Two People Sleep When One Goes Pullman

Dick Hill's lighted Pullman speeds swiftly through the night.

Snow whispers at the windows, tugs at the vestibules, swirls and eddies in the glow of the lights - silently mounts in feathery drifts over a hushed landscape.

In the warm cheer of the lounge car, Dick Hill puts out his cigarette. He closes his book, says goodnight to the couple across the aisle, strolls through the train to his berth. Toilet kit and dressing gown in hand, he enters the spacious dressing room - scrubs up for the night with piping-hot water and plenty of clean, white towels.

He says goodnight to the smiling porter and goes to his berth - hangs up his clothes, fastens his curtain, turns in between crisp-clean sheets in a bed as soft as his own at home.

A last, lingering look at the rush of snow past the window - a flick of the switch on the reading lights, a satisfying punch at the two fluffy pillows - then the last shivery little snuggle before warm, dreamless sleep. Dick Hill likes Pullman travel. Tomorrow morning he'll be where he expects to be.

But he's not the only one who's sleeping because of that snug, cozy Pullman berth.


A hundred miles away, Dick Hill's wife puts away her knitting, shuts Spot in the kitchen, opens the front door and looks out.

The snow is deeper here and falling faster from a sky that looks dark and angry. A car inches its way along the street, plowing white furrows with its wheels.

Dick Hill's wife smiles a little, puts out the porch light, locks the door, and tiptoes upstairs. She looks in on the children, undresses, and goes to bed. Ten minutes later, she is fast asleep with the same drowsy little smile playing around her lips.

Dick is snug and safe in a Pullman - all is well!

For Comfort, Safety, and Dependability - Go Pullman

National Geographic Magazine (March, 1942)

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