So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have had him rest too, but he was forced to acknowledge that this was not possible, and, besides, the old man would not hear it spoken of—­it was his whim to insist that he was as lively as any boy.  He had come to America as full of hope as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem that worried his son.  For every one that Jurgis spoke to assured him that it was a waste of time to seek employment for the old man in Packingtown.  Szedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the men who had grown old in their own service—­to say nothing of taking on new ones.  And not only was it the rule here, it was the rule everywhere in America, so far as he knew.  To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the policeman, and brought back the message that the thing was not to be thought of.  They had not told this to old Anthony, who had consequently spent the two days wandering about from one part of the yards to another, and had now come home to hear about the triumph of the others, smiling bravely and saying that it would be his turn another day.

Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to think about a home; and sitting out on the doorstep that summer evening, they held consultation about it, and Jurgis took occasion to broach a weighty subject.  Passing down the avenue to work that morning he had seen two boys leaving an advertisement from house to house; and seeing that there were pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had rolled it up and tucked it into his shirt.  At noontime a man with whom he had been talking had read it to him and told him a little about it, with the result that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea.

He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of art.  It was nearly two feet long, printed on calendered paper, with a selection of colors so bright that they shone even in the moonlight.  The center of the placard was occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new, and dazzling.  The roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with gold; the house itself was silvery, and the doors and windows red.  It was a two-story building, with a porch in front, and a very fancy scrollwork around the edges; it was complete in every tiniest detail, even the doorknob, and there was a hammock on the porch and white lace curtains in the windows.  Underneath this, in one corner, was a picture of a husband and wife in loving embrace; in the opposite corner was a cradle, with fluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub hovering upon silver-colored wings.  For fear that the significance of all this should be lost, there was a label, in Polish, Lithuanian, and German—­“Dom.  Namai.  Heim.”  “Why pay rent?” the linguistic circular went on to demand.  “Why not own your own home?  Do you know that you can buy one for less than your rent?  We have built thousands of homes which are now occupied by happy families.”—­So it became eloquent, picturing the blissfulness of married life in a house with nothing to pay.  It even quoted “Home, Sweet Home,” and made bold to translate it into Polish—­though for some reason it omitted the Lithuanian of this.  Perhaps the translator found it a difficult matter to be sentimental in a language in which a sob is known as a gukcziojimas and a smile as a nusiszypsojimas.