“‘In fun,’ he said, but I could see na joke.”
In all the speeches there was a spirit of camaraderie–of fellowship, of love. “We are one blood now,” a Danish miner cried, in broken English, “we are all Americans, and America will be a brotherhood–a brotherhood in the Democracy of Labor, under the Prince of Peace.” A great shout arose and the crowd called:
“Grant–Grant–Brother Grant.”
But he stood by the table and shook his head. After a girl picket and a woman–one a Welsh girl, the other a Manx miner’s mother–had told how they were set upon in the 559Park by the soldiers, up rose a pale, trembling woman from among the Hungarians, her brown, blotched face and her big body made the men look down or away. She spoke in broken, uncertain English.
“We haf send to picket our men and yet our boys, and they beat them down. We haf our girls send, and they come home crying. But I say to God this evening–Oh, is there nothing for me–for me carrying child, and He whisper yais–these soldiers, he haf wife, he haf mother.” She paused and shook with fear and shame. “Then I say to you–call home your man–your girl so young, and we go–we women with child–we with big bellies, filled with unborn–we go–O, my God, He say we go, and this soldier–he haf wife, he haf mother–he will see;–we–we–they will not strike us down. Send us, oh, Grant, Prince of Peace, to the picket line next morning.”
Her voice broke and she sat down covering her head with her skirt and weeping in excitement.
“Let me go,” cried a clear voice, as a brown-eyed Welsh woman rose. “I know ten others that will go.”
“I also,” cried a German woman. “Let us organize to-night. We can have two hundred child-bearing women!”
“Yes, men,” spoke up a trim-looking young wife from among the glassworkers, “we of old have been sacred–let us see if capital holds us sacred now–before property.”
Grant leaned over to Laura and asked, “Would it do? Wouldn’t they shame us for it?”