Usuallyatthistimeoftheyear,ChristmascarolscanbeheardalloverNewYork.Theywillwaftfromanystreetandlane,evenfromthedirtieststationofthedirtiestroute,Route7.Manypeoplehavetochangetrainsthere.Whenduskfalls,thecommutershavetolineuptomoveupstairs.Thetrainistoclimeupandontotheoverpassanddriveitswaythroughthisdirtyandmessyblock.Peeringdownwardsandintothewindowsofsomeextremelydilapidatedbuilding,passengersmaysometimesseesomemysterious-lookingorientalsdressedinJapanese-styledarksuitspracticingkarate.
Lookingfurtherdownwards,theymayseeanelderlyblackwomanwearingadirtyfloweryskirt,andholdingabigplasticbag.Breathingwithmuchdifficulty,sheistotteringalong.Ifonehappenstobeinadreamyandimaginativemood,hemightthinkhehasblunderedintoHollywoodandhappenstobewatchingthemakingofacrimefilm.ThisisAmericatoo!.Atthesight,some“ragstoriches”dreamersmightburstintotears.Theotherday,Christmasfastapproaching,Iwaschangingtrainshere.Itwascoldandwet.Peopleinchedforward,intendingtochangetoRoute7.
ThenIheardthevoiceofachild,whowassinging“SilentNight”totheaccompanimentofasmallaccordion.Theywerestandingatthefootofthestairs,anelderlymanandalittleboy.Holdingalittleredtincaninonehand,theboywasringinganironbellwiththeother.Hislittlefacethatappearedabovehisblackovercoatwasflushedinthecoldair.Somepassengersproducedcoinsanddroppedthemwithatinkleintothecan.Inthebone-chillingdusk,thebellkeptringing,andthechildsinging,loudandclear.