Major John W. ThomasJust as the forms are closing for the March edition of TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY comes news of the death of Major John Wilson Thomas, who was born in Nashville, Tennessee, on August 24, 1830, and died in Nashville, February 12, 1906.At the age of 28 he entered railroad work, and was in harness continually up to the time of his death, being at that time President of the Nashville, Chattanooga & St. Louis Railroad.We regret that limited time and space will not permit us to give a detailed account of the many incidents that made up the life of this great and good man, but we are safe in saying that a more popular man never lived in the South—or elsewhere. The “Old Man,” as he was affectionately called by his employes, was ever ready to listen with a sympathetic ear to the story of the unfortunate, and encouragement was always freely given. Every employe under him was supposed to do his very best. He demanded everything there was in a man, and got it; not from fear, but through the love they had for him. His word was law and his decision final, for right and justice always prevailed. No man was ever loved and respected more by his employes than Major Thomas, and his record as a railroad man was seldom if ever equaled. He did not grow up with the road, but it grew up with him, and he made it what it is to-day.Somebody will take his place as president of the N., C. & St. L. road, but there is no one to take his place in the hearts of his friends. He was a great and good man.

Major John W. Thomas

Just as the forms are closing for the March edition of TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY comes news of the death of Major John Wilson Thomas, who was born in Nashville, Tennessee, on August 24, 1830, and died in Nashville, February 12, 1906.

At the age of 28 he entered railroad work, and was in harness continually up to the time of his death, being at that time President of the Nashville, Chattanooga & St. Louis Railroad.

We regret that limited time and space will not permit us to give a detailed account of the many incidents that made up the life of this great and good man, but we are safe in saying that a more popular man never lived in the South—or elsewhere. The “Old Man,” as he was affectionately called by his employes, was ever ready to listen with a sympathetic ear to the story of the unfortunate, and encouragement was always freely given. Every employe under him was supposed to do his very best. He demanded everything there was in a man, and got it; not from fear, but through the love they had for him. His word was law and his decision final, for right and justice always prevailed. No man was ever loved and respected more by his employes than Major Thomas, and his record as a railroad man was seldom if ever equaled. He did not grow up with the road, but it grew up with him, and he made it what it is to-day.

Somebody will take his place as president of the N., C. & St. L. road, but there is no one to take his place in the hearts of his friends. He was a great and good man.

THE MOURNING TENNESSEEBY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLK.[The little engine, “Tennessee,” that always drew the private car of President Thomas stands draped in mourning for thirty days.]Do you know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your trappings of woe,That someone lies dead, up yonder?Do you know, Tennessee, do you know?Do you know why that grim, black bannerTrails over each shining place?Do you understand, I wonder,The stain on your fireman’s face?Do you know, as you stand there waiting,You dear little thing, Tennessee,That the cab and the coach are empty?Lonesome as they can be?That the face that shone out from the window,Flashing your welcome back,No more will brighten the darknessOf the desolate, lonely track.Does it hurt you to know that his footstepWill linger no more at the door?Does it hurt you to know that his presenceWill gladden the way no more.He is dead! Can you understand it?Under your brass and steel,Because that his great heart loved you,I am sure you must know and feel.Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,I am sure, if you understood,And your bell would toll if I touched it;You would voice your grief if you could.You must know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your misery,He would come if he could, for he loved you,You poor little friend, Tennessee.Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,And I’m sure you are trying to tellOf those long, good flights together,For I know that he loved you well.Just a month you must wear your trappings,Your lustreless emblems of woe;But I’m sure you will miss him foreverDeep down in the heart, you know.I toss you a sigh, and a heartbreak,And I give you this truth, in a tear;The sting of death isn’t dying,But memory, do you hear?

THE MOURNING TENNESSEE

BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLK.[The little engine, “Tennessee,” that always drew the private car of President Thomas stands draped in mourning for thirty days.]

BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLK.

