 The Anarchist by G. K. Chesterton. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Alarms and Excursions Chapter 19 I have now lived for about two months in the country and have gathered the last rich autumnal fruit of a rural life, which is a strong desire to see London. Artists living in my neighborhood talk rapturously of the rolling liberty of the landscape, the living peace of woods, but I say to them with a slight Buckinghamshire accent, Ah, that is how cockneys feel. For us real old country people, the country is reality. It is the town that is romance. Nature is as plain as one of her pigs, as commonplace, as comic, and as healthy. But civilization is full of poetry, even if it be sometimes an evil poetry. The streets of London are paved with gold, that is, with the very poetry of Averus. With these typically bucolic words I touch my hat and go ambling away on a stick with the stiffness of gate proper to the oldest inhabitants. While in my more animated moments I am taken for the village idiot. Exchanging heavy but courteous salutations with other gaffers, I reach the station, where I ask for a ticket for London, where the king lives. Such a journey, mingled of provincial fascination and fear, did I successfully perform only a few days ago, and alone and helpless in the capital, found myself in the tangle of roads around the marble arch. A faint prejudice may possess the mind that I have slightly exaggerated my rusticity and remoteness. And yet it is true, as I came to that corner of the park that, for some unreasonable reason of mood, I saw all London as a strange city, and the civilization itself as one enormous whim. The marble arch itself, in its new insular position, with traffic turning disly all about it, struck me as a placid monstrosity. What could be wilder than to have a huge arched gateway with people going everywhere except under it? If I took down my front door and stood it up all by itself in the middle of my back garden, my village neighbors in their simplicity would probably stare. Yet the marble arch is now precisely that, an elaborate entrance, and the only place by which no one can enter. By the new arrangement its last week pretends to be a gate has been taken away. The cab man still cannot drive through it, but he can have the delights of riding round it, and even on foggy nights, the rapture of running into it. It has been raised from the rank of a fiction to the dignity of an obstacle. As I began to walk across a corner of the park, this sense of what is strange in cities began to mingle with some sense of what is stern as well as strange. It was one of those queer-colored winter days when a watery sky changes to pink and gray and green like an enormous opal. The trees that up gray and angular, as if in attitudes of agony, and here and there on benches under the trees, set men as gray and angular as they. It was cold, even for me, who had eaten a large breakfast and purposed to eat a perfectly gargantuan lunch. It was colder for the men under the trees, and to the eastward to the opalescent haze the warmer whites and yellows of the houses in Park Lane, shown as unsubstantially as if the clouds themselves had taken on the shape of mansions to mock the men who sat there in the cold. But the mansions were real like the mockery. No one worth calling a man allows his moods to change his convictions. But it is by moods that we understand other men's convictions. The bigot is not he who knows he is right. Every sane man knows he is right. The bigot is he whose emotions and imagination are too cold and too weak to feel how it is that other men go wrong. At that moment I felt vividly how men might go wrong, even unto dynamite. If one of those huddled men under the trees had stood up and asked for rivers of blood, it would have been erroneous, but not irrelevant. It would have been appropriate, and in the picture, that lurid gray picture of insolence on one side and impotence on the other. It may be true, on the whole it is, that this social machine which we have made is better than anarchy. Still it is a machine, and we have made it. It does hold those poor men helpless, and it does lift those rich men high, and such men good lord. By the time I flung myself on a bench beside another man, I was half inclined to try anarchy for a change. The other was a more prosperous appearance than most of the men on set seats. Still he was not what one calls a gentleman, and he had probably worked at some time like a human being. He was a small, sharp-faced man with grave, staring eyes, and a beard somewhat foreign. His clothes were black, respectable, and yet casual. Those of a man who dresses conventionally, because it was a bore to dress unconventionally, as it is. Attracted by this, and other things, and wanting an outburst for my bitter social feelings, I tempted him into speech. First about the cold, and then about the general election. To this the respectable man replied, Well, I don't belong to any party myself. I am an anarchist. I looked up, and almost expected fire from heaven. This coincidence was like the end of the world. I had sat down feeling that somehow or other park lane must be pulled down, and I had sat down beside the man who wanted to pull it down. I bowed in silence for an instant under the approaching apocalypse, and in that instant the man turned sharply and started talking like a torrent. Understand me, he said. Ordinary people think an anarchist means a man with a bomb in his pocket. Herbert Spencer was an anarchist, but for that fatal admission of his on page 793 he would be a complete anarchist. Otherwise, he agrees wholly with Pidge. This was uttered with such blinding rapidity of syllabification as to be a better test of teetotalism than the Scotch one of saying biblical criticism six times. I attempted to speak, but he began again with the same rippling rapidity. You will say that Pidge also admits governments in that 10th chapter so easily misunderstood. Bolger has attacked Pidge on those lines, but Bolger has no scientific training. Bolger is a psychometarist, but no sociologist. To anyone who has combined a study of Pidge with the earlier and better discoveries of Bruxy, the fallacy is quite clear. Bolger confounds social coercion with coercional social action. His rabid rattling mouth shut quite tight suddenly, and he looked steadily and triumphantly at me with his head on one side. I opened my mouth, and the mere motion seemed to sting him to fresh verbal leaps. Yes, he said, that's all very well. The Finland group has accepted Bolger, but he said suddenly lifting a long finger as if to stop me. But Pidge has replied. His pamphlet is published. He has proved that potential social rebuke is not a weapon of the true anarchist. He has shown that just as religious authority and political authority have gone, so must emotional authority and psychological authority. He has shown, I stood up, in sort of days. I think he remarked, I said feebly, that the mere common populace do not quite understand anarchism. Quite so, he said, with a burning swiftness. As I said, they think any anarchist is a man with a bomb, whereas... But great Heaven's man, I said, it's the man with the bomb that I understand. I wish you had half his sense. What do I care about how many German dons tie themselves in knots about how this society began? My only interest is about how soon it will end. Do you see those fat white houses over in Park Lane where your masters live? He assented and muttered something about concentrations of capital. Well, I said, if the time ever comes when we all storm those houses, will you tell me one thing? Tell me how we shall do it without authority. Tell me how you will have an army of revolt without discipline. For the first instant he was doubtful, and I had bitten him farewell and crossed the street again when I saw him open his mouth and begin to run after me. He had remembered something out of pitch. I escaped, however, and as I left on an omnibus I saw again the enormous emblem of the Marvel Arch. I saw that massive symbol of the modern mind, a door with no house to it, the gigantic gate of nowhere, and of the anarchist. Bible reading by Alexander Campbell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bible reading. Nothing is more talked about amongst professors of Christianity, and nothing is less practiced or indeed less understood in proportion to its acknowledged importance than the reading of the Scriptures. The Bible is, upon the whole and in general, in churches, families, and closets, a neglected book. It is indeed occasionally and statedly read in many churches and in many families, but it is not read rationally nor religiously, and therefore, for the most