uages spoken: this prodigious town is a Western bazaar
where the nations assemble not to buy but to be employed. The stagnant
scum of other countries floats hither to be purified in the fierce
bouillon of live opportunity. It is a cosmopolitan procession that
passes me: the dusky Easterner with a fez of Astrakhan, the gentle-eyed
Italian with a shawl of gay colours, the loose-lipped Hungarian, the
pale, mystic Swede, the German with wife and children hanging on his
arm.

[Illustration: "THE STREETS ARE COVERED WITH SNOW, AND OVER THE SNOW THE
SOOT FALLS SOFTLY LIKE A MANTLE OF PERPETUAL MOURNING"]

In this giant bureau of labour all nationalities gather, united by a
common bond of hope, animated by a common chance of prosperity, kindred
through a common effort, fellow-citizens in a new land of freedom.

At the central office of the Young Women's Christian Association I
receive what attention a busy secretary can spare me. She questions and
I answer as best I can.

"What is it you want?"

"Board and work in a factory."

"Have you ever worked in a factory?"

"No, ma'am."

"Have you ever done any housework?"

She talks in the low, confidential tone of those accustomed to reforming
prisoners and reasoning with the poor.

"Yes, ma'am, I have done housework."

"What did you make?"

"Twelve dollars a month."

"I can get you a place where you will have a room to yourself and
fourteen dollars a month. Do you want it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Are you making anything now?"

"No, ma'am."

"Can you afford to pay board?"

"Yes, as I hope to get work at once."

She directs me to a boarding place which is at the same time a refuge
for the friendless and a shelter for waifs. The newly arrived population
of the fast-growing city seems unfamiliar with the address I carry
written on a card. I wait on cold street corners, I travel over miles of
half-settled country, long stretches of shanties and saloons huddled
close to the trolley line. The thermometer is at zero. Toward three
o'clock I find the waif boarding-house.

The matron is in the parlour hovering over a gas stove. She has false
hair, false teeth, false jewelry, and the dry, crabbed, inquisitive
manner of the idle who are entrusted with authority. She is there to
direct others and do nothing herself, to be cross and make herself
dreaded. In the distance I can hear a shrill, nasal orchestra of
children's voices. I am cold and hungry. I have as yet no job. The
no