[The little engine, “Tennessee,” that always drew the private car of President Thomas stands draped in mourning for thirty days.]

Do you know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your trappings of woe,That someone lies dead, up yonder?Do you know, Tennessee, do you know?Do you know why that grim, black bannerTrails over each shining place?Do you understand, I wonder,The stain on your fireman’s face?Do you know, as you stand there waiting,You dear little thing, Tennessee,That the cab and the coach are empty?Lonesome as they can be?That the face that shone out from the window,Flashing your welcome back,No more will brighten the darknessOf the desolate, lonely track.Does it hurt you to know that his footstepWill linger no more at the door?Does it hurt you to know that his presenceWill gladden the way no more.He is dead! Can you understand it?Under your brass and steel,Because that his great heart loved you,I am sure you must know and feel.Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,I am sure, if you understood,And your bell would toll if I touched it;You would voice your grief if you could.You must know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your misery,He would come if he could, for he loved you,You poor little friend, Tennessee.Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,And I’m sure you are trying to tellOf those long, good flights together,For I know that he loved you well.Just a month you must wear your trappings,Your lustreless emblems of woe;But I’m sure you will miss him foreverDeep down in the heart, you know.I toss you a sigh, and a heartbreak,And I give you this truth, in a tear;The sting of death isn’t dying,But memory, do you hear?

Do you know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your trappings of woe,That someone lies dead, up yonder?Do you know, Tennessee, do you know?

Do you know, as you stand there waiting,

Rigged out in your trappings of woe,

That someone lies dead, up yonder?

Do you know, Tennessee, do you know?

Do you know why that grim, black bannerTrails over each shining place?Do you understand, I wonder,The stain on your fireman’s face?

Do you know why that grim, black banner

Trails over each shining place?

Do you understand, I wonder,

The stain on your fireman’s face?

Do you know, as you stand there waiting,You dear little thing, Tennessee,That the cab and the coach are empty?Lonesome as they can be?

Do you know, as you stand there waiting,

You dear little thing, Tennessee,

That the cab and the coach are empty?

Lonesome as they can be?

That the face that shone out from the window,Flashing your welcome back,No more will brighten the darknessOf the desolate, lonely track.

That the face that shone out from the window,

Flashing your welcome back,

No more will brighten the darkness

Of the desolate, lonely track.

Does it hurt you to know that his footstepWill linger no more at the door?Does it hurt you to know that his presenceWill gladden the way no more.

Does it hurt you to know that his footstep

Will linger no more at the door?

Does it hurt you to know that his presence

Will gladden the way no more.

He is dead! Can you understand it?Under your brass and steel,Because that his great heart loved you,I am sure you must know and feel.

He is dead! Can you understand it?

Under your brass and steel,

Because that his great heart loved you,

I am sure you must know and feel.

Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,I am sure, if you understood,And your bell would toll if I touched it;You would voice your grief if you could.

Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,

I am sure, if you understood,

And your bell would toll if I touched it;

You would voice your grief if you could.

You must know, as you stand there waiting,Rigged out in your misery,He would come if he could, for he loved you,You poor little friend, Tennessee.

You must know, as you stand there waiting,

Rigged out in your misery,

He would come if he could, for he loved you,

You poor little friend, Tennessee.

Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,And I’m sure you are trying to tellOf those long, good flights together,For I know that he loved you well.

Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,

And I’m sure you are trying to tell

Of those long, good flights together,

For I know that he loved you well.

Just a month you must wear your trappings,Your lustreless emblems of woe;But I’m sure you will miss him foreverDeep down in the heart, you know.

Just a month you must wear your trappings,

Your lustreless emblems of woe;

But I’m sure you will miss him forever

Deep down in the heart, you know.

I toss you a sigh, and a heartbreak,And I give you this truth, in a tear;The sting of death isn’t dying,But memory, do you hear?

I toss you a sigh, and a heartbreak,

And I give you this truth, in a tear;

The sting of death isn’t dying,

But memory, do you hear?

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