Upton Sinclair


In the late fall of 1904 Upton Sinclair, a young ambitious novelist imbued with a zealous sense of socialism, traveled to Chicago to gather information about the horrors and abuses of the meatpacking industry. For the next seven weeks, as a cold fall gave way to a brutal winter, Sinclair lived in the workers' ghetto of Packingtown, talked with workers, and studied the meatpacking industry.

On Christmas Day of 1904 he began writing The Jungle, the story of Jurgis Rudkus. A Lithuanian immigrant of great strength, Rudkus came to America full of hope-only to be used, abused, and discarded by the unfeeling powers of Packingtown. Sinclair wrote frantically for three months, stopping only occasionally to eat or sleep. He poured all his emotions into Rudkus's story, hoping to show Americans how evil the industry-and by extension, capitalism-had become. He recorded the stench and unhealthy conditions of Packingtown and the dangers of working in the packinghouses. Of the work, one historian wrote, "Each job had its own dangers: the dampness and cold of the packing rooms and hide cellar, the sharp blade of the beef boner's knife, the noxious dust of the wood department and fertilizer plant, the wild charge of a half-crazed steer on the killing floor." The following selection from The Jungle describes some of the working and living conditions in Packingtown.

Questions to Consider

  1. What was the health care like for children in Packingtown?

  2. What sort of men worked in the fertilizer plants?  What were the hazards of the job?

  3. How did the constant demand for money affect families?

  4. What were the abuses of the "spoiled-meat" industry?

  5. What response was Upton Sinclair hoping to achieve with The Jungle?

        During this time that Jurgis was looking for Dwork occurred the death of little Kristoforas, one of the children of Teta Elzbieta. Both Kristoforas and his brother, Juozapas, were cripples, the latter having lost one leg by having it run over, and Kristoforas having congenital dislocation of the hip, which made it impossible for him ever to walk.  He was the last of Teta Elzbieta's children, and perhaps he had been intended by nature to let her know that she had had enough.  At any rate he was wretchedly sick and undersized; he had the rickets, and though he was over three years old, he was no bigger than an ordinary child of one.  All day long he would crawl around the floor in a filthy little dress, whining and fretting; because the floor was full of draughts he was always catching cold, and snuffling because his nose ran.  This made him a nuisance, and a source of endless trouble in the family.  For his mother, with unnatural perversity, loved him best of all her children, and made a perpetual fuss over him-would let him do anything undisturbed, and would burst into tears when his fretting drove Jurgis wild.

        And now he died.  Perhaps it was the smoked sausage he had eaten that morning which may have been made out of some tubercular pork that was condemned as unfit for export.  At any rate, an hour after eating it, the child had begun to cry with pain, and in another hour he was rolling about on the floor in convulsions.  Little Kotrina, who was all alone with him, ran out screaming for help, and after a while a doctor came, but not until Kristoforas had howled his last howl.  No one was really sorry about this except poor Elzbieta, who was inconsolable.  Jurgis announced that so far as he was concerned the child would have to be buried by the city, since they had no money for a funeral; and at this the poor woman almost went out of her senses, wringing her hands and screaming with grief and despair.  Her child to be buried in a pauper's grave!  And her stepdaughter to stand by and hear it said without protesting!  It was enough to make Ona's father rise up out of his grave to rebuke her!  If it had come to this, they might as well give up at once, and be buried all of them together! ... In the end Marija said that she would help with ten dollars; and Jurgis being still obdurate, Elzbieta went in tears and begged the money from the neighbors, and so little Kristoforas had a mass and a hearse with white plumes on it, and a tiny plot in a graveyard with a wooden cross to mark the place.  The poor mother was not the same for months after that; the mere sight of the floor where little Kristoforas had crawled about would make her weep.  He had never had a fair chance, poor little fellow, she would say.  He had been handicapped from birth.  If only she had heard about it in time, so that she might have had that great doctor to cure him of his lameness! ... Some time ago, Elzbieta was told, a Chicago billionaire had paid a fortune to bring a great European surgeon over to cure his little daughter of the same disease from which Kristoforas had suffered.  And because this surgeon had to have bodies to demonstrate upon, he announced that he would treat the children of the poor, a piece of magnanimity over which the papers became quite eloquent.  Elzbieta, alas, did not read the papers, and no one had told her; but perhaps it was as well, for just then they would not have had the car-fare to spare to go every day to wait upon the surgeon, nor for that matter anybody with the time to take the child.