part, fails in being relished and consequently in reaching the heart and in being practically believed and understood. To be read advantageously, the Bible must be read in the order of its books, at regular intervals, and with a solemn and religious reference to the most exact and full conformity in heart, in word, in action to all its pure and holy and heavenly lessons and precepts. But even this is too vague and indefinite for the exigencies of the times. Permit me then to explain. It was not the design of the author of the Bible that men should have a synopsis or summary of its doctrine, either before their eyes in writing or committed to memory. Had such been his design, he would have given us, by the hand of some inspired person, just such a summary as would have been complete and infallible. But he has not done it, and therefore such a document would be, to say the least, inexpedient and unprofitable. It would have been a substitute for the constant reading and studying of the book. Now this is the very thing that the author of the Bible does not desire. It is his will that we be constant readers, that by the constant attrition or wearing of the truth upon our moral nature, our minds may be exactly conformed to the image of him who breathes into us, the spirit of our God. It is impossible to keep any company long and constantly, without catching its spirit and becoming assimilated. Equally impossible is it to be frequently in company with Moses and David, Isaiah and Jeremiah, Jesus and his apostles, without catching their spirit. This is what God designs and desires in giving us the Bible to read. He would that we catch the spirit, rather than learn the doctrine of this holy book. Now this is the philosophy of the fact that there is no substitute for constant reading. For although all the precepts and promises or the whole doctrine of the Bible could be learned or committed to memory and faithfully retained, it could not serve that special and supreme intention of the author of this book in giving it to us as the means of sanctification and of our being imbued and inspired with the spirit of our God. Fortunes, it is now well established, are generally the ruin of their inheritors. The exceptions are just enough to make it a general rule that riches are laid up for children to their hurt. It is cruel in fathers to make fortunes for children, for in doing so they deprive them of the pleasure of employing their talents as they have done, and thus throw them in a great measure idle upon society. They also prevent them of the pleasure of doing and ultimately enjoying good, for we are so constituted that our powers of acquiring pleasure must ever be proportioned to our efforts in communicating it to others. And this is a work for which they are preeminently disqualified, who are taught to live on energies not their own. Hereditary orthodoxy, or fortunes of sound doctrine made and bequeathed by our fathers are still more fatal to their heirs than large inheritances of earthly goods and chattels. If sons are generally ruined in this world by large inheritances from their parents, they are perhaps as often ruined in the next world by large inheritances of orthodox sentiments and opinions of which they are possessed by the wills of their ancestors without the trouble of reading and thinking for themselves. There are not more helpless cases on earth than the heirs of orthodoxy, for they are infallibly right without evidence, without examination, without any concern of their own. These persons are wholly unapproachable, they are right by necessity, by prescription, by inheritance, because they are right, and you are wrong because you are wrong, or because you dissent from them. It is not intended by him that rules in heaven that we should possess either faith, knowledge or grace, by inheritance from our earthly or ecclesiastic progenitors. He intends that every man should dig in the minds of faith and knowledge for his own fortune, that every man should live and be rich by his own efforts. He thus calls forth and employs all our faculties, and affords us the pleasure of profiting by our own exertions. If, says Solomon, thou cryest after knowledge and liftest up thy voice for understanding, if thou seekest her as silver and searches for her as for hidden treasures, then thou shalt understand the fear of the Lord, true religion, and find the knowledge of God, which is eternal life. Bible reading is, therefore, as much an essential part of heaven's scheme of human sanctification as the giving of the Bible is essential to the communication of the light which it contains. There is no substitute for it. Sermons, prayers, conversations, catechisms, tracts, and each and every religious exercise super-added can never compensate in the neglect of Bible reading. It has a place, a power, and an influence peculiar to itself. There is a communion with the Father, and with his Son our Savior, attainable by means of this sacred writing, which is not vouchsafed to mortals in any other way. But there is a critical reading of the Bible, a polemic reading, a sectarian reading, and a penance reading which, however frequent and sincere, reach not within the circles of grace and spiritual enjoyment. The Bible is a sort of world in itself, and as men pursue and find many different objects in this wide world of nature and society, so Bible readers of all classes will find in it the respective objects of their pursuit. The politician, the jurist consul, the orator, the rhetorical florist, the chronologist, the antiquary, the poet, the historian, the philosopher, the man of science, the artist, etc., etc., may all read the Bible with advantage to themselves and to their professions. And indeed every class will find that in it congenial with its aims and designs in reading. But a devotional and sanctifying reading of that sacred book is essentially different from the readings of the theologian, the moralist, the sectarian, and the virtuoso of every caste and school. The man of God reads the book of God to commune with God, to feel after him and find him, to feel his power and his divinity stirring within him, to have his soul fired, quickened, animated by the spirit of grace and truth. He reads the Bible to enjoy the God of the Bible, that the majesty, purity, excellency, and glory of its author may overshadow him, inspire him, transform him, and new create him in the image of God. Such a reader finds what he seeks in the Bible as every other person finds in it what he searches for. The words of Jesus to such a one are spirit and life. They are light and joy. They are truth and peace. Such a one converses with God as one who speaks by signs. His readings are heavenly musings. God speaks, he listens. Occasionally and almost unconsciously. At intervals he forgets that he reads. He speaks to God and his reading thus often terminates in a devotional conversation with God. The Lord says, seek you my face. He responds, thy face will I seek. Thy spirit sayeth, the law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul. The Christian reader replies, open thou my eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law. The spirit sayeth, blessed are they that keep his testimonies, and that seek him with the whole heart. And the devout reader answers, with my whole heart I have sought thee. Oh, let me not wander from thy commandments. The Bible reading of all enlightened Christians generally terminates in a sacred dialogue between the author and the reader. There is a peculiarity attendant on this reading which I beg leave to remark with emphasis. The author of the Bible is always present with his book. This is not true of any other book in the world. Most authors are dead and we sometimes regret that we cannot speak to them, but this author forever lives and is forever present. And therefore while we read his written word it is as natural as life sometimes to speak to him on certain subjects as they occur. Truly then our communion is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Christians, do you read the Bible in your families every day? Do you read it in your closet every day? And do you read it not to quiet your conscience as a work of penance, but do you read it as a pleasure anxiously to be sought after? If you do, I need not tell you what utility, pleasure, and happiness is in the blessed employment, but if you do not, you may rest assured that there is something greatly wrong, which if it is not abandoned, subdued, or vanquished soon will cause you sorrows if not agonies when you will be less able to conflict with them than at present. Resolve this moment, I pray you, that you will begin today to read the Bible to enjoy God and Christ and the hope of immortality. Let not mercy and truth forsake thee, bind them about thy neck, write them upon the table of thine heart. So shall thou find favor and good understanding in the sight of God and man. