A full hour before the party reached the city they had begun to note the perplexing changes in the atmosphere.  It grew darker all the time, and upon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green.  Every minute, as the train sped on, the colors of things became dingier; the fields were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare.  And along with the thickening smoke they began to notice another circumstance, a strange, pungent odor.  They were not sure that it was unpleasant, this odor; some might have called it sickening, but their taste in odors was not developed, and they were only sure that it was curious.  Now, sitting in the trolley car, they realized that they were on their way to the home of it—­that they had traveled all the way from Lithuania to it.  It was now no longer something far off and faint, that you caught in whiffs; you could literally taste it, as well as smell it—­you could take hold of it, almost, and examine it at your leisure.  They were divided in their opinions about it.  It was an elemental odor, raw and crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong.  There were some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there were others who put their handkerchiefs to their faces.  The new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door was flung open, and a voice shouted—­“Stockyards!”

They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street there were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista:  half a dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the very sky—­and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, and black as night.  It might have come from the center of the world, this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smolder.  It came as if self-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual explosion.  It was inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop, but still the great streams rolled out.  They spread in vast clouds overhead, writhing, curling; then, uniting in one giant river, they streamed away down the sky, stretching a black pall as far as the eye could reach.

Then the party became aware of another strange thing.  This, too, like the color, was a thing elemental; it was a sound, a sound made up of ten thousand little sounds.  You scarcely noticed it at first—­it sunk into your consciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble.  It was like the murmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the forest; it suggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in motion.  It was only by an effort that one could realize that it was made by animals, that it was the distant lowing of ten thousand cattle, the distant grunting of ten thousand swine.