        All this while that he was seeking for work, there was a dark shadow hanging over Jurgis; as if a savage beast were lurking somewhere in the pathway of his life, and he knew it, and yet could not help approaching the place.  There are all stages of being out of work in Packingtown, and he faced in dread the prospect of reaching the lowest.  There is a place that waits for the lowest man--the fertilizer-plant!

        The men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers.  Not more than one in ten had ever really tried it; the other nine had contented themselves with hearsay evidence and a peep through the door.  There were some things worse than even starving to death.  They would ask Jurgis if he had worked there yet, and if he meant to; and Jurgis would debate the matter with himself.  As poor as they were and making all the sacrifices that they were, would he dare to refuse any sort of work that was offered to him, be it as horrible as ever it could?  Would he dare to go home and eat bread that had been earned by Ona, weak and complaining as she was, knowing that he had been given a chance, and had not had the nerve to take it?  And yet he might argue that way with himself all day, and one glimpse into the fertilizer-works would send him away again shuddering.  He was a man, and he would do his duty; he went and made application-but surely he was not also required to hope for success.

        The fertilizer-works of Durham's lay away from the rest of the plant.  Few visitors ever saw them, and the few who did would come out looking like Dante, of whom the peasants declared that he had been into hell.  To this part of the yards came all the "tankage" and waste products of all sorts; here they dried out the bones-and in suffocating cellars where the daylight never came you might see men and women and children bending over whirling machines and sawing bits of bones into all sorts of shapes, breathing their lungs full of the fine dust, and doomed to die, every one of them, within a certain definite time.  Here they made the blood into albumen, and made other foul-smelling things into things still more foul-smelling.  In the corridors and caverns where it was done you might lose yourself as in the great caves of Kentucky. In the dust and the steam the electric lights would shine like far-off twinkling stars-red and blue, green and purple stars, according to the color of the mist and the brew from which it came.  For the odors in these ghastly charnel-houses there may be words in Lithuanian, but there are none in English.  The person entering would have to summon his courage as for a cold-water plunge.  He would go on like a man swimming under water; he would put his handkerchief over his face, and begin to cough and choke; and then, if he were still obstinate, he would find his head beginning to ring, and the veins in his forehead to throb, until finally he would be assailed by an overpowering blast of ammonia fumes, and would turn and run for his life, and come out half-dazed.

        On top of this were the rooms where they dried the "tankage," the mass of brown stringy stuff that was left after the waste portions of the carcasses had had the lard and tallow dried out of them.  This dried material they would then grind to a fine powder, and after they had mixed it up well with a mysterious but inoffensive brown rock which they brought in and ground up by the hundreds of carloads for that purpose, the substance was ready to be put into bags and sent out to the world as any one of a hundred different brands of standard bone-phosphate.  And then the farmer in Maine or California or Texas would buy this, at say twenty-five dollars a ton, and plant it with his corn; and for several days after the operation the fields would have a strong odor, and the farmer and his wagon and the very horses that had hauled it would all have it too.  In Packingtown the fertilizer is pure, instead of being a flavoring, and instead of a ton or so spread on several acres under the open sky, there are hundreds and thousands of tons of it in one building, heaped here and there in haystack piles, covering the floor several inches deep, and filling the air with a choking dust that becomes a blinding sand-storm when the wind stirs.

        It was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if dragged by an unseen hand.  The month of May was an exceptionally cool one, and his secret prayers were granted; but early in June there came a record-breaking hot spell, and after that there were men wanted in the fertilizer-mill.

        The boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis by this time, and had marked him for a likely man; and so when he came to the door about two o'clock this breathless hot day, he felt a sudden spasm of pain shoot through him-the boss beckoned to him!  In ten minutes more Jurgis had pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his teeth together and gone to work.  Here was one more difficulty for him to meet and conquer!