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that giddeth understanding, for the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies, and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared with her. Length of days is in her right hand, and in her left hand riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. Begin today, to his madness to defer. The religious world, I mean the great majority of all professors of Christianity, are Bible neglectors. Their ignorance, prejudice, and error show it. I beseech you daily, habitually, constantly, prayerfully, read the Bible in its proper connections, and you will grow in grace as you grow in the knowledge of God and of Jesus Christ our Lord. The Lord will bless you, as he has said in this deed. Read James chapter 1 verses 22 through 25, and may you prove it true. End of Bible reading by Alexander Campbell. Read by Brent Pascal. Danger Signals, chapters 3, 4, and 5. By John A. Hill and Jasper E. Brady. This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit Librebox.org. Chapter 3. The change from Alfreda to the chief dispatcher's office in Nicholson was indeed a pleasant one. The dispatchers, especially the first trick man, seem somewhat dubious as to my ability to do the work. But I was rapidly improving in telegraphy, and in spite of my extreme youth, I was allowed to remain. But the life of a railroad man is very uncertain, and one day we were much surprised to hear that the road had gone into the hands of receivers. There were charges of mismanagement made against a number of the higher officials on the road, and one of the first things the receivers did was to have a general house cleaning. The general manager, the general superintendent, and a number of the division's superintendents resigned to save dismissal. And my friend, the chief dispatcher, went with him. He was succeeded by Ted Donahue, the man who had been working the first trick. Ted didn't like me worth a cent, and rather than give him an opportunity to dismiss me, I quit. I was at home idle for a few weeks, and then hearing that there might be an opening for operators on the C, Q, and R, a new road building up in Nebraska, I once more started out. It was an all-night ride to the division headquarters, and thinking I might as well be luxurious for once I took a sleeper. My birth was in the front end of the last car on the train. I retired about half past ten, and soon dropped off into a sound sleep. I had been asleep for perhaps two hours when I was awakened by the car, giving a violent lurch, and then suddenly stopping. I was stunned and dazed for a moment, but I soon heard the cracking and breaking of timbers, and the hissing of steam painfully near to my section. I tried to move and rise up, but found that the confines of my narrow quarters would not permit it. I then realized that we were wrecked, and that I was in a bad predicament. I had felt that I had no bones broken, and my only fear was that the wreck would take fire. My fears were not groundless, for I soon smelled smoke. I cried out as loudly as I could, but my births had evidently become a soundproof booth. Then I felt that my time had come, and had about given up all hope, and was trying to say a prayer when I heard the train truing passengers working above me. Again I cried out, and this time was heard, and soon was taken out. God, what a night it was, raining a perfect deluge and the wind blowing a hurricane. I learned that our train had stopped on account of a hot driving-box on the engine. The hind brakeman had been sent back to put out a flag, but imagining there was nothing coming, he had neglected to do his full duty. And before he knew it a fast freight came tearing round the bend, and a tail and collision was the result. Seeing the awful effects of his gross neglect, the brakeman took out across the country, and was never heard of again. I fancy if he could have been found that night by the passengers and train crew, his lot would have been anything but pleasant. Two people in the sleeper were killed outright, and three were injured, while the engineer and fireman of the freight were badly hurt by jumping. I didn't get a scratch. As I stood watching the wreck cars burn, I heard the conductor say he wished to God he had an operator with him. I told him I was an operator, and offered my services. He said there was a pocket instrument in the baggage car, and asked me if I would cut in on the wire and tell the dispatcher of the wreck. I assented, and I went forward with him to the baggage car, where he gave me a pair of pliers, a pocket instrument, and about eight feet of office wire. I asked for a pair of climbers and some more office wire, but neither was to be had. Here, therefore, was a pretty naughty problem. The telegraph poles were thirty feet high. How was I to make a connection with only eight feet of wire and no climbers? I thought for a while, and then I put the instrument in my pocket, and undertook to shin up the pole, as I used to do when I was the schoolboy. After many efforts, in which I succeeded in tearing nearly all the poles off me, I finally reached the lowest crossarm, and seated myself on it, with my legs wrapped around the pole. There was only one wire on this arm, so I had, comparatively speaking, plenty of room. On each of the other two crossarms there were four wires, and there was also one strung along the tops of the poles. This made ten wires and all, and I had not the least idea which one was the dispatcher's wire. The pole, being wet from the rain, made the wires mighty hot to handle. I had the fireman hand me up a piece of old iron wire he happened to have on the engine, and with this I made a flying cut in the third wire of the second crossarm. I attached a little pocket instrument, and found that upon adjusting it I was on a commercial wire. There I was, straddling a crossarm between heaven and earth, with the instruments held on my knee, and totally ignorant of any of the calls on the wire I was on. I yelled down to the conductor, and asked him if he knew any of the calls. No, of course he didn't, and he was so excited he didn't have sense enough to look on his timecard, but the calls were always printed. Finally, after carefully adjusting the instrument, I opened my key, broken on somebody, and said, Wreck. The answer came, Sign. I said I haven't any sign. Number two, on the case C&O has been wrecked out here, and I want the dispatcher's office. Can you tell me if he is on this wire? Now there is the vast deal of difference between sending with a bundle key on a polished table, and sending with a pocket instrument held on your knee. Especially when you're perched on a thirty foot pole, with the rain pouring down in torrents, the wind blowing almost to gale, and expecting every minute to be blown off, and have your precious neck broken. Consequently my sending was pretty rocky, and someone came back at me. Oh, get out, you big ham. But I hung to it, and finally made them understand who I was and what I wanted. The main office in Ure cut me in on the dispatcher's wire, and I told him of the wreck. He said he had suspected that number two was in trouble, but he had no idea that it was as bad as I had reported. He said he would order out the wrecking outfit and would send doctors with it. But I please stay close and do the telegraphing for them. He would see that I was properly rewarded. Then I told him about where I was, but promised to hold on as long as I could. But for him to be sure, I set out some more wire and a pair of climbers on the wrecker. After waiting about an hour, the wrecker arrived, and with it the doctors. So our anxiety was relieved, the wounded taken care of, and a decent wrecking office put in. The division superintendent came out with them, and for my services he offered me the day office at X, which I accepted. