is standing on its head in soft earth thirty or forty feet down the slide, and two long cars loaded with shingles are dropped carelessly atop of it.  It looks so marvellously like a toy train flung aside by a child, that one cannot realise what it means till a voice cries, ’Any one killed?’ The answer comes back, ‘No; all jumped’; and you perceive with a sense of personal insult that this slovenliness of the mountain is an affair which may touch your own sacred self.  In which case....  But the train is out on a trestle, into a tunnel, and out on a trestle again.  It was here that every one began to despair of the line when it was under construction, because there seemed to be no outlet.  But a man came, as a man always will, and put a descent thus and a curve in this manner, and a trestle so; and behold, the line went on.  It is in this place that we heard the story of the Canadian Pacific Railway told as men tell a many-times-repeated tale, with exaggerations and omissions, but an imposing tale, none the less.  In the beginning, when they would federate the Dominion of Canada, it was British Columbia who saw objections to coming in, and the Prime Minister of those days promised it for a bribe, an iron band between tidewater and tidewater that should not break.  Then everybody laughed, which seems necessary to the health of most big enterprises, and while they were laughing, things were being done.  The Canadian Pacific Railway was given a bit of a line here and a bit of a line there and almost as much land as it wanted, and the laughter was still going on when the last spike was driven between east and west, at the very place where the drunken man sprawled behind the engine, and the iron band ran from tideway to tideway as the Premier said, and people in England said ‘How interesting,’ and proceeded to talk about the ’bloated Army estimates.’  Incidentally, the man who told us—­he had nothing to do with the Canadian Pacific Railway—­explained how it paid the line to encourage immigration, and told of the arrival at Winnipeg of a train-load of Scotch crofters on a Sunday.  They wanted to stop then and there for the Sabbath—­they and all the little stock they had brought with them.  It was the Winnipeg agent who had to go among them arguing (he was Scotch too, and they could not quite understand it) on the impropriety of dislocating the company’s traffic.  So their own minister held a service in the station, and the agent gave them a good dinner, cheering them in Gaelic, at which they wept, and they went on to settle at Moosomin, where they lived happily ever afterwards.  Of the manager, the head of the line from Montreal to Vancouver, our companion spoke with reverence that was almost awe.  That manager lived in a palace at Montreal, but from time to time he would sally forth in his special car and whirl over his 3000 miles at 50 miles an hour.  The regulation pace is twenty-two, but he sells his neck with his head.  Few drivers cared for the honour of taking him over the road.  A mysterious