        His labor took him about one minute to learn.  Before him was one of the vents of the mill in which the fertilizer was being ground--rushing forth in a great brown river, with a spray of the finest dust flung forth in clouds.  Jurgis was given a shovel, and along with half a dozen others it was his task to shovel this fertilizer into carts.  That others were at work he knew by the sound, and by the fact that he sometimes collided with them; otherwise they might as well not have been there, for in the blinding dust-storm a man could not see six feet in front of his face.  When he had filled one cart he had to grope around him until another came, and if there was none on hand he continued to grope till one arrived.  In five minutes he was, of course, a mass of fertilizer from head to feet; they gave him a sponge to tie over his mouth, so that he could breathe, but the sponge did not prevent his lips and eyelids from caking up with it and his ears from filling solid.  He looked like a brown ghost at twilight-from hair to shoes he became the color of the building and of everything in it, and for that matter a hundred yards outside it.  The building had to be left open, and when the wind blew Durham and Company lost a great deal of fertilizer.  Working in his shirt-sleeves, and with the thermometer at over a hundred, the phosphates soaked in through every pore of Jurgis's skin, and in five minutes he had a headache, and in fifteen was almost dazed.  The blood was pounding his brain like an engine's throbbing; there was a frightful pain in the top of his skull, and he could hardly control his hands.  Still, with the memory of his four months' siege behind him, he fought on, in a frenzy of determination; and half an hour later he began to vomit-he vomited until it seemed as if his innards must be tom to shreds.  A man could get used to the fertilizer-mill, the boss had said, if he would only make up his mind to it; but Jurgis now began to see that it was a question of making up his stomach.

        At the end of that day of horror, he could scarcely stand.  He had to catch himself now and then, and lean against a building and get his bearings.  Most of the men, when they came out, made straight for a saloon-they seem to place fertilizer and rattlesnake poison in one class.  But Jurgis was too ill to think of drinking-he could only make his way to the street and stagger on to a car.  He had a sense of humor, and later on, when he became an old hand, he used to think it fun to board a streetcar and see what happened.  Now, however, he was too ill to notice it-how the people in the car began to gasp and sputter, to put their handkerchiefs to their noses, and transfix him with furious glances.  Jurgis only knew that a man in front of him immediately got up and gave him a seat; and that half a minute later the two people on each side of him got up; and that in a full minute the crowded car was nearly empty-those passengers who could not get room on the platform having gotten out to walk.

        Of course Jurgis had made his home a miniature fertilizer-mill a minute after entering.  The stuff was half an inch deep in his skin-his whole system was full of it, and it would have taken a week not merely of scrubbing, but of vigorous exercise, to get it out of him.  As it was, he could be compared with nothing known to men, save that newest discovery of the savants, a substance which emits energy for an unlimited time, without being itself in the least diminished in power.  He smelt so that he made all food at the table taste, and set the whole family to vomiting; for himself it was three days before he could keep anything upon his stomach-he might wash his hands, and use a knife and fork, but were not his mouth and throat filled with the poison?

        And still Jurgis stuck it out!  In spite of splitting headaches he would stagger down to the plant and take up his stand once more, and begin to shovel in the blinding clouds of dust.  And so at the end of the week he was a fertilizer man for life-he was able to eat again, and though his head never stopped aching, it ceased to be so bad that he could not work.

