placed us, told us to return at one o'clock, recommended a
boarding-house, and, on his way to some other case, sent a small boy to
accompany us on future stretches of boardwalk to our lodgings. The
street we followed ended in a rolling hillside, and beyond was the
mysterious blue that holds something of the infinite in its mingling of
clouds and shadows. The Geneseo Valley lay near us like a lake under the
sky, and silhouetted against it were the factory chimney and buildings.
The wood's edge came close to the town, whose yards prolong themselves
into green meadows and farming lands. We knocked at a rusty screen door
and were welcomed with the cordiality of the country woman to whom all
folks are neighbours, all strangers possible boarders. The house, built
without mantelpiece or chimney, atoned for this cheerlessness with a
large parlour stove, whose black arms carried warmth through floor and
ceiling. A table was spread in the dining-room. A loud-ticking clock
with a rusty bell marked the hour from a shelf on the wall, and out of
the kitchen, seen in vista, came a spluttering sound of frying food. Our
hostess took us into the parlour. Several family pictures of stony-eyed
women and men with chin beards, and a life-sized Frances Willard in
chromo, looked down at our ensuing interview.

Board, lodging, heat and light we could have at $2.75 a week. Before the
husky clock had struck twelve, I was installed in a small room with the
middle-aged woman from Batavia and a second unknown roommate.

Now what, I asked myself, is the mill's attraction and what is the power
of this small town? Its population is 3,346. Of these, 1,000 work in the
knitting-mill, 200 more in a cutlery factory and 300 in various flour,
butter, barrel, planing mills and salt blocks. Half the inhabitants are
young hands. Not one in a hundred has a home in Perry; they have come
from all western parts of the State to work. There are scarcely any