Those through which Jurgis and Ona were walking resembled streets less
than they did a miniature topographical map. The roadway was commonly
several feet lower than the level of the houses, which were sometimes
joined by high board walks; there were no pavements--there were
mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and ditches, and great hollows
full of stinking green water. In these pools the children played, and
rolled about in the mud of the streets; here and there one noticed them
digging in it, after trophies which they had stumbled on. One wondered
about this, as also about the swarms of flies which hung about the
scene, literally blackening the air, and the strange, fetid odor which
assailed one's nostrils, a ghastly odor, of all the dead things of the
universe. It impelled the visitor to questions and then the residents
would explain, quietly, that all this was "made" land, and that it had
been "made" by using it as a dumping ground for the city garbage. After
a few years the unpleasant effect of this would pass away, it was said;
but meantime, in hot weather--and especially when it rained--the flies
were apt to be annoying. Was it not unhealthful? the stranger would ask,
and the residents would answer, "Perhaps; but there is no telling."

A little way farther on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-eyed and
wondering, came to the place where this "made" ground was in process of
making. Here was a great hole, perhaps two city blocks square, and with
long files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place had an odor
for which there are no polite words; and it was sprinkled over with
children, who raked in it from dawn till dark. Sometimes visitors from
the packing houses would wander out to see this "dump," and they would
stand by and debate as to whether the children were eating the food they
got, or merely collecting it for the chickens at home. Apparently none
of them ever went down to find out.