        So there passed another summer.  It was a summer of prosperity, all over the country, and the country ate generously of packinghouse products, and there was plenty of work for all the family, in spite of the packers' efforts to keep a superfluity of labor.  They were again able to pay their debts and to begin to save a little sum; but there were one or two sacrifices they considered too heavy to be made for long-it was too bad that the boys should have to sell papers at their age.  It was utterly useless to caution them and plead with them; quite without knowing it, they were taking on the tone of their new environment.  They were learning to swear in voluble English; they Were learning to pick up cigar-stumps and smoke them, to pass hours of their time gambling with pennies and dice and cigarette-cards; they were learning the location of all the houses of prostitution on the "Levee," and the names of the "madames" who kept them, and the days when they gave their state banquets, which the police captains and the big politicians all, attended.  If a visiting "country-customer" were to ask them, they could show him which was "Hinkydink's" famous saloon, and could even point out to him by name the different gamblers and thugs and "hold-up men" who made the place their headquarters.  And worse yet, the boys were getting out of the habit of coming home at night. What was the use, they would ask, of wasting time and energy and a possible car-fare riding out to the stockyards every night when the weather was pleasant and they could crawl under a truck or into an empty doorway and sleep exactly as well?  So long as they brought home a half dollar for each day, what mattered it when they brought it?  But Jurgis declared that from this to ceasing to come at all would not be a very long step, and so it was decided that Vilimas and Nikalojus should return to school in the fall, and that instead Elzbieta should go out and get some work, her place at home being taken by her younger daughter.

        Little Kotrina was like most children of the poor, prematurely made old; she had to take care of her little brother, who was a cripple, and also of the baby; she had to cook the meals and wash the dishes and clean house, and have supper ready when the workers came home in the evening.  She was only thirteen, and small for her age, but she did all this without a murmur; and her mother went out, and after trudging a couple of days about the yards, settled down as a servant of a "sausage-machine."

        Elzbieta was used to working, but she found this change a hard one, for the reason that she had to stand motionless upon her feet from seven o'clock in the morning till half-past twelve, and again from one till half-past five.  For the first days it seemed to her that she could not stand it-she suffered almost as much as Jurgis had from the fertilizer-and would come out at sundown with her head fairly reeling.  Besides this, she was working in one of the dark holes, by the electric light, and the dampness, too, was deadly-there were always puddles of water on the floor, and a sickening odor of moist flesh in the room.  The people who worked here followed the ancient custom of nature, whereby the ptarmigan is the color of dead leaves in the fall and of snow in winter, and the chameleon, who is black when he lies upon a stump and turns green when he moves to a leaf.  The men and women who worked in this department were precisely the color of the "fresh country sausage" they made.

        The sausage-room was an interesting place to visit, for two or three minutes, and provided that you did not look at the people; the machines were perhaps the most wonderful things in the entire plant.  Presumably sausages were once chopped and stuffed by hand, and if so it would be interesting to know how many workers had been displaced by these inventions.  On one side of the room were the hoppers, into which men shoveled loads of meat and wheelbarrows full of spices; in these great bowls were whirling knifes that made two thousand revolutions a minute, and when the meat was ground fine and adulterated with potato-flour, and well mixed with water, it was forced to the stuffing-machines on the other side of the room.  The latter were tended by women; there was a sort of spout, like the nozzle of a hose, and one of the women would take a long string of "casing" and put the end over the nozzle and then work the whole thing on, as one works on the finger of a tight glove.  This string would be twenty or thirty feet long, but the woman would have it all on in a jiffy; and when she had several on, she would press a lever, and a stream of sausage-meat would be shot out, taking the casing with it as it came.  Thus one might stand and see appear, miraculously born from the machine, a wriggling snake of sausage of incredible length.  In front was a big pan which caught these creatures, and two more women who seized them as fast as they appeared and twisted them into links.  This was for the uninitiated the most perplexing work of all; for all that the woman had to give was a single turn of the wrist; and in some way she contrived to give it so that instead of an endless chain of sausages, one after another, there grew under her hands a bunch of strings, all dangling from a single centre.  It was quite like the feat of a prestidigitator-for the woman worked so fast that the eye could literally not follow her, and there was only a mist of motion, and tangle after tangle of sausages appearing.  In the midst of the mist, however, the visitor would suddenly notice the tense set face, with the two wrinkles graven in the forehead, and the ghastly pallor of the cheeks; and then he would suddenly recollect that it was time he was going on.  The woman did not go on; she stayed right there-hour after hour, day after day, year after year, twisting sausagelinks and racing with death.  It was piece-work, and she was apt to have a family to keep alive; and stern and ruthless economic laws had arranged it that she could only do this by working just as she did, with all her soul upon her work, and with never an instant for a glance at the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who came to stare at her, as at some wild beast in a menagerie.

