Riding on the "City of New Orleans," Illinois Central Monday Morning Rail. Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail. They're out on the south-bound odyssey and the train pulls out of Kankakee. Rolling long past houses, farms and fields. Passing towns that have no name, freight yards full of old gray men, the graveyards of the rusted automobiles, Singing, good morning America, how are you? Saying, don't you know me, I'm your native son? I'm the train they call "The City of New Orleans". I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.