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, letting
out the air with a knife stuck under the cork, capping the corks,
sealing the caps, counting and distributing the bottles. These
operations are paid for at the rate of one-half a cent for the dozen
bottles, which sum is divided among us. My two companions are earning a
living, so I must work in dead earnest or take bread out of their
mouths. At every blow of the hammer there is danger. Again and again