        With one member trimming beef in a cannery, and another working in a sausage factory, the family had a first-hand knowledge of the great majority of Packingtown swindles.  For it was the custom, as they found, whenever meat was so spoiled that it could not be used for anything else, either to can it or else to chop it up into sausage.  With what had been told them by Jonas, who had worked in the picklerooms, they could now study the whole of the spoiled-meat industry on the inside, and read a new and grim meaning into that old Packingtown jest-that they use everything of the pig except the squeal.

        Jonas had told them how the meat that was taken out of pickle would often be found sour, and how they would rub it up with soda to take away the smell, and sell it to be eaten on free-lunch counters; also of all the miracles of chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort of meat fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and any flavor and any odor they chose.  In the pickling of hams they had an ingenious apparatus, by which they saved time and increased the capacity of the plant-a machine consisting of a hollow needle attached to a pump; by plunging this needle into the meat and working with his foot, a man could fill a ham with pickle in a few seconds.  And yet, in spite of this, there would be hams found spoiled, some of them with an odor so bad that a man could hardly bear to be in the room with them.  To pump into these the packers had a second and much stronger pickle which destroyed the odor-a process known to the workers as "giving them thirty percent."  Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be found some that had gone to the bad.  Formerly these had been sold as "Number Three Grade," but later on some ingenious person had hit upon a new device, and now they would extract. the bone, about which the bad part generally lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron.  After this invention there was no longer Number One, Two, and Three Grade-there was only Number One Grade.  The packers were always originating such schemes-they had what they called "boneless hams," which were all the odds and ends of pork stuffed into casings; and "California hams," which were the shoulders, with big knuckle-joints, and nearly all the meat cut out; and fancy "skinned hams," which were made of the oldest hogs, whose skins were so heavy and coarse that no one would buy them-that is, until they had been cooked and chopped fine and labeled "head cheese"!

        It was only when the whole ham was spoiled that it came into the department of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two-thousand-revolutions-a-minute flyers, and mixed with half a ton of other meat, no odor that ever was in a ham could make any difference.  There was never the least attention paid to what was cut up for sausage; there would come all the way back from Europe old sausage that had been rejected, and that was moldy and white-it would be dosed with borax and glycerin, and dumped into the hoppers, and made over again for home consumption.  There would be meat that had tumbled out on the floor, in the dirt and sawdust, where the workers had tramped and spit uncounted billions of consumption germs.  There would be meat stored in great piles in rooms; and the water from leaky roofs would drip over it, and thousands of rats would race about on it.  It was too dark in these storage places to see well, but a man could run his hand over these piles of meat and sweep off handfuls of the dried dung of rats.  These rats were nuisances, and the packers would put poisoned bread out for them; they would die, and then rats, bread, and meat would go into the hoppers together.  This is no fairy story and no joke; the meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man who did the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he saw one-there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with which a poisoned rat was a tidbit.  There was no place for the men to wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the sausage.  There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that would be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there.  Under the system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was the cleaning out of the waste-barrels.  Every spring they did it; and in the barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water and cart load after cart load of it would be taken up and dumped into the hoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public's breakfast.  Some of it they would make into "smoked" sausage-but as the smoking took time, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon their chemistry department, and preserve it with borax and color it with gelatin to make it brown.  All of their sausage came out of the same bowl, but when they came to wrap it they would stamp some of it "special," and for this they would charge two cents more a pound.

        Such were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was placed, and such was the work she was compelled to do.  It was stupefying, brutalizing work; it left her no time to think, no strength for anything.  She was part of the machine she tended, and every faculty that was not needed for the machine was doomed to be crushed out of existence.  There was only one mercy about the cruel grind-that it gave her the gift of insensibility.  Little by little she sank into a torpor-she fell silent.  She would meet Jurgis and Ona in the evening, and the three would walk home together, often without saying a word.  Ona, too, was falling into the habit of silence---Ona, who had once gone about singing like a bird.  She was sick and miserable, and often she would barely have strength enough to drag herself home.  And there they would eat what they had to eat, and afterwards, because there was only their misery to talk of, they would crawl into bed and fall into a stupor and never stir until it was time to get up again, and dress by candlelight, and go back to the machines.  They were so numbed that they did not even suffer much from hunger, now; only the children continued to fret when the food ran short.

