Here It Strolls Along, With
Its Hands In Its Pockets And A Straw In Its Mouth, On The Heels Of The
Rough-Hewn Trail Or Log Road - A Platformless, Regulationless Necessity;
And It Is Treated Even By Sick Persons And Young Children With A
Familiarity That Sometimes Affects The Death-Rate.
There was a small
maiden aged seven, who honoured our smoking compartment with her
presence when other excitements failed, and it was she that said to the
conductor, 'When do we change crews?
I want to pick water-lilies - yellow
ones.' A mere halt she knew would not suffice for her needs; but the
regular fifteen-minute stop, when the red-painted tool-chest was taken
off the rear car and a new gang came aboard. The big man bent down to
little Impudence - 'Want to pick lilies, eh? What would you do if the
cars went on and took mama away, Sis?' 'Take the, next train,' she
replied, 'and tell the conductor to send me to Brooklyn. I live there.'
'But s'pose he wouldn't?' 'He'd have to,' said Young America. 'I'd be a
lost child.'
Now, from the province of Alberta to Brooklyn, U.S.A., may be three
thousand miles. A great stretch of that distance is as new as the day
before yesterday, and strewn with townships in every stage of growth
from the city of one round house, two log huts, and a Chinese camp
somewhere in the foot-hills of the Selkirks, to Winnipeg with her
league-long main street and her warring newspapers.
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