nd still there are more cases, more jars, more bottles. Oh! the
monotony of it, the never-ending supply of work to be begun and
finished, begun and finished, begun and finished! Now and then some one
cuts a finger or runs a splinter under the flesh; once the mustard
machine broke--and still the work goes on, on, on! New girls like
myself, who had worked briskly in the morning, are beginning to loiter.
Out of the washing-tins hands come up red and swollen, only to be
plunged again into hot dirty water. Would the whistle never blow? Once I
pause an instant, my head dazed and weary, my ears strained to bursting
with the deafening noise. Quickly a voice whispers in my ear: "You'd
better not stand there doin' nothin'. If _she_ catches you she'll give
it to you."

On! on! bundle of pains! For you this is one day's work in a thousand of
peace and beauty. For those about you this is the whole of daylight,
this is the winter dawn and twilight, this is the glorious summer noon,
this is all day, this is every day, this is _life_. Rest is only a bit
of a dream, snatched when the sleeper's aching body lets her close her
eyes for a moment in oblivion.

Out beyond the chimney tops the snowfields and the river turn from gray
to pink, and still the work goes on. Each crate I lift grows heavier,
each bottle weighs an added pound. Now and then some one lends a helping
hand.

"Tired, ain't you? This is your first day, ain't it?"

The acid smell of vinegar and mustard penetrates everywhere. My ankles
cry out pity. Oh! to sit down an instant!

"Tidy up the table," some one tells me; "we're soon goin' home."

Home! I think of the stifling fumes of fried food, the dim haze in the
kitchen where my supper waits me; the children, the band of drifting
workers, the shrill, complaining voice of the hired mother. This is
home.

I sweep and set to rights, limping, lurching along. At last the whistle
blows! In a swarm we report; we put on our things and get away into the
cool night air. I have stood ten hours; I have fitted 1,300 corks; I
have hauled and loaded 4,000 jars of pickles. My pay is seventy cents.

The impressions of my first day crowd pell-mell upon my mind. The sound
of the machinery dins in my ears. I can hear the sharp, nasal voices of
the forewoman and the girls shouting questions and answers.

A sudden recollection comes to me of a Dahomayan family I had watched at
work in their hut during the Paris Exhibition. There was a ma