The Canadian Women’s Press Club—How It Originated—With “Kit” of the Toronto Mail at St. Louis and Elsewhere—The Lamented “Francoise” Barry—Successful Triennial Gatherings—The Girls Visit Different Parts of Canada—Threatened Invasion of the Pacific Coast. One fine day in June, 1904, a handsome and fashionably dressed young lady came into my office at C.P.R. headquarters, and started cyclonically to tell me that while the C.P.R. had taken men to all the excursions to fairs and other things, women had altogether been ignobly ignored and she demonstratively demanded to know why poor downtrodden females should thus be so shabbily treated. When she had finished her harangue—I guess from lack of a further supply of breath—I politely motioned her to a seat and calmly said: “Sit down, Miggsy, sit down and keep cool,” which she did. She was Margaret Graham, a writer for the press, and a champion of woman’s rights—which I had already sagaciously surmised. When quietness was restored, she explained that her mission was to persuade the C.P.R. to take a bunch—I don’t think she used the word bunch—of women to the St. Louis fair, to which I had recently accompanied a party of newspaper men. Miggsy’s idea appealed to me, and we arranged for a party of sixteen—sweet sixteen, though some of them didn’t think they were—to visit St. Louis. The trip was a huge success in every way, and not only was the Fair taken in, but a visit was paid to Chicago, where the party was entertained by the well-known Jane Addams, at Hull House. On the way home, by a happy inspiration, a woman’s press club was formed with Kit, of the Toronto _Mail_, as president, and somehow or other—guess for lack of better material—was I made honorary president, and have been the only male member of a female press club in the world ever since. Some are born great, you know, others achieve greatness, and others still have greatness thrust upon them. You can readily see to which class I belong, can’t you? And now at the recent triennial, the club transformed me into an active member. I have qualified through writing these reminiscences, and have been initiated into the solemn mysteries of the lodge. There was no goat—at least no four-legged one—but, there, I must not divulge the secret mysteries of the girls’ conclave.