        Yet the soul of Ona was not dead-the souls of none of them were dead, but only sleeping; and now and then they would waken, and these were cruel times.  The gates of memory would roll open-old joys would stretch out their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them, and they would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them, and feel its forever immeasurable weight.  They could not even cry out beneath it; but anguish would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death.  It was a thing scarcely to be spoken-a thing never spoken by all the world, that will not know its own defeat.

        They were beaten; they had lost the game, they were swept aside.  It was not less tragic because it was so sordid, because that it had to do with wages and grocery bills and rents.  They had dreamed of freedom; of a chance to look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean, to see their child grow up to be strong.  And now it was all gone-it would never be!  They had played the game and they had lost.  Six years more of toil they had to face before they could expect the least respite, the cessation of the payments upon the house; and how cruelly certain it was that they could never stand six years of such a life as they were living!  They were lost, they were going down-and there was no deliverance for them, no hope; for all the help it gave them the vast city in which they lived might have been an ocean waste, a wilderness, a desert, a tomb.  So often this mood would come to Ona, in the night-time, when something wakened her; she would lie, afraid of the beating of her own heart, fronting the blood-red eyes of the old primeval terror of life.  Once she cried aloud, and woke Jurgis, who was tired and cross. After that she learned to weep silently--their moods so seldom came together now! It was as if their hopes were buried in separate graves.

        Jurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own.  There was another specter following him.  He had never spoken of it, nor would he allow any one else to speak of it-he had never acknowledged its existence to himself.  Yet the battle with it took all the manhood that he had-and once or twice, alas, a little more.  Jurgis had discovered drink.

        He was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after day, week after week-until now there was not an organ of his body that did its work without pain, until the sound of ocean breakers echoed in his head day and night, and the buildings swayed and danced before him as he went down the street.  And from all the unending horror of this there was a respite, deliverance--he could drink!  He could forget the pain, he could slip off the burden; he would see clearly again, he would be master of his brain, of his thoughts, of his will.  His dead self would stir in him, and he would find himself laughing and cracking jokes with his companions-he would be a man again, and master of his life.

        It was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than two or three drinks.  With the first drink he could eat a meal, and he could persuade himself that that was economy; with the second he could eat another meal-but there would come a time when he could eat no more, and then to pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, a defiance of the age-long instincts of his hunger-haunted class.  One day, however, he took the plunge, and drank up all that he had in his pockets, and went home half "piped," as the men phrase it.  He was happier than he had been in a year; and yet, because he knew that the happiness would not last, he was savage, too-with those who would wreck it, and with the world, and with his life; and then again, beneath this, he was sick with the shame of himself.  Afterward, when he saw the despair of his family, and reckoned up the money he had spent, the tears came into his eyes, and he began the long battle with the spectre.

        It was a battle that had no end, that never could have one.  But Jurgis did not realize that very clearly; he was not given much time for reflection.  He simply knew that he was always fighting.  Steeped in misery and despair as he was, merely to walk down the street was to be put upon the rack.  There was surely a saloon on the corner-perhaps on all four corners, and some in the middle of the block as well; and each one stretched out a hand to him-each one had a personality of its own, allurements unlike any other.  Going and coming-before sunrise and after dark-there was warmth and a glow of light, and the steam of hot food, and perhaps music, or a friendly face, and a word of good cheer.  Jurgis developed a fondness for having Ona on his arm whenever he went out on the street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast. I t was pitiful to have Ona know of this-it drove him wild to think of it; the thing was not fair, for Ona had never tasted drink, and so could not understand.  Sometimes, in desperate hours, he would find himself wishing that she might learn what it was, so that he need not be ashamed in her presence.  They might drink together, and escape from the horror--escape for a while, come what would.

