“Yes, flies are the collectors I mean; and they do a great deal of harm, not because of what they take, but because they carry germs of disease on their feet.”
“Yes,” said Robert, “I know they do; our teacher showed us a picture of a fly’s foot and tongue magnified many times.”
“Then you understand why mother found fault with Nora for leaving the cover off our garbage can yesterday?”
“Yes, father; but I never thought before today how unhealthful a city would become if it were not for the garbage collectors—the real ones, I mean,” Robert remarked.
“Indeed, we ought to appreciate what they do for us,” his father said. “You see, they are really just one set of the public servants of our large city family. They are useful men and do their work well.”
“I shall certainly think more of them after this,” said the boy. Then, suddenly, he asked again, “But, father, what do our garbage collectors do with the garbage? Where do they take it?”
“Let me see,” answered his father; “they take it—I think they drive down to some river wharf, and dump it into scows.”
“And then where do the scows take it?”
“They are drawn by tugboats down the river to the disposal plant. To tell the truth, Robert, I do not know just what is done with it there; but in some way it is made into fertilizer, which is sold to farmers.”
“I wish I knew how it is done,” said Robert after a minute.