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 A woman operator who saved a train. X was a pretty good sort of an office to have, barring a beastly climate wherein all four seasons would sometimes be able and fully represented in 124 hours. But eighty big round American dollars a month was not to be sneezed at. That was a heap of money to a young chap, and I hung on. In those days civilians had not advanced as far westward as it is today, and there was not much local business on the road due to the sparsely settled country. The first office east of X was Dunraven, some twenty miles away. Between the two places were several blind sightings used as passing tracks. Dunraven was a cracking good little village, and the day operator there was Miss Mary Marsh. There was no night office. Now I was just at the age where all the young man's susceptibilities come to the surface, and I was a pretty fair sample. I weighed one hundred and fifty pounds, and every ounce of me was as susceptible as a barometer on a stormy day. Consequently it was not long until I knew Mary, and liked her immensely. All my spare time was occupied in talking to her over the wire, except when the cuss of dispatcher would chase me off with, oh, get out, you big spoon! You make everyone tired. Then Mary would give me the Mary. Ha-ha-ha! One time I took a day off and ran down to Dunraven, and my impressions were fully confirmed. Mary was a little bit of a woman with black hair, red lips, white teeth, and two eyes that looked like coals of fire, so bright were they. She was small, but when she took hold of the key she was jerk lightning, and I have never seen but one woman since, who was her equal in that line. Our road was one of the direct connections of the Overland Route, west to San Francisco, and twice a day we had a train, that in those days was called a flyer. Now it would be in a class with the first class freight. The westbound train passed my station at 8 in the morning, and the eastbound at 7.30 in the evening. After that I gave DS good night, and was free until 7 the next morning. The eastbound flyer passed through Dunraven at 8.15 in the evening, and then Mary was through for the night. The town was a mile away from the depot, and the poor girl had to trudge all that distance alone. But she was as plucky as they make them, and was never molested. A mile west of Dunraven was Peach Creek, spanned by a wooden pile in a stringer bridge. Ordinarily you could step across Peach Creek. But sometimes after a heavy rain it would be a raging torrent of dirty, muddy water, and it seemed as if the underpinning must surely be washed out by the flood. One day after I had been at X a couple of months, we had a stemwinder of a storm. The rain came down in torrents unceasingly for 12 hours, and the country around X was almost a morass. The roadbed was good, however, and when the section men came in at 6 that night, they reported the track firm and safe. But my stars, how the rain was falling at 7.30, as the flyer went smashing by. I made my O.S. report, and then thought I'd sit around and wait until I had passed Dunraven, and have a little chat with Mary before going home for the night. At 7.45 I called her but no answer. Then I waited, 8 o'clock, 8.15, 8.20, and still nothing from Dunraven. The dispatcher then started to call D.U. but no answer. Finally he said to me, you called D.U., maybe the wire is heavy and she can't adjust for me. I called steadily for 5 minutes, but still no reply. I was beginning to get scared. All sorts of ideas came into my head, robbers, tramps, fire, and murder. D.S. said, I'm afraid something has happened to the flyer. Turn your red light on when number 26 comes along. Give them an order to cut loose with the engine and go through and find the flyer. 5 minutes later the wire opened and closed. Then the current became weak, but adjusting down I heard, D.S., D.S., W.K. Aha! That meant a wreck. D.S. answered and I heard the following message. W.D.C. Peach Creek, 413-18, D.S. Peach Creek Bridge washed out tonight, but I heard of it and arrived here in time to flag the flyer. Send an operator on the wrecking outfit to relieve me. Signed Mary Marsh Operator. 2 hours afterwards the wrecker came by axe and obedient to orders from the dispatcher I boarded it and went down to work the office. We reached there in about 40 minutes and found that the torrent had washed out the underpinnings of the bridge and nothing was left but a few ties, the rails, and the stringers. A half-witted boy who lived in Dunraven had been fishing that day like simple Simon and came tramping up to the office, telling Mary Marsh in an idiotic way that Peach Creek Bridge had washed out. Just then she heard me OS the flyer and her office was next one to mine. As the flyer did not stop at Dunraven the baggage man had helped her went home at six o'clock and she was absolutely alone save for this half-witted boy. The section house was a mile and a half away to the east. A mile away to the south were the twinkling lights of the village while but one short mile to the west was Peach Creek with the bridge gone out. And the flyer, thundering along toward it with his precious load of human freight. How could it be warned? The boy hadn't sensed enough to pound sand. She must do it. So quick as a flash she picked up the red light standing near and started down the track. The rain was coming down in a perfect deluge and the wind was sweeping across the Nebraska prairies like a hurricane. Lightning was flashing casting a lurid glare over the soaked earth and the thunder rolled peel after peel resembling the artillery of great guns in a big battle. Truly it was like the setting for the grand drama. Undaunted by all this the brave little woman bareheaded hair flying in the wind and soaked to the skin, battled with the elements as she fought her way down the track. A mile ordinarily is the short distance but now to her it seemed almost interminable and all the time the flyer was coming nearer and nearer to the creek with the broken bridge. My God, would she make it? Presently above the howling of the wind she heard the mad waters as they went boiling and tumbling down the channel. At last she was there standing on the brink but the train was not yet saved. Just across the creek the road made an abrupt curve round a small hill and if she could not reach that curve her labors would be to no avail and a frightful wreck would follow. All the bridge was gone saved the rails, stringers, and a few shaky ties. Only forty feet intervened between her and the opposite bank and get across she must. There was only one way so grasping the lantern between her teeth she started across on her hands and knees. The stringers swayed back and forth in the wind and her frail body it seemed would surely be caught up and blown away into the mad maelstrom of waters below. No, no, she could not fail now. On the way up the road born to her anxious ears by the howling wind she heard too long and too short blasts the flyers whistle as she signaled for crossing. God, would she ever get there? Scraining every nerve at last success was hers and tottering she struggled up the other side. Flying up the track looking for all the world like some eerie witch she reached the curve swinging her red light like man. Bob Burns who was pulling the flyer that night saw the signal and immediately applied the emergency brakes. Then he looked again and the red light was gone. The caution is a magic watchword with all railroad men and he stopped. Climbing down out of the cab of the engine he took his torch and started out to investigate. He didn't have to go far when he came upon the limp inanimate form of Mary March, the extinguished red light tightly clasped in her cold little hand. My God, Mike, he yelled to his fireman, it's a woman. Well hang me if it isn't the little lady from Dunraven. Wonder what she is doing out here. It wasn't long, ignorance, because a breakman sent out a head saw that the bridge had gone. Roughly but kindly hands bore her tenderly into the sleeper and under the ministrations of her own sex she soon came round. So soon as she had seen the flyer stopping she realized that she had succeeded and woman-like she fainted. Her clothes were torn to tanners and taken all in all this little heroine was the most woe-be-gone specimen of humanity. A wrecking officer was cut in by the baggy man who happened to be an old lineman and she sent the message to DS telling him the wreck. I relieved her and she stayed in the sleeper all night and the next day she returned to her work at Dunraven, but little worse for the experience. She had positively refused to accept a thing from the thankful passengers, saying she did but her duty. Two months afterwards she married the chief dispatcher and the profession lost the best woman operator in the business. I was dreadfully cut by the ending of affairs, but she had said this, red-headed operators were not in her class. And I reckon she was about right. Surely she was a direct descendant from the Spartan mothers. Chapter 5 A night-office in Texas, a stuttering dispatcher. It was not long after Mary threw me over that I became tired of X and gave up my job and started self. I said it was on account of ill health, but the last thing that cussed first trick dispatcher said to me was, Never mind, you old spoon, you'll get over this attack in a very short