Snow on the headlight : $b a story of the great Burlington strikeWarman, Cy
General
Snow on the headlight : $b a story of the great Burlington strike
Warman, Cy
Burlington Strike, 1888 -- Fiction; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
"Well, it is not all worked out yet," said the Philosopher, "and will
not be until we come up for a final hearing, in a court that is
infallible and unfoolable; and what a lot of surprises are in store for
some people. It is not good to judge, and yet I can't help picturing it
all to myself. I see a sleek old sinner, who has gone through this life
perfectly satisfied with himself, edging his way in and sidling over
where the sheep are. Then in comes this poor devil who went to jail this
morning--that was his first trip, but the road is easy when you have
been over it once--and he, having been herding all along with the goats,
naturally wanders over that way. Then at the last moment I see the Good
Shepherd shooing the sleek old buck over where the goats are and
bringing the milk-thief back with him, and I see the look of surprise on
the old gentleman's face as he drops down the 'goat-chute.'"
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH
In time people grew tired of talking and reading about the strike, and
more than one man wished it might end. The strikers wished it too, for
hundreds of them were at the point of starvation. The police courts were
constantly crowded, and often overflowed and filled the morgue. Misery,
disappointment, want, and hunger made men commit crimes the very thought
of which would have caused them to shudder a year ago. One day a
desolate looking striker was warming his feet in a cheap saloon when a
well-dressed stranger came and sat near him and asked the cause of his
melancholia.
"I'm a striker," said the man; "and I have had no breakfast. More than
that, my wife is hungry at home and she is sick, too. She's been sick
ever since we buried the baby, three weeks ago. All day yesterday I
begged for work, but there was nothing for me to do. To-day I have
begged for money to buy medicine and food for her, but I have received
nothing, and now my only hope is that she may be dead when I go home
to-night, empty-handed and hungry."
The stranger drew his chair yet nearer to that of the miserable man and
asked in a low tone why he did not steal.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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