Let us define the poor girls as those who are forced to earn whatever food they eat, whatever clothing they wear, by hard toil; girls who do not receive one cent, one crumb, from the dead, helpless, or recreant parents who brought them into the world. It is, of course, impossible to give their number accurately; but there is a result attainable by persistent observation, day by day and week by week, at all hours, and in all sorts of places, which is quite as reliable and satisfactory as any that is obtainable through blundering census-takers; and I know this army of poor girls to be one of great magnitude. The sewing girls alone I have heard estimated at thirty thousand, by one whose life is in every day contact with them, and has been for years. This is but a single class among the poor girls, reflect. The estimate may be deemed an exaggerated one. Then we will disarm criticism by taking it at half its word. If, accordingly, we say thirty thousand for _the whole_--for all classes--it is still a vague figure.... Few persons ever saw thirty thousand people gathered together. But we all comprehend distances. _If this army of poor girls were to form in a procession together, it would be more than ten miles long_. THE SEWING GIRLS. There are two classes of sewing girls in New York. Those who work at home, and those who go out to work at places provided by their employers. Those who work at home are comparatively few. They stay there not from choice, but from necessity. Bodily deformity, or infirmity, or sickness, or invalid parents, or relatives, whom they are unable to leave, keeps them there. The writer in _Putnam_, to whose deeply interesting statement we refer the reader for further information on this point, found a poor girl of this class, who was kept at home by the sickness of her consumptive father, living and working in a miserable tenement house in the upper part of Mulberry street. After a brief conversation with her, he asked: 'What rent do you pay for this room, Mary?' 'Four dollars a month, sir.' "That," he continues, "is little more than thirteen cents a day, you will observe." 'What do you get for making such a shirt as that?' 'Six cents, sir.' 'What! You make a shirt for six cents?' 'Yes, sir, and furnish the thread.' If my reader is incredulous, I can assure him that Mary does not tell a falsehood; for I know that this price is paid by some of the most 'respectable' firms in New York. 'Can't you get work to do at higher prices?' 'Sometimes, sir. But these folks are better than many others; they pay regularly. Some who offer better prices will cheat, or they won't pay when the work is carried home These folks give me plenty of work, and I never have to wait; so I don't look around for better. I can't afford to take the risk, sir; so many will cheat us.'