while. I landed in St. Louis one bright morning and went up to the office of the chief dispatcher of the Q, M and S, and applied for an office on his division. He had none to give me, but wired the chief dispatcher at Big Rock, and in answer there too I was sent the next morning to Healyville, and what a place I found. The town was down in the swamps of southeast Missouri, four miles north of the Arkansas line, and consisted of the depot and twenty or twenty-five houses, five of which were saloons. There was a branch road running from here to Huntington, quite a settlement on the Mississippi River, and that was the only possible excuse for an officer at this point. The atmosphere was so full of malaria that you could almost cut it with an X. I stayed there just three days, and then, fortunately, the chief dispatcher ordered me to come to his office. He wanted me to take the office at Bowling Cross near the Texas line. But I had the traveling fever and wanted to go further south, and he sent me down on the I, G, and N, and the chief there sent me to Heron, Texas. There wasn't much sickness in the air around Heron, but there were just a million fleas to every square inch of sand in the place. Heron was one of the few towns in a very extensive cattle belt, and a few days after I had arrived, I noticed a town that filled up with cow punchers. They just had their semiannual roundup and were in town spending their money, and having a whooping big time. You probably know what that means to a cowboy. I was a tenderfoot of the worst kind, and everyone at the boarding house and depot seems to take particular delight in telling me of the shooting scrapes and rackets of these cowboys, and how they delighted in making a warm for a tenderfoot. Bob Wolfe, the dayman at the depot, told me how at times they had come up and raised particular cane at the station, especially when there was a new operator on hand. I didn't half-believe all their stories, but I will confess that I had a few misgivings the first night when I went to work. One night passed safely enough, but the second was a hummer from the word go. The office was somewhat larger than the telegraph offices usually are in small towns. The table was in the recess of a big bay window giving me a clear view of the IGNN tracks, while along the front ran the usual long wide platform. The P, T, and C roads crossed at right angles at one end of the platform, and one operator did the work for the two roads. There were two lamps over my desk, one on each side of the bay window, and one was out in the waiting rooms. I also kept the lantern lighted to carry when I went out to the trains. All through the early part of the night I heard sounds of revelry and carousing accompanied by an occasional pistol shot up in the town, but about half past eleven the sound ceased, and I was congratulating myself that my night would, after all, be uneventful. About twelve o'clock however there arose just outside the office the greatest commotion I had ever heard in my life. I was eating my midnight lunch and had a piece of pie in my hand when I heard the tramp of many feet on the platform. It sounded like a regiment of infantry, and in a minute there came the report of a shot, and with a crash out went one of my lights, a shower of glass falling on the table. Before I could collect myself there came another shot and smash out with the other light. I dropped my pie and spasmodically grabbed the table, the only lights left were the one in the waiting room and my lantern, which made it in the office a little better than total darkness. All the time the tramp on the platform was coming closer and closer and my heart was gradually forcing its way up in my mouth. In a moment the waiting room door was thrown open and with a wild whoop and a big hurrah the crowd came in. The door between the office and the waiting room was closed, but that made no difference to my visitors. They smashed it open and swarmed into the office. One of them picked up the lantern and swaggering over to where I sat all trembling with fear, and expecting that my lights would go out next, raised it to my face. They all crowded round me and one of them gave me a good punch in the ribs. Then the one with the lantern said, well, fellows, a little cuss's game, he didn't get under the table like the last one did. Kid, for a tenderfoot, you're a hummer. Get under the table? I couldn't. I would have given half my interest in the hereafter have been able to crawl under the table or have to run away. But fright held its sway and locomotion was impossible. For about five minutes the dispatcher had been calling me for orders, and in a trembling voice I asked them to let me answer and take the order. Sirk said one of them, who appeared to be the leader, go and take the order and then take a drink with us. By the dim light of the only lantern, with my order pad on the table covered with broken glass and smattered with pie, I finally copied the order. But it was about the worst attempt I had ever made and the conductor remarked when he signed it that it would take a Philadelphia lawyer to read it. The cow punchers, however, from that time on were very good friends of mine, and many a pleasant Sunday did I spend on their ranches. They afterwards told me that Bob Wolfe had put them up to their midnight visit in order to frighten me. They certainly succeeded. My service at Heron was not very profitable, the road being in the hands of receivers. And for four months none of us received a set of wages. The road was called the International and Great Northern, but we facetiously doubted the independent thing got nothing. Some months after this I was transferred down to the Southern Division and made night operator at Mankato. This was really about the best position I had yet struck. Good hours, plenty of work, and a fine office to do it in, and $80 a month. The agent and the day man were both fine fellows and there was no chore work around the station. A baggage manager did that. The dispatchers up in the DS office were pleasant to work with and as competent a lot of men has ever touched a key. I never met any of them when I first took office, though of course I soon knew their names and the following incident will disclose how, and under what unusual circumstances, I formed the acquaintance of one of them, Fred D. Armand, the second trick man. About four weeks after I took the Mankato office, engine 333, pulling a through livestock freight north, broke a parallel rod, and beside cutting the engineer into mincemeat caused a great wreck. This took place about two miles and a half north of Mankato. The hind man came back and reported it and being off duty, I caught up a pocket instrument and some wire, and jumping on a velocity was soon at the wreck. I cut in an office in short order and DS soon knew exactly how matters stood. One passenger train south was tied up just beyond the wreck, and in about an hour and a half the wrecker appeared in charge of the train master. I observed a young man twenty-eight or thirty years of age standing around looking on, and once when I was near him I noticed that he stammered very badly. I carefully avoided saying anything to the young man because I too at times had a rather bad impediment in my speech. It asserted itself especially when I heard anyone else stutter or when the weather was going to change. The man who knew me well said they could always foretell a storm by my inability to talk. From my own experience, however, I knew that when a stammer heard another man stammer, he imagined that he was being made fun of, and all the fighting him came at once to the surface, and as this young man was about twice my size, I did my best to keep away from him. But in a few moments he came over to where I was and said to me, ask DS to send out my raincoat on the thirteenth. Every other word was followed by a whistle. My great help in stammering was to kick with my right foot. I knew what was coming and tried my best to avert the trouble. I drew in a long breath and said, who shall I say you are? And my right foot was doing a great execution. True to its barometrical functions, my throat was predicting a storm. It came. He looked at me for a second, grew red in the face, then catching my eye of the collar, gave me a yank that made me see forty stars and said, blast you, what do you mean by mocking me, I'll smash you in the blame head. Speech left me entirely then, and I'm afraid I would have been most beautifully thumped had not Sanders the train master come over and stopped him. He called him DR man, and then I knew he was the second trick dispatcher. After many efforts DR man told Sanders how I had mocked him. Sanders didn't know me and