Nay, factory child, we’ll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Where green peas grow and roses gay,
There in the sun forever.
The Cotton-Mill Child
By Mrs. John Van Vorst
(From “The Cry of the Children.”[9])
The first child to whom I spoke stood waiting, without work, for the machinery to start up. He had on a cloth cap, overalls, and a blue cotton shirt open at the throat. His face was wan, his eyes blue, with an intense blue streak beneath them. His mouth was full of tobacco, which had collected in a dingy crust about his lips. As he leaned back, one foot crossed over the other, expectant for the spindles to begin their whirling, he presented in his attitude and gestures, the appearance, not of a child, but of a gaunt man shrunk to diminutive size. Going over to where he sat, I started conversation with him about his work.
“How many sides do you run a day?” I asked.