were done for. The workers were kind-hearted,
and when a fellow was killed in the mill or died of sickness they went
to his widow and with tears in their eyes reached into their pockets
and gave her what cash they had. I never knew a man to hang back when a
collection for a widow was being taken. Contributions sometimes were as
high as five dollars. It made a heartrending scene: the broken body of
a once strong man lying under a white sheet; the children playing around
and laughing (if they were too young to know what it meant); the mother
frantic with the thought that her brood was now homeless; and the big
grimy workers wiping their tears with a rough hand and putting silver
dollars into a hat.

With this money and the last wages of the dead man, the widow paid for
the funeral and sometimes bought a ticket to the home of some relative
who would give her her "keep" in return for her labor in the house.
Other relatives might each take one of the children "to raise," who,
thus scattered, seldom if ever got together again. When I became an iron
worker there were several fellows in our union who didn't know whether
they had a relative on earth. One of them, Bill Williams, said to me:
"Jim, no wonder you're always happy. You've got so many brothers that
there's always two of you together, whether it's playing in the band,
on the ball nine or working at the furnace. If I had a brother around I
wouldn't get the blues the way I do. I've got some brothers somewhere in
this world, but I'll probably never know where they are."

Then he told how his father had died when he was three years old. There
were several children, and they were taken by relatives. He was sent to
his grandmother, whose name was Williams. That was not his name. Before
he was seven both his grandparents died and he was taken by a farmer who
called him Bill. The farmer did not send him to school and he grew up
barely able to write his name, Will Williams, which was not his real
name. He didn't even know what his real name was.

"Probably my brothers are alive," he said, "but what chance have I got
of ever finding them when I don't know what the family name is. Maybe
they've all got new names now like I have. Maybe I've met my own
brothers and we never knew it. I'd give everything in the world, if I
had it, to look into a man's face and know that he was my brother. It
must be a wonderful feeling."

These things are the tragedies of the poor. And although suc