When they passed out of sight the father had seized him by the arm and was forcing him along, the boy kicking and struggling, but powerless to help himself. The two men were laughing heartily.
The child’s blood had been poisoned by the heat of anger, he had exhausted his physical vitality and his nervous system had been disarranged, not to speak of his moral standards—but then, the father and his friend had been amused.
[8] Central Publishing Company.
The Factory Child
By Harriet Monroe
(In “The Century.”)
Why do the wheels go whirling round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?