Doctors. Writers. Women in college caps and gowns. Women
in white, from shoes to hats. Young women. Girls. Gray-
haired women. A woman in a wheel chair, smiling. A man
next to Fanny began to jeer. He was a red-faced young man,
with a coarse, blotchy skin, and thick lips. He smoked
a cigar, and called to the women in a falsetto voice,
"Hello, Sadie!" he called. "Hello, kid!" And the women
marched on, serious-faced, calm-eyed. There came floats;
elaborate affairs, with girls in Greek robes. Fanny did not
care for these. More solid ranks. And then a strange and
pitiful and tragic and eloquent group. Their banner said,
"Garment Workers. Infants' Wear Section." And at their
head marched a girl, carrying a banner. I don't know how
she attained that honor. I think she must have been one of
those fiery, eloquent leaders in her factory clique. The
banner she carried was a large one, and it flapped
prodigiously in the breeze, and its pole was thick and
heavy. She was a very small girl, even in that group of
pale-faced, under-sized, under-fed girls. A Russian Jewess,
evidently. Her shoes were ludicrous. They curled up at the
toes, and the heels were run down. Her dress was a sort of
parody on the prevailing fashion. But on her face, as she
trudged along, hugging the pole of the great pennant that
flapped in the breeze, was stamped a look.--well, you see
that same look in some pictures of Joan of Arc. It wasn't
merely a look. It was a story. It was tragedy. It was the
history of a people. You saw in it that which told of
centuries of oppression in Russia. You saw eager groups of
student Intellectuals, gathered in secret places for low-
voiced, fiery talk. There was in it the unspeakable misery