DOWN AT THE UNION STATION.
I never could understand what attracts people to the railway station.
Go there when you will, morning, noon, or night, there are the same
or similar lollers on the waiting-room benches, the careworn women,
the crying children, the same sleepy-looking men, not forgetting the
half-devoured buns, the rinds of oranges, and the peanut shells which
litter the floor. Buns, oranges and peanuts, seem to have many admirers
among those who go away in trains. Motion is the law of life, and nowhere
does this universal decree of nature find a more striking exposition
than at the railway station. I have seen many partings there, many warm
handshakes, many tears, as I have seen many joyous meetings. I have seen
men depart, with as much baggage as would fill an express wagon, depart
amid the cheers of their friends, and I have seen the same men return
poor in health and pocket, without a hand to welcome them or a cheery
word to make them glad. I have seen men sneak up to the ticket-seller,
purchase second-class tickets,
HIDE THEMSELVES
away in second-class cars, and go away unobserved. And I have seen
the same men come back in a parlor car, rich in raiment and with many
smiling, cringing friends to meet them. The railway station is the place
to study people, from the tramp who rides in astride of the draw-heads
of a freight, to the gentleman who occupies a section in the rearmost
Pullman; from that bride over there surrounded by gushing, kissing,
hugging friends, to that other party following long black box as it is
wheeled away along the platform. The other night when I was there I
saw a great, rough, but still kind-faced man sitting by the radiator,
holding a sleeping child in his arms. She was wrapped in a red cloak, the
close-fitting hood of which could not confine two tiny straggling curls.
It was little Red Riding Hood taken from the picture, and in the grasp
of a shaggy bear. With her head nestled upon the broad breast of the man
and supported by a large, powerful-looking hairy hand, she looked out of
place. Oh, where did such a man get such a child? He
COULD NOT BE HER FATHER,
for he was rough and powerful, while she was a dainty little thing whose
appearance spoke of different surroundings from that of the man. He
looked into the fair face with solicitude, and the unoccupied paw, heavy
as it was, adjusted her cloak and fondled her as softly as a woman’s.
Then she opened her eyes, and out of the folds of her red covering crept
a delicate little hand, upon which glittered a diminutive gold ring. It
stole up to his hairy face and patted him on the cheek. Then the great
big beard and the ferocious-looking mustache swooped down upon her and
there was the sound of a kiss, and a childish ripple of laughter. I got
into conversation with the man, when he asked for information in regard
to the movements of the trains. He was going to Michigan, he said. Had a
mill there, and was a lumberman. I remarked that the beauty of his child
spoke well for Michigan. Not his child, bless her, his sister’s child.
Her father and her mother had died in a far eastern village in Canada,
his native place, and he had come from his pineries to take charge of
her. He was a bachelor, but, bless you, that would not prevent his taking
care of his little charge. Oh, no, Dolly (so he called her) would never
want for anything, and would be brought up a lady. I would have preferred
that he had said he would make a woman of her instead of a lady, seeing
that we have so many ladies and so few women, but I couldn’t venture that
freedom with him. For, whenever I hear of a girl being brought up a lady
I picture to myself
A DAMSEL WHO PLAYS ON THE PIANO
a little, can dance a little, speaks French a little and English
indifferently, and to whom the rest of the family and outsiders generally
are expected to look up. As we were talking, a woman of the street came
in and crouched on the seat near the steam-heater, for it was cold
outside and frost had followed the sunshine. Little Red Ridinghood
noticed her poor bedraggled look, and sidled up close to her.
“Are you a poor woman?” she asked in a feeling way.
“Yes, a very poor woman, God help me,” I heard the forlorn creature reply.
“Would you take some money from me?” and Red Ridinghood fumbled for
her little pocket, and having found it dropped a piece of money in the
woman’s hand.
“Won’t you shake hands with me?” she asked as the little one was moving
away.
“Oh, yes, if you are a good woman,” said Red Ridinghood, loud enough for
all to hear.
The hand-shaking did not take place, for just then a train rushed into
the station, and Dolly’s uncle, learning that it was the train he
awaited, called her, and lifting her in his arms, he nodded to me and
hastened towards the platform. Just before he went out the little red
hood popped over his shoulder, and a childish voice cried out:
“Good-bye, poor woman.”
I looked at the “poor woman” to mark the effect of the farewell. She was
leaning towards the heater, with her chin resting on her hands. There was
a bitter expression on her face. I thought I saw a tear glistening on her
cheek, but before I could satisfy myself as to this good sign she rose
abruptly and left. I saw her slink through the crowd, the scoff of men
and the scorn of women, away along the platform, through the archway, out
into the dark streets, amongst the lost whence she came.