“None of your business!” I struck out blindly, not aware of what I was saying.
“Why so bold? We are only trying to help you and you are so resentful.”
“To the Devil with your help! I’m sick no longer. I can take care of my mother—without your charity!”
The next day I went back to the shop—to the same long hours—to the same low wages—to the same pig-eyed, fat-bellied boss. But I was no longer the same. For the first time in my life I bent to the inevitable. I accepted my defeat. But something in me, stronger than I, rose triumphant even in my surrender.
“Yes, I must submit to the shop,” I thought. “But the shop shall not crush me. Only my body I must sell into slavery—not my heart—not my soul.
“To any one who sees me from without, I am only a dirt-eating worm, a grub in the ground, but I know that above this dark earth-place in which I am sunk is the green grass—and beyond the green grass, the sun and sky. Alone, unaided, I must dig my way up to the light!”
Lunch-hour at the factory. My book of Shelley’s poems before me and I was soon millions of miles beyond the raucous voices of the hungry eaters.
“Did you already hear the last news?” Yetta tore my book from me in her excitement.
“What news?” I scowled at her for waking me from my dreams.