the war clouds began together again. But Johnson the conductor of the record came over and said, hold on there, DR man. That kid ain't mocking you. He stammered so bad at times that he kicks a hole in the floor. Well I had seen him start to say something to my engineer pulling out a Mankato, and he'd finish it just as the caboose went by, and we had some forty cars in the train at that. At this a smile broke over DR man's face and he grasped my hand and said, excuse me kid, but you know how it is, it's yourself. You may well believe that I did know. One night shortly after this I was repeating an order to DR man, and in the middle of it I broke myself very badly. He opened his key and said, kick you devil kick. And I got the merry ha ha from up and down the line. But in giving me a message a little while after he flew the track, and I instantly opened up and said, whistle you tired ear, whistle. Maybe he didn't get it back. The end of Dangerous Signals Chapters 3, 4 and 5. A city is adorned by good citizenship, the body by beauty, the soul by wisdom, acts by virtue, and speech by truthfulness. But the opposite of these virtues are a disgrace. Man and woman, word and deed, city and government, we ought to praise if praise worthy, and bless if praise worthy, for if it is equally wrong and stupid to censure what is commendable, and to commend what is censurable. Now I conceive it to be my duty in the interest of justice to refute the slanders of Helen, the memory of whose misfortunes have been kept alive by the writings of the poets and the fame of her name. But in giving me a message a little while after he flew the track, I propose therefore by argument to exonerate her from the charges of infamy to convince her accusers of their error and to remove their ignorance by revelation of the truth. There are few indeed who do not know that by birth Helen ranked among the first men and women of her time. Her mother was the celebrated leader, her father the god Zulia, her mother the god Zulia, her mother the god Zulia, her mother the god Zulia, her mother the god Zulia, her mother the god Zeus. Though Tindarius was reputed to be her father, the former is the mightiest of gods, the latter the noblest of men. Born of such parents she possessed divine beauty which she made no attempt to conceal. Nearly all who met her were inspired with love for her and by her personal charms she attracted many great and haughty suitors. Some of them had abundance of wealth. Others were renowned for their ancient nobility. Some were distinguished for their physical superiority and prowess in war. Others for their mental acquirements. But all in common were filled with contentious love and an irresistible spirit of rivalry. Now which of them won Helen and how he satisfied his love for her I shall not pretend to say for to tell people what they already know is a good enough way to gain credence but not to give pleasure. Passing over then that period in my discourse I shall now address myself to what I have to say and to set forth the probable cause of Helen's voyage to Troy. Now Helen acted as she did either by command of the gods or by decree of fate or she was carried off by force or yielded to persuasion or was led captive by love. If then her act was the act of the first cause she certainly ought not to be blamed for human forethought and prudence can never thwart the will of the gods. In fact it is a universal law not that the stronger should yield to the weaker but the weaker to the stronger that the stronger should lead and the weaker follow. Now the gods are mightier than men in strength and wisdom and all things else. Accordingly we must attribute the fault to fate and the gods or clear Helen of infamy but if she was unlawfully carried off by force and shamefully insulted evidently it was the perpetrator of this outrage who did wrong. She on the other hand is to be pitied for the indignity and misfortune she was compelled to suffer. He alone then who attempted this barbarous deed deserves to pay the penalty of dishonor and reproach while she ought rather to be pitied than abused for being violently torn from her friends and her native land. Helen was not a sinner but a sufferer and our feeling for her should not be one of hatred but of compassion but if it were the power of speech that moved and beguiled her soul it will not be difficult to free her of all blame on this score for the power of speech is mighty insignificant in themselves words accomplish the most remarkable ends they have power to remove fear and assuage pain moreover they can produce joy and increase pity that this is so there can be no doubt as I shall undertake to show all poetry I call in accordance with my conception of it measured speech now the readers of poetry are affected in various ways at times they experience a shivering fear then again they feel a tender pity and a mournful longing in short every condition of happiness or unhappiness touches a responsive chord in the soul of the reader song then inspired by the gods produces pleasure and removes pain the spirit of song harmonizing with the sentiment of the soul soothes and persuades and enchants it enchantment differs from magic in that it beguiles the soul while magic deceives the mind in this lies the power of song how many then have been persuaded and are still persuaded by the captivating power of speech whereas if we had perfect memory of the past full knowledge of the present and a clear foresight of the future the same language could not so easily present to us the same pictures of the present past and future as is now the case the result would be that in nearly all cases people would not take counsel of their opinions for opinions are slippery and insecure and lead those who follow them into a slippery and insecure positions since so many have yielded to persuasion why should we refuse a scent to the belief that Helen too was overcome by its irresistible power and if submission to necessity be a complete defense why not also submission to persuasion which is no less powerful than necessity since it compels a scent to what is said and approval of what is done Paris I admit did wrong in exercising upon Helen the compulsory power of persuasion but in submitting to that power Helen did nothing to merit condemnation that persuasion joined with argument can bend the soul to its wheel we find illustrated in the discourses of the astronomers who by overthrowing one theory and setting up another make the unknown and the incredible appear clear to the mind's eye again we see evidence of this fact in oratorical contest in which a speech delights and persuades a great multitude owing its effectiveness rather to the force of the rhetorical art than to the power of truth finally the discussions of the philosophers show us how easily the mind may be changed by argument and persuasion to conclude this part of my argument then words have the same effect on the soul that drugs have on the body for just as different drugs expel different diseases from the body and some cure sickness and others end life so words produced various effects on the soul some cause pain and others pleasure some terrify and others encourage while still other drugs enchant the soul with evil persuasion in yielding to persuasion then Helen did no wrong but suffered great misfortune let us now consider the case from a fourth point of view and if we find that Helen acted as she did through love we must acquit her of all fault for all things in the visible world are constituted not as we would have them but as nature has ordained and through the sight this visible world affects the soul in various ways when for example the eye catches sight of hostile bodies in conflict of assault and of defense it is troubled and in turn troubles the soul so that not infrequently people flee in terror when there is no impending danger many a man in the past has lost his presence of mind at some terrible sight to such an extent does fear paralyze the mind many too through fear became dreadfully sick or incurably mad so powerful an impression does the eye make upon the mind of the things it has seen to enumerate instances of sight that inspire terror is unnecessary since in all cases the effect on the soul is the same as in the example I have given when however from many colors a painter produces one perfect form and figure he delights our eyes the sight of beautiful images and statues affords us unspeakable pleasure so too the sight of many things and many persons inspires us with love and longing since this is so what wonder if Helen's eye was captivated by the charms of Paris and transmitted the sensation of love to her soul and how if he was a god and possessed of divine