Voice of action. [volume] (Seattle, Wash.) 1933-1936, 1934-08-03


tops which glistcn in the sun,
we can see powerful brick struc.
lures whose SmOke-stacks are
putting vigorous. dark clouds i'll
to the pale yellow sky. On the
far left is our sewing machine fac
tory. Beyond it the new workers
town is springing up. Swinging
around, we identify the cement,
metal, and sar-repairing shops,
and the new bread factory, This
industrial centre has grown up
in the last eight years from IA
town of tWenty-fOur to sixty
thousand population and is still
growing. Coming from "A land
where for the past years slack
time and clOsP-doWnS have been
throttling smoke stacks, shilling
factory whistles, the sight Of the
humming industries is Il startl-
ing, fresh sight,
Descending from the bridge,
we pass through the red brick
station. The air is dense with hui
man bodies, buZZing with their
talk. WOrkmcn in rough Jackets,
peasants with their sacks and
bulky milk cans, students, sleepy
women with restless infants are
waiting for their trains. Many are
sitting with that stOlid patience
the Russian villager has, whose
time sense is only beginning now
to trouble him.
In the old days, to make a trip,
even the shortest, was an event
for which you came several hours
ahead of time The custom still
holds. Everybody seems to be
travelling. Some are going up to
Moscow on business for their fac
tory, others to shop and enjoy
their free day, the peasants to
dispose of their surplus products
and one hilarious group of youth
and girls to spend their fortnight
vacation in the south.
At one end of the waiting
room, people are elbOWing their
way about a well stacked book
stall, demanding papers. On the
opposite side, buffet, and small
cafe where travellers are wash
ing down sandwiches and herring
with enormous gulps Of scalding
tea.
Outside, little Sleighs, drawn
by horses and known as drOsh-
kies, form patient SCmi-circle,
Their peasant drivers dOZe into
their boards, blow their nOzcs
on the snow, engage in wordy ar
guments with their neigh bOrs,
and vie with one another in en-
tiCing a passenger and WhiSking
him across the snow.
Main Street, which runs at
right angles from the station
through the heart Of town, is
thanked with shops, bo0kstalIs,
and low wooden and brick
houses. We pass an old fashioned
watch repairing shop, drug store,
several food and clothing coop
erativeS, a large school, and an
old photography shop whose
shOw-windOw is crowded with
stilted poses of family groupings
that might easily have been TAX
en- on Second Avenue, New York.
Down the side streets, above
the crOuching wooden structures,
rise modern apartments of brick
and stone. In the States, you
would know that these were for
Park Avenue families. Here,
their occupants are machiniSts,
railrOaders, mill workers and
their families, along with engin-
GERS, doctors, and specialists.
Children dash by on skates
and sleds. They grab hold of
peasants wagons carting their
wares to the city, even onto the |
few trucks that speed by the |
long line of clumsy jogging carts.
Maybe, as a kid, you also clung |
to rear ends of wagons, skimming |
along the asphalt until a sharp |
turn or angry driver lOoSened |
your hold? And were there com
munity-run skating Kinks and to-
bOggans waiting for you at the
other end?
People swing along the streets |
like those accustomed to foot |
travel over miles of country.
About three-quarters of the
town is only a few years from
the village. Rough, maybe, some
of their clothing, worn slick and
without much style. Full of con-
trasts, like everything else in