Riding on the Grand Trunk Railway a few weeks ago, going from
Suspension Bridge to Chicago, I saw a sight so trivial that it seems
unworthy of mention. Yet for three weeks I have remembered it, and so
now I'll relate it, in order to get rid of it.
And possibly these little incidents of life are the items that make or
mar existence.
But here is what I saw on that railroad train: five children, the
oldest a girl of ten, and the youngest a baby boy of three. They were
traveling alone and had come from Germany, duly tagged, ticketed and
certified.
They were going to their Grandmother at Waukegan, Illinois.
The old lady was to meet them in Chicago.
The children spoke not a word of English, but there is a universal
language of the heart that speaks and is understood. So the trainmen
and the children were on very chummy terms.
Now, at London, Ontario, our train waited an hour for the Toronto and
Montreal connections.
Just before we reached London, I saw the Conductor take the three
smallest little passengers to the washroom at the end of the car, roll
up their sleeves, turn their collars in, and duly wash their hands and
faces. Then he combed their hair. They accepted the situation as if
they belonged to the Conductor's family, as of course they did for the
time being. It was a domestic scene that caused the whole car to
smile, and made everybody know everybody else. A touch of nature makes
a whole coach kin.
The children had a bushel-basket full of eatables, but at London that
Conductor took the whole brood over to the dining-hall for supper, and
I saw two fat men scrap as to who should have the privilege of paying
for the kiddies' suppers. The children munched and smiled and said
little things to each other in Teutonic whispers.
After our train left London and the Conductor had taken up his
tickets, he came back, turned over two seats and placed the cushions
lengthwise. One of the trainmen borrowed a couple of blankets from the
sleeping-cars, and with the help of three volunteered overcoats, the
babies were all put to bed, and duly tucked in.
I went back to my Pullman, and went to bed. And as I dozed off I kept
wondering whether the Grandmother would be there in the morning to
meet the little travelers. What sort of disaster had deprived them of
parents, I did not know, nor did I care to ask. The children were
alone, but among friends. They were strong and well, but they kept
very close together and looked to the oldest girl as a mother.
But to be alone in Chicago would be terrible! Would she come!
And so I slept. In the morning there was another Conductor in charge,
a man I had not before seen. I went into the day-coach, thinking that
the man might not know about the babies, and that I might possibly
help the little immigrants. But my services were not needed. The
ten-year-old "little other mother" had freshened up her family, and the
Conductor was assuring them, in awfully bad German, that their
Grandmother would be there--although, of course, he didn't know
anything at all about it.
When the train pulled into the long depot and stopped, the Conductor
took the baby boy on one arm and a little girl on the other.
A porter carried the big lunch-basket, and the little other mother led
a toddler on each side, dodging the hurrying passengers.
Evidently I was the only spectator of the play.
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"Will she be there--will she be there?" I asked myself nervously.
She was there, all right, there at the gate. The Conductor was
seemingly as gratified as I. He turned his charges over to the old
woman, who was weeping for joy, and hugging the children between
bursts of lavish, loving Deutsch.