The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest: The writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, and others who have voiced the struggle against social injustice; selected from twenty-five languages; covering a period of five thousand years — John Shaqi
The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest: The writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, and others who have voiced the struggle against social injustice; selected from twenty-five languages; covering a period of five thousand years
General
The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest: The writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, and others who have voiced the struggle against social injustice; selected from twenty-five languages; covering a period of five thousand years
Social justice; Social problems
She held in one hand a threaded needle, in the other a pair
of trousers, to which she had been adding the accessories
demanded by our civilization. One had never seen her without a
pair of trousers in her hand, because she could only manage to
supply them with decency at the rate of seven or eight pairs
a day, working twelve hours. For each pair she received seven
farthings, and used nearly one farthing's worth of cotton;
and this gave her an income, in good times, of six to seven
shillings a week. But some weeks there were no trousers to be
had and then it was necessary to live on the memory of those
which had been, together with a little sum put by from weeks
when trousers were more plentiful. Deducting two shillings
and threepence for rent of the little back room, there was
therefore, on an average, about two shillings and ninepence
left for the sustenance of herself and husband, who was
fortunately a cripple, and somewhat indifferent whether he
ate or not. And looking at her face, so furrowed, and at her
figure, of which there was not much, one could well understand
that she, too, had long established within her such internal
economy as was suitable to one who had been "in trousers"
twenty-seven years, and, since her husband's accident fifteen
years before, in trousers only, finding her own cotton.... He
was a man with a round, white face, a little grey mustache
curving down like a parrot's beak, and round whitish eyes. In
his aged and unbuttoned suit of grey, with his head held rather
to one side, he looked like a parrot--a bird clinging to its
perch, with one grey leg shortened and crumpled against the
other. He talked, too, in a toneless, equable voice, looking
sideways at the fire, above the rims of dim spectacles, and now
and then smiling with a peculiar disenchanted patience.
No--he said--it was no use to complain; did no good! Things
had been like this for years, and so, he had no doubt, they
always would be. There had never been much in trousers; not
this common sort that anybody'd wear, as you might say. Though
he'd never seen anybody wearing such things; and where they
went to he didn't know--out of England, he should think. Yes,
he had been a carman; ran over by a dray. Oh! yes, they had
given him something--four bob a week; but the old man had died
and the four bob had died too. Still, there he was, sixty years
old--not so very bad for his age....
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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