith, I've written a little verse, especially for you. There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of a fire. And there it is. There's the curl. And when she was good she was very, very good. But when she was bad she was horrid. She didn't mean Edith. Tell the mother to watch. Tell me how. Now, what do you know about them? Our eldest daughter. How old is she? Little girl's ages keep changing every year. I never can remember exactly how old she is. You always had a much better memory than I have. I know this much. Alice is a very nice girl and she loves poetry almost as much as you do. And Edith? She has blue eyes and beautiful golden hair. And she wears little grey boots and may grow up to look just like her mother. And Annie Allegra? My baby. With a name that means Mary. I often hear her singing and laughing. Oh, give yourself to them, my beloved. What can I give? Stories. Your stories. Yes, I've begun a series of tales. Tales of a wayside in, I call it. But the stories will be all for them. I'll begin the first one. Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Horry Beer on the 18th of April in 75. A famous day and year. The story of Angela is so lovely it's such a wonderful story. I love them a hundred others. Well, tell them about your boyfriend, Henry. You wrote such a lovely poem about him. And my youth comes back to me. I shall tell them stories every day. Love us for this hour. Well, you know, Edith, it's my favorite time, too. Mr. Dickens called it the mongrel hour. Half day and half night. But I think I have a better name for it. Between the dark and the daylight When the night is beginning to lower Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the children's hour I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet The sound of a door that is opened This is soft and sweet From my study I see in the lamp light Descending the broad hall stair Brave Alice and laughing Allegra And Edith with golden hair Then a silence Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together to take me By surprise A sudden rush from the stairway A sudden raid from the hall By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all Have you fast in my fortress And will not let you depart Love it is good. Spring arrived today quite suddenly Bursting upon the world as a child Bursts into a room with a laugh And a shout and the hands full of flowers And you, you are with me always Not only at starlight time Of course I am with you Henry Have I told you about our chestnut tree? Yes I know. I counted the tears in your eyes Why did they have to cut it down I said Is it so important to widen Brattle Street? But then I sighed and said goodbye to our tree Today they came here The children of Cambridge and brought me This chair, this throne I sit in It's made from the wood of our chestnut tree And do you know what they said Francis? Yes my love, I heard them Thank you Mr. Longfellow they sent For giving us stories to read And songs to sing Oh my beloved Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light It is daybreak everywhere And our thanks to Dorothy Warnschold Issa Ashtown and to our entire company Night music based on the works of Longfellow with special music Composed by Carmen Dragon And for the railroad hour by Lawrence and Lee The railroad hour is brought to you each week At this same time by the American Railroads All aboard! Well dear friends it looks as though we're ready to pull out So until next Monday night And our musical version of the million pound bank note On behalf of the other members of the cast And of the American Railroads This is your friend Gordon Macrae saying goodbye Gordon Macrae can soon be seen Free sailors and a girl in Technicolor Our choir is under the direction of Norman Luboff And our music is prepared and conducted by Carmen Dragon A portion of the preceding program was transcribed This is Marvin Miller saying goodbye until next week For the American Railroads Now stay tuned for your Monday night of music On NBC! The voice of Firestone features Robert Ronsaville on NBC