A Canadian Bankclerk

DUST.
My box is full of others' cash, My pocket full of air, My head is crammed with cleric trash, Layer upon layer.
I gaze upon the business mob That throngs before my cage, And watch their human pulses throb In greed, fear, rage.
Yet through the vapor and the must I often catch a smile— As though someone had lost the lust, And, for a while,
Regarded me, the shoveller, As greater than the gold, Which, after all, belongs to her— Old Mother Mould.

The story herein told is true to life; true, the greater part of it, to my own life. Also, I am convinced that my experience in a Canadian Bank was but mildly exciting as compared with that of many others.
My object in publishing Evan Nelson's history is to enlighten the public concerning life behind the wicket and thus pave the way for the legitimate organization of bankclerks into a fraternal association, for their financial and social (including moral) betterment.
Bank officials, I trust, will see to it that my misrepresentations are exposed.
To mothers of bankclerks who attach overmuch importance to the gentility of their Boy's avocation; to fathers who think that because the bank is rich its employes must necessarily become so in time; to friends who criticize the bankclerks of their acquaintance for not settling down—this story is addressed.
To the men of our banks who are dissatisfied with the business they have chosen, or someone else has chosen for them; to Old Country clerks who come out to Canada under the impression that Five Dollars is as good as One Pound; to bank employes in the United States, and to office men everywhere—I am telling my tale.