The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself — John Shaqi
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by HerselfRichardson, Dorothy
History
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself
Richardson, Dorothy
Women -- Employment -- New York (State) -- New York -- History -- Sources
The rain was falling in great gray blobs upon the skylight of the little
room in which I opened my eyes on that February morning whence dates the
chronological beginning of this autobiography. The jangle of a bell had
awakened me, and its harsh, discordant echoes were still trembling upon
the chill gloom of the daybreak. Lying there, I wondered whether I had
really heard a bell ringing, or had only dreamed it. Everything about me
was so strange, so painfully new. Never before had I waked to find
myself in that dreary, windowless little room, and never before had I
lain in that narrow, unfriendly bed.
Staring hard at the streaming skylight, I tried to think, to recall some
one of the circumstances that might possibly account for my having
entered that room and for my having laid me down on that cot. When? and
how? and why? How inexplicable it all was in those first dazed moments
after that rude awakening! And then, as the fantasies of a dream
gradually assume a certain vague order in the waking recollection, there
came to me a confused consciousness of the events of the preceding
twenty-four hours--the long journey and the weariness of it; the
interminable frieze of flying landscape, with its dreary, snow-covered
stretches blurred with black towns; the shriek of the locomotive as it
plunged through the darkness; the tolling of ferry-bells, and then, at
last, the slow sailing over a black river toward and into a giant city
that hung splendid upon the purple night, turret upon turret, and tower
upon tower, their myriad lights burning side by side with the stars, a
city such as the prophets saw in visions, a city such as dreamy
childhood conjures up in the muster of summer clouds at sunset.
Suddenly out of this chaotic recollection of unearthly splendors came
the memory, sharp and pinching, of a new-made grave on a wind-swept hill
in western Pennsylvania. With equal suddenness, too, the fugue of
thundering locomotives, and shrieking whistles, and sad, sweet tollings
of ferry-bells massed itself into the clangorous music of a terrifying
monody--"WORK OR STARVE, WORK OR STARVE!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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