rything there was to know about me. Bless my soul, if Lucia did not
perk up the second the forelady left, edge over, and direct a volume
of Italian at me. What won't green earrings do! Old Mrs. Reilly called
out, "Ach, the poor soul's found a body to talk to at last!" But,
alas! Lucia's hope was short lived. "What!" called Mrs. Reilly, "you
ain't Eyetalian? Well, you ought to be, now, because you look it, and
because there ought to be somebody here for Lucy to talk to!" Lucia
was diseased-looking and unkempt-looking and she ironed very badly.
Everyone tried to help her out. They instructed her with a flow of
English. When Lucia would but shake her head they used the same flow,
only much louder, several at once. Then Lucia would mumble to herself
for several minutes over her ironing. At times, late in the afternoon,
Miss Cross would grow discouraged.

"Don't you understand that when you iron a shirt you put the sleeves
over the puffer _first_?"

Lucia would shake her head and shrug her shoulders helplessly. Miss
Cross would repeat with vehemence. Then one girl would poke Lucia and
point to the puffer--"Puffer! puffer!" Another would hold up a shirt
and holler "Shirt! shirt!" and Lucia would nod vaguely. The next shirt
she did as all the others--puffer last, which mussed the ironed
part--until some one stopped her work and did a whole shirt for Lucia
correct, from beginning to end.

Next to Lucia stood Fanny, colored. She was a good-hearted, helpful,
young married thing, not over-cleanly and not overstrong. That first
morning she kept her eye on me and came to my rescue on a new article
of apparel every so often. Next to Fanny stood the three puffers for
anyone to use--oval-shaped, hot metal forms, for all gathers, whether
in sleeves, waists, skirts, or what not. Each girl had a large
egg-shaped puffer on her own table as well. Next to the puffers stood
the two sewing machines, where Spanish Sarah and colored Hattie darned
and mended.

At the side, behind the machines, stood Ida at her press. All the
presses were exactly alike. Ida was a joy to my eyes. At first glance
she appeared just a colored girl, but Ida was from Trinidad; her skin
was like velvet, her accent Spanish. As the room grew hot from the
presses and the steam, along about 4, and our feet began to burn and
grow weary, I would look at Ida. It was so easy to picture the exact
likes of her, not more than a generation or two ago, squatting under
a palm tre