At noon we were called to dinner. After standing what seemed an interminable time to a hungry man who for half a day had picked cucumbers out on the wet ground, beneath dripping trees, we were allowed to go in to dinner. In a rough outer room there was portioned out to each of the four hired men a bowl of tea, a tin plate containing vegetables and a small piece of meat. We were fed, about as the dog was fed, except that we sat at a table. Not one of my three fellow-workers had yet spoken to me. Turning to the one on my right I smiled and made some off-hand remark about the tough meat, which just at that moment he seemed to be struggling with. He smiled back but made no reply. I looked across the table at the slim, black eyed, busy fellow opposite me and made some non-consequential remark. He grinned with a little more accent than my right hand man. I then spoke to the man on my left, who was an old man of three score years and ten. He had his face very close to his plate and did not raise his head. I then discovered that one of the men was a Hun, the other a Pole. Neither could speak or understand my language, and the old man, a Dutchman, was stone deaf. This was about the most convivial dinner party I had ever attended. The afternoon was about as jovial as the dinner, and was augmented by more showers and a big lot of pickles. Did you ever pick pickles? If not, don't do it, at least not for one dollar a day, unless you must. How your back aches from continual stooping! Your fingers, black, bruised, and sore from the tiny, prickly cucumber points, drive a fellow to saying things he would not dare to say before his dad. At four o'clock the farmer left, to haul the pickles to the pickle factory. At five o'clock the Dutchman and the Pole went in to milk. These men were working by the month, each receiving fifteen dollars a month. On this farm many cows were milked. At six o'clock the son quit, which made little difference, as he spent most of his time in the shed. As he was leaving I said, "Is it time to quit?" He answered decidedly, "No, I'll tell you when to quit." And so the Austrian and I worked on. The son had mounted his motorcycle and flashed by us like a spark from a trolley. The Hun followed him with an intense look which seemed to say: "When I get my American farm I, too, shall have one."