power could she in her weakness repel his advances but if this be human frailty we ought not to condemn it as a fault but regard it as a misfortune for it comes to us as a soul and not by design of the intellect it results from the necessity of love and not the premeditation of art how then can we justly censure Helen for whether she acted through love persuasion force or divine necessity her conduct is equally defensible she is removed all stained from Helen's reputation and accomplish this task I set myself at the beginning by discrediting unjust censure an ignorant opinion my purpose has been to make this discourse an encomium of Helen and a pastime for myself this ends the encomium of Helen written by Gorgias 414 BCE The Factory Girl's Danger by Miriam Fenn Scott from the Outlook April 15, 1911 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Factory Girl's Danger by Miriam Fenn Scott on Friday evening, March 24 two young sisters walked down the stairways from the ninth floor where they were employed and joined the horde of workers that nightly surges homeward into New York's east side since eight o'clock they had been bending over shirt wastes of silk and lace tensely guiding the valuable fabrics through their swift machines with hundreds of power driven machines worrying madly about them with that despondency which comes after a day of exhausting routine when the next day and the next week and the next year hold promise of nothing better than just the same monotonous strain they were moodily silent when they sat down to supper in the three room tenement apartment where they boarded at last their landlady who told me of that evening's talk indelibly stamped upon her mind inquired if they were feeling unwell oh I wish we could quit the shop burst out Becky the younger sister aged 18 that place is going to kill us some day it's worse than it was before the strike a year ago bitterly said Gussie the older the boss squeezes us at every point and drives us to the limit he carries us up in elevators of mornings so we won't lose a second in getting started but at night when we're tired and the boss has got all out of us at eight o'clock he shuts the door so that if you come even a minute late you can't get until noon and so lose half a day he does that to make sure that every person gets there on time or ahead of time he finds us for every little thing he always holds back a week's weight is to be sure that he can be able to collect for damages he says we do and to keep us from leaving and every evening he searches oh you would think you are in Russia again that's all true but what worries me more is a fire said Becky with a shiver since that factory in Newark where so many girls were burnt up there's not a day when I don't wonder what would happen if a fire started in our shop but you could get out couldn't you asked the landlady some of us might grimly said Gussie who had been through last year's strike and still felt the bitterness between me and the doors there are solid rows on rows of machines think of all of us hundreds of girls trying to get across those machines to the doors you see what chance we have girls you must leave that place cried the landlady you must find new jobs how am I going to find the new job demanded Gussie if I take a day off to hunt a job the boss will fire me I might be out of work for weeks and I can't afford that it wouldn't be any better all the bosses drive you the same way and our shop is as safe as any and safer than some no we've got to keep on working no matter what the danger it's work or starve that's all there is to it the next morning the two sisters joined their six hundred fellow workers at the close packed swift machines all day they bent over endless shirt wastes evening came a few more minutes and what happened next all the country knows for it was in the triangle shirt waste factory that Becky and Gussie Kaplan worked the fire flashed through the eighth ninth and tenth floors of the great building like a train of powder girls were driven to leap wildly their clothes of fire from the lofty windows and then a few brief moments after the first cry 143 workers the vast majority young girls were charred bodies heaped up behind doors they had vainly tried to beat down a recognizable pulp upon the street far below and as for Gussie and Becky who had gone to work that fatal day knowing their danger as all the workers knew it but helpless in their necessity what of them Gussie was one of those who met a horrible death Becky in some way unknown to herself was carried down an elevator and today lies in a hospital an arm and a leg broken and her head badly bruised her condition is too precarious for her to stand the shock of the awful truth and the nurses have told her that Gussie is injured in another hospital and so Becky lies in the white cot waiting until her wounds and Gussie's she'll have healed and they can again be together conservatives liberals radicals of all shades and intensity are agreed and announcing the criminal indifference that is shown to the murderous condition in which men women girls and mere children are compelled to earn their bread is revealed an appalling state of affairs that exists to the factory district of New York City and that presumably exists in varying degrees of badness in other cities from the standpoint of safety of the workers everything was wrong and yet it is hard to single out one person or institution and say that there belongs the blame the proprietors of the triangle company were violating no law and were but following the instincts and practices common among manufacturers has been inadequate and loose and ugly stories of graft have been set afloat the ultimate blame must be traced back to the inadequate building laws and thence to an indifference or unawakened public that allowed such laws to be passed and to continue in existence the huge modern factory buildings of New York City are what is called fireproof such construction is safest to the builder and secures him a lower rate of insurance than would non-fireproof construction the building in which the triangle fire took place is as sound as ever outwardly it bears a few signs of fire and doubtless the comparatively trivial property loss was covered by insurance the great impulse that brought the present New York laws into existence was the safety of the dollar and the best profit upon it the safety of the hundreds of thousands of workers their possible terrible deaths the widespreading tragedies that death would bring upon the workers families and loved ones such things were given hardly a thought against the mightier dollar the tragedies that such tragedies bring upon loved ones two days after the fire I was in an east side street that was a street of funerals it was crowded with sobbing men and women children wept with their parents even little babies must have felt the bitter sorrow for they clung tightly to their shawl of mothers and an agony of terror among the poverty stricken funeral in a pine box and behind the hearse was carried a Jewish wedding canopy all of black and here I learned the story of another Becky and her Jacob Becky Kessler was out on strike for 16 weeks last year against the triangle company and was among the most valiant of those who struggled for safer and fairer conditions she picketed about the shop morning and night in cold and rain she suffered outrageous treatment and shirt waste makers was settled the triangle was one of the few big shops that did not sign the union agreement though in order to get its workers back it made a verbal promise to maintain union conditions which promise by the way very quickly forgot Becky did not want to return but she was penniless she was half starved she owed her kind landlady for four months lodging she had an old father in Russia dependent upon her wages terrible necessity into her old position and upon terms and conditions dictated by the company the triangle firm had two systems of payment piece work and a fixed weekly wage and an imposed upon each employee whichever method of payment is preferred Becky was a swift and clever worker and the busy season working at the piece rate work scale she could make from 18 to 20 dollars a week the triangle company seeing how quick she was with sharp business sense changed her from piece work to a weekly wage and managed to get the same amount of work out of her for half the money in the case of slow workers the reverse of this process was practiced they were not given a regular weekly wage but were put upon piece work but though working at half her real value Becky kept on out of her weeks earnings she kept one dollar with which to cover her car fairs breakfast and lunches and the