The Explanation
(for those who require one)

And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

From the Southern Travellers Handbook for 1965/66 #7

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Second-Class passengers

Your regular second-class travellers are deep fellows. They come early to get a back seat - or at all events, to sit with their backs to the engine.
They watch the weathercocks too, and make their selection of place according to the wind [ED.: there was no glass in the windows then] and if it be warm weather, are chatty and communicative, especially as many of them are in the habit of meeting every day in the train. But in cold weather the second-class travellers talk but little. They wrap up the minute they get into the train, preparing for the worst; and after a few exchanged courtesis - lending an umbrella to the outsider, or spreading a cloak over two or three pairs of knees - you hear their voices no more.

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