CHAPTER XXII.

MORE ABOUT THE UNION STATION.

The vast, smoky building facing the Esplanade between York and Simcoe streets is a great theater in which are enacted some of the strangest scenes in life in this city. Through it day and night a tide of human life with all its joy and misery, with all its wealth and poverty, flows continually. East, west and north, day and night, trains go thundering on their way, infusing fresh blood and vigor throughout all the land. The station and its surroundings are like some mighty fort stocked with inexhaustible supplies, sending out hourly sorties against the unlocked resources of a great country, and coming back triumphantly, laden with spoil for the enriching of the nations. At almost any hour of the day or night the scene at the Union station is an interesting one, especially to the student of human nature. Here are to be seen people of all nationalities, Canadians and Americans predominant of course, but in the busy throng can often be seen Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, Greeks, Hungarians, Danes, Germans, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Gipsies and Jews, mingling strangely under the great roof. The most interesting scenes are those witnessed on the arrival and departure of the great express trains for the east and west. Early in the morning the big express for Montreal and all points east leaves the station. For an hour beforehand the yard men begin to “make up” the train and the people arrive. Sitting patiently on their dunnage bags and rough boxes in a corner are a group of

FRENCH CANADIAN LUMBERMEN

on their way home to Quebec from the Michigan pineries. Their faces are all bright with the expectation of being so soon back with the old folks at home, all bright, expectant and happy, save one, who sits with his chin in his hands and a look of sadness on his swarthy face. And why? Because Baptiste, his young, his only brother, who had accompanied him to the woods full of strong life and hope had been struck dead by a falling tree not a month ago, and lay in a nameless grave beneath the dark shadows of the Michigan woods. And this has taken all the joy and light from the homecoming of Louis, who is wondering how he will face the old mother at home and tell her for the first time of the tragedy which has robbed her of her best-loved child. The crowd begins to thicken along the platform. As I walk down through them I notice a party of prominent politicians in a group, and on enquiry I learn that they are a deputation to Ottawa for the purpose of interviewing the government, which will doubtless take their suggestions into its most serious consideration. Here is a portly merchant on his way to Montreal to look after large consignments of goods, and to the last moment is closely attended by his clerk, to whom he continually pours forth instructions. The nobby gentleman, nonchalantly smoking his cigar as he coolly paces up and down, is a

COMMERCIAL TRAVELER

about to launch himself on the unsuspecting country merchant. He has just seen that his cases of samples have been put on board, he travels according to the commercial tariff, the little leather bag contains luxuries for the trip, and he feels perfectly confident and at home. He chats with the conductor, nods to the brakesman, and offers a cigar to the porter of the Pullman. As he stops to adjust his glasses, he rolls his cigar in his mouth and looks up at the murky ceiling with the air of a man who is ready for anything or anybody. These young fellows you see there are students on their way home. By their looks they have spent their last night in Toronto in great shape, and even now they appear somewhat enthusiastic as they pace to and fro arm in arm. Here is a lady bound for the distant burgh of Oshawa. She is loaded down with flower-pots and parcels. She is red in the face, and her nose is sharp. She is industriously trotting up and down after an official. The official is industriously scurrying here and there to keep out of her way. Finally, by a skilful flank movement, she captures him, and with an air of triumph, enquires:

“What time does the 7.45 train go out, sir?”

“At 7.45, ma’am.”

“Will it go out on time?”

“Sharp on time.”

“D’ye think I would have time to go up to Smither’s store before it starts?”

“Depends how far it is,” and the official dashes off on an imaginary errand to escape further questioning, while the lady mentally makes up her mind that she will write to the papers about the discourtesy of these officials. Soon all is bustle and ferment. The old lady is hustled here and there in a sad way. The elbow of a porter knocks a twig from one of her plants, and she immediately sets up an outcry, which is successfully drowned by the rumbling of

THE BIG BAGGAGE-CART,

filled with luggage, which comes lumbering along the platform, making a lane through the throng. People out of breath come dashing into the station, and make a bee-line for the ticket office regardless of all obstacles. The gong sounds. Its discordant notes start the throng into livelier motion. More people arrive out of breath and somewhat excited. A married couple plunge along dragging a train of children after them, who are continually getting between people’s legs. The conductor walks up and down beside the train, answering questions pleasantly, and nodding and chatting to acquaintances. More people arrive. The last of the baggage has been passed into its especial car. The mails are on board. Most of the passengers are in their seats, and, bare-headed, are leaning out of the windows viewing the scene without. The gong sounds again, and then a tall, red-whiskered man, with a voice like a fog-horn, calls “A-a-all-l-l, aboard for Belleville-lle, Kingston, Montreal-l-l, and a-a-all-l points east.” The rest of the intending passengers make a rush for their seats, there is hand-shaking through the windows, a pretty girl standing well back kisses her hand at a certain window, the conductor sings cheerily, “All aboard!” the locomotive goes “Toot, toot! fizz-whizz, fizz-whizz!” the great wheels revolve, and the morning train for the east is gone.