rest she divided between her debts her great sustaining hope was that she was soon to be married her life with Jacob would be one of poverty to be sure but she would be free from the grind of the shop toward the end of winter Jacob begged her to give up her work and take a rest before their marriage which was drawing very near she needed a rest he insisted for she was sadly worn from hunger and exposure when she had gone back to the shop and the strain of her hard tense work had given her no chance to recover but she refused to give up to the very day of the marriage for she must come to him with all her debts paid and with some money laid aside for her father besides the marriage was now but a few weeks off so she worked on joyously checking off the days to the wedding day and the end of this love's young dream was what I saw in that east side street of funerals an incinerated bride to be in a pine box a black marriage canopy and in the next procession about white faced young man how many love dreams were blasted by that triangle fire god only knows but here is a matter of cold statistics on one floor of the triangle shop where they had fallen from charred fingers were found fourteen engagement rings the dangers that lurk in the factory waiting their chance do not menace to the worker alone they strike blows often irreparable upon the workers relatives there was little Rebecca who came from Russia when she was a child of sixteen too slight to operate a machine she at first sewed on buttons and later cut out the fabric underneath lace insertion for which she was paid six dollars a week shortly after her arrival here her father and mother died back in Russia leaving a boy of eight who was taken into a neighbors family and a girl of thirteen this sister Rebecca determined to send for and she denied herself food denied herself clothing held tight to every penny she had enough to make the first payment on little Minnie's steerage ticket which she bought on the installment plan three months ago Minnie arrived her only baggage the clothing upon her back of course Minnie had to go to work at once but her sister hyphen mother Rebecca dared not to stop work even for a day to help Minnie hunt a place so Minnie looked for herself and in a little shop on grand street she found a boss sufficiently disinterested to take on a little green horn Rebecca with two mouths to feed on her six dollars and with the regular installments on Minnie's ticket to pay had even less for herself than ever she became very thin and weak often she wished to stay away but she dared not do so not only because she could not afford the loss of a day's pay but more because she feared her absence would lose her her job the company could not stand for having one of its machines idle for a day and thus earning nothing for them once she fainted at her work she was taken to a dressing room was revived and instead of being sent home to rest was sent directly back to her work she clung desperately to her strength and her job she had to for Minnie's sake on Friday night before the fire she came home very ill with the grip her landlady urged her to stay at home for at least a day but Rebecca would not consent to this she said she would lose her job if she did so she lost about in fever but the next morning she dressed herself and went weekly back to the shop well Rebecca lost her job anyhow she was among those who sought safety by the great building single fire escape that gave way and who were found dead at its foot and behind there is left the little Minnie penniless, unskilled, uneducated the foothold Rebecca was trying to aid her when not yet secured no helpful relatives in Russia not a friend or relative in America and even the price of her ticket to this country not yet entirely paid for if that factory had been built safe Rebecca would have seen that Minnie got a chance Minnie's kind-hearted but poverty-stricken landlady wailed to me but what is going to become of her now yes what is going to become of her I had to echo in dismay knowing the dangers and temptations with which New York surrounds the ignorant, penniless, unprotected girl what is going to become of her perhaps the faith that heartless factory conditions inflicted on Rebecca is after all a kinder faith in that which these same factory conditions are holding and reserved for little Minnie yes the danger to the worker is not limited to the worker it reaches out and strikes down at the very ends of the world Esther was the main support of her old parents in Romania though her brother Abraham who was also in New York contributed all he could she was a very skilled waste trimmer she worked for the triangle company after the strike she received $12 a week her excellent work was noticed and she was soon offered a place over five newly arrived Italian girls to supervise and instruct them this offer was presented to her in the light of a promotion and Esther so regarded it and gladly accepted under Esther's instruction the eager Italian girls made rapid progress and soon were able to do almost as good work as Esther herself moreover they were willing to pay $12 a week which to their non-Americanized standard seemed a tremendous sum there upon Esther was told by the company that they could no longer pay her old wages she would have to accept a cut or go Esther already perceived that under promise of being promoted she had been used to train girls who would under bid her but she was in debt after the long strike she must send money to her parents she dared not be out of work so there was nothing for her but to accept their reduction she stayed on lowering her own standard of living to the very minimum in order that her parents might suffer as little as possible from the cut in her wages Esther was paid every two weeks and Saturday March 25th her pay was due on Friday evening she wrote a letter to her parents saying that she and her brother were together sending $25 for the Easter holidays Saturday evening after she had been paid there would be nothing to do Esther was paid as was the custom before her Saturday's work was quite done but she never came home with her wages she was among the scores who were trapped by insufficient exits and who were crisp and blackened by the flames her money was lost in the vain wild rush for life to pay for her funeral her brother used all his money pawned all his belongings including his overcoat saved the clothes in which he stood borrowed from all sides Esther shared with three other girls and the top of her little trunk was found the unsealed letter that was to carry her Easter present to her far distant parents a present that now was never to be sent won't it ever be safe for us to earn our bread the agonized mother of one of the victims quite out to me and sobbingly she told me of a generation long struggle against the dangers and oppressions of the worker as a girl and even after her marriage from overwork from under employment and she had joined every effort to secure some betterment of conditions her husband was a cloakmaker and he too during all his working life had thrown himself into every struggle for improvement they had tried to save in order that their children might have an education and not be forced into factories but the cost of living rose faster than wages and they had been able to lay nothing aside last summer came the cloakmaker strike debts piled up their credit became exhausted the mother would have gone back to her trade but she was nursing a newborn baby in this stress of circumstances they were forced to let their eldest child go to work Rosie then barely fourteen Rosie found a place in the triangle factory after the fire she did not come home the parents searched distractedly among the burned and mangled bodies collected from in and about the building upon an unrecognizable heap of remains that had been gathered from the Belgian blocks that paved the street they found a tarnished locket and in the locket were their own pictures that was how they knew their child for twenty years we have struggled for better conditions the mother burst out to me in her black bitterness of soul for twenty years and what have we won a death like Rosie's they have made their shops better and safer for their machines and their goods how long will we have to stand it how long and that mother who had fought the long fight and now at the end of it all sat in her dark tenement kitchen with a new life in her arms mourning her mangled dead that mother's anguished voice sounded in my ears as the outcry of the millions of workers how long must we stand this how long will it never be safe for us to earn our bread end of the factory girls danger by Miriam Finn Scott read by Leanne Howlett