        So there came a time when nearly all the conscious life of Jurgis consisted of a struggle with the craving for liquor.  He would have ugly moods, when he hated Ona and the whole family, because they stood in his way.  He was a fool to have married; he had tied himself down, and made himself a slave.  It was all because he was a married man that he was compelled to stay in the yards; if it had not been for that he might have gone off like Jonas, and to hell with the packers.  There were single men in the fertilizer-mill-and those few were working only for a chance to escape.  Meantime, too, they had something to think about while they worked-they had the memory of the last time they had been drunk, and the hope of the time when they would be drunk again.  As for Jurgis, he expected to bring home every penny; he could not even go with the men at noontime-he was supposed to sit down and eat his dinner on a pile of fertilizer dust.

        This was not always his mood, of course; he still loved his family.  But just now was a time of trial.  Poor little Antanas, for instance-who had never failed to win him with a smile-little Antanas was not smiling just now, being a mass of fiery red pimples.  He had had all the diseases that babies are heir to, in quick succession-scarlet fever, mumps, and whooping cough in the first year, and now he was down with the measles.  There was no one to attend him but Kotrina; there was no doctor to help him because they were too poor, and children did not die of the measles-at least not often.  Now and then Kotrina would find time to sob over his woes, but for the greater part of the time he had to be left alone, barricaded upon the bed.  The floor was full of draughts, and if he caught cold he would die.  At night he was tied down, lest he should kick the covers off him, while the family lay in their stupor of exhaustion.  He would lie and scream for hours, almost in convulsions; and then when he was worn out, he would lie whimpering and wailing in his torment.  He was burning up with fever, and his eyes were running sores; in the daytime he was a thing uncanny and impish to behold, a plaster of pimples and sweat, a great purple lump of misery.

        Yet all this was not really cruel as it sounds, for sick as he was, little Antanas was the least unfortunate member of that family.  He was quite able to bear his sufferings-it was as if he had all these complaints to show what a prodigy of health he was.  He was the child of his parents' youth and joy; he grew up like the conjurer's rose bush, and all the world was his oyster.  In general, he toddled around the kitchen all day with a lean and hungry look the portion of the family's allowance that fell to him was not enough, and he was unrestrainable in his demand for more.  Antanas was but little over a year old, and already no one but his father could manage him.

        It seemed as if he had taken all of his mother's strength-had left nothing for those that might come after him.  Ona was with child again now, and it was a dreadful thing to contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and despairing as he was, could not but understand that yet other agonies were on the way, and shudder at the thought of them.

        For Ona was visibly going to pieces.  In the first place she was developing a cough, like the one that had killed old Dede Antanas.  She had had a trace of it ever since that fatal morning when the greedy streetcar corporation had turned her out into the rain; but now it was beginning to grow serious, and to wake her up at night.  Even worse than that was the fearful nervousness from which she suffered.  She would have frightful headaches and fits of aimless weeping; and sometimes she would come home at night shuddering and moaning, and would fling herself down upon the bed and burst into tears.  Several times she was quite beside herself and hysterical; and then Jurgis would go half mad with fright.  Elzbieta would explain to him that it could not be helped, that woman was subject to such things when she was pregnant; but he was hardly to be persuaded, and would beg and plead to know what had happened.  She had never been like this before, he would argue-it was monstrous and unthinkable.   It was the life she had to live, the accursed work she had to do, that was killing her by inches.  She was not fitted for it-no woman was fitted for it, no woman ought to be allowed to do such work; if the world could not keep them alive any other way it ought to kill them at once and be done with it.  They ought not to marry, to have children; no working-man ought to marry-if he, Jurgis, had known what a woman was like, he would have had his eyes torn out first.  So he would carry on, becoming half hysterical himself, which was an unbearable thing to see in a big man; Ona would pull herself together and fling herself into his arms, begging him to stop, to be still, that she would be better, it would be all right.  So she would lie and sob out her grief upon his shoulder, while he gazed at her, as helpless as a wounded animal, the target of unseen enemies.