out of its class.  They have none of the sagaciousness of the low-born Italian, none of the wit and penetration of the French ouvriere.  The Old World generations ago divided itself into classes; the lower class watched the upper and grew observant and appreciative, wise and discriminating, through the study of a master’s will.  Here in the land of freedom, where no class line is rigid, the precious chance is not to serve but to live for oneself; not to watch a superior, but to find out by experience.  The ideal plays no part, stern realities alone count, and thus we have a progressive, practical, independent people, the expression of whose personality is interesting not through their words but by their deeds.

When the Monday noon whistle blows I follow the hundreds down into the dining-room.  Each wears her cap in a way that speaks for her temperament.  There is the indifferent, the untidy, the prim, the vain, the coquettish; and the faces under them, which all looked alike at first, are becoming familiar.  I have begun to make friends.  I speak bad English, but do not attempt to change my voice and inflection nor to adopt the twang.  No allusion is made to my pronunciation except by one girl, who says: 

“I knew you was from the East.  My sister spent a year in Boston and when she come back she talked just like you do, but she lost it all again.  I’d give anything if I could talk aristocratic.”

I am beginning to understand why the meager lunches of preserve-sandwiches and pickles more than satisfy the girls whom I was prepared to accuse of spending their money on gewgaws rather than on nourishment.  It is fatigue that steals the appetite.  I can hardly taste what I put in my mouth; the food sticks in my throat.  The girls who complain most of being tired are the ones who roll up their newspaper bundles half full.  They should be given an hour at noon.  The first half of it should be spent in rest and recreation before a bite is touched.  The good that such a regulation would work upon their faulty skins and pale faces, their lasting strength and health, would be incalculable.  I did not want wholesome food, exhausted as I was.  I craved sours and sweets, pickles, cake, anything to excite my numb taste.

So long as I remain in the bottling department there is little variety in my days.  Rising at 5:30 every morning, I make my way through black streets to offer my sacrifice of energy on the altar of toil.  All is done without a fresh incident.  Accumulated weariness forces me to take a day off.  When I return I am sent for in the corking-room.  The forewoman lends me a blue gingham dress and tells me I am to do “piece"-work.  There are three who work together at every corking-table.  My two companions are a woman with goggles and a one-eyed boy.  We are not a brilliant trio.  The job consists in evening the vinegar in the bottles, driving the cork in, first with a machine, then with a hammer,