Or when by chance I managed to sleep through the first part of the night, the “French girl” would have a brainstorm and arouse the whole house. The nightmare scene that followed! Men, women, and children would rush out on their little balconies in their night-clothes. The more amiable would remonstrate with her, reminding her of the sick and sleeping children. A few, the two Russians and an Irishman, would curse the girl and threaten to call the police. Though this girl was born in the United States, the daughter of native Germans, she persisted in calling herself French. Her mother was a cook in a private family and the girl herself had been trained as a lady’s maid. Getting “notions” in her head, so the mother explained, she had proclaimed her intention of devoting herself to moving pictures. Her brain-storms were caused by her parents suggesting that she return to her old job and earn her own living. The loud curses and abuse she hurled at them! When the pleadings and threats of their neighbors failed to stop this row, the musicians of the tenement would fetch out their instruments and practise usually for the rest of the night. Hideous as this may sound, the blast of the cornet, the pipings of a flute and two piccolos, and the groans of a bass violin were no worse than the curses of the men and the wailings of the women and children. When the musicians kept at it long enough the “French girl” was shamed into silence or indistinct grumbling. Then there were nights when there would be no sleep—only subdued cursing, complaints, and stench—the stench of unmoved garbage, of the unwashed streets, of the laundry opposite, and several other unclassified stenches. I used to get up in the mornings feeling worse than a wet rag—like a wet dish-rag saturated with stench. All day long I trudged the streets, such filthy streets, with overflowing garbage-cans that had not been emptied for days and days. How I longed to possess the power which the people because of my khaki attributed to me! “Lady, my baby is so sick. The landlord’s done cut off the water, and I has to go up and down six flight of stairs to get every drop of water we use. Won’t you please speak to the landlord, lady? My baby is so sick.” This was a little Italian woman on lower First Avenue, the mother of six small children. When I reminded her that I was not a city employee, that I had no authority, she came back at me with the statement that I was educated, the landlord would listen to me. By actual count I found forty-nine children living on that top floor of that six-story flat-house. Not one of them looked to be above eight years old. Several of them were sick, and the mother of one family ill in bed.