AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 JOSEPH HUSBAND 
 
finss ~r ir 
 
 Book 1_ 
 
 Copyright N" 
 
 COPSRIGHT DEPOSnv 
 
^V ^^^^9^ pntiUnti 
 
 AMERICA AT WORK. With frontispiece. 
 A YEAR IN A COAL MINE. With frontispiece, 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 Boston and New York 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH HUSBAND 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 1915 
 

 COPYRIGHT, I915, BY JOSEPH HUSBAND 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published November iqis 
 
 Ci.A416454 
 
 NOV 181blb 
 
TO 
 
 THAT BEST OF FRIENDS 
 
 CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. Semaphore . 
 II. The Narrow House 
 
 III. Vulcan 
 
 IV. Leviathan 
 V. High Tension 
 
 VI. Fire-Damp 
 VII. Skyscraper 
 VIII. Dynamite 
 IX. The Mills . 
 X. Telephone 
 
 XI. From a Thousand Hills 
 XII. Concrete 
 
 I 
 II 
 20 
 
 32 
 40 
 
 49 
 57 
 65 
 79 
 89 
 96 
 03 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 SEMAPHORE 
 
 EVERY night, at exactly eight minutes 
 past nine, the limited roars through 
 the village. I can see it coming several 
 miles away, its powerful headlight fingering 
 rails and telegraph wires with a shimmer of 
 light. Silently and slowly it seems to draw 
 nearer; then suddenly, it is almost above 
 me. A wild roar of steam and driving 
 wheels, the wail of its hoarse whistle at the 
 crossing, and then, looming black against 
 the night sky, it smashes past, and in the 
 swing of drivers and connecting rods I think 
 of a greyhound, or a racehorse thundering 
 the final stretch. High in the cab window 
 a motionless figure peers ahead into the 
 I 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 night ; suddenly he is blackly silhouetted by 
 the glare of the opened fire-door, and in the 
 orange light I can see the fireman swing 
 back and forth as he feeds his fire. The 
 light burns against the flying steam and 
 smoke above; then blackness — and now 
 the white windows of the Pullmans flicker 
 past, and through the swirl of dust and 
 smoke I watch the two red lights sink down 
 the track. 
 
 Every time I see that black figure in the 
 cab I wonder how far he can peer ahead into 
 the night, and I wonder at the perfect faith 
 that is his : faith in silent men who keep the 
 semaphores lighted and true, and in those 
 humble servants whose constant watchful- 
 ness guards him from broken rail and loos- 
 ened fish-plate. Last night I sat beside 
 him. 
 
 It was not my limited that I boarded, but 
 a faster, greater engine that helps to rush 
 
 2 
 
SEMAPHORE 
 
 half across the continent a train before 
 which all others wait and all tracks are 
 cleared. I stood with the division superin- 
 tendent on the platform of the little station 
 where it must pause for water. Beyond the 
 yardlights its song rose clear and vibrant. 
 With a flare of lofty headlight and the grind 
 of brakes it was beside us, steel lungs pant- 
 ing heavily, a reek of oil sweating from 
 heated sides. 
 
 The engineer, a torch in his hand, swung 
 down, and we shook hands before I climbed 
 the iron rungs to the cab. From the high 
 windows I watched him oil and stroke the 
 sinews of his monster. Behind, on the top 
 of the tender, the fireman was filling the 
 tanks with a torrent of water. Then they 
 joined me, and in the torchlight I saw the 
 black studded end of the boiler, like a 
 giant cask-head, a tangle of pipes across its 
 face ; water-gauge and steam dial dimly il- 
 3 
 
AMERICA ATLWORK 
 
 lumined by shaded bulls-eyes. The engi- 
 neer blew out the torch and climbed into 
 his seat. Opposite him, I settled into mine, 
 the fireman behind me. 
 
 There was the thin piping of a whistle in 
 the cab and the engineer slowly opened the 
 throttle. We were off. Rumbling and sway- 
 ing, we passed the upper windows of the 
 station. Telegraphers in shirtsleeves were 
 fingering their instruments beneath shaded 
 lights. The chill of the frosty night air 
 penetrated the cab, and I buttoned my coat 
 about me and looked ahead into the dark- 
 ness. We were gathering headway. A 
 string of freight cars on a siding swept be- 
 hind us; already the lights of the village 
 were far behind. Ahead of the long body 
 of the locomotive, extending incredibly be- 
 yond the small front windows of the cab, 
 the track, hardly visible in the ray of the 
 headlight, terminated suddenly in the dark- 
 4 
 
SEMAPHORE 
 
 ness. The roar of drivers and machinery 
 was deafening. From side to side the engine 
 rocked Hke a plunging derehct. The crash- 
 ing roar grew louder, loud beyond belief, 
 and the rocking and trembling almost threw 
 me from the seat. 
 
 The fireman slid open the jaws of the 
 fire-box, flooding the cab with light and 
 heat. Within, the flame, white to pale daf- 
 fodil in its intensity, twisted like streams of 
 fluid in the draught. Behind the cab the 
 black end of the tender rose high above 
 my line of vision, rocking and swaying in 
 contrary motion to the engine, like a bull- 
 dog twisting on a stick. Balancing on the 
 smooth steel floor, the fireman stoked his 
 grate-bars, his shovel feeding spots where 
 the coal was thinnest. Then darkness as he 
 closed the doors with his foot. Only the two 
 dim lights on gauge and indicator; and on 
 each side, and above, the stars racing evenly 
 S 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 beside us. I looked down at the road-bed : it 
 was flooding past us like a torrent. 
 
 "Green." I caught the word above the 
 tumult. 
 
 "Green," echoed the fireman. 
 
 Far ahead, four colored lights gleamed like 
 gems against the sky. Two rubies below; 
 above, another ruby and beside it the pale 
 green of an emerald. The green light was in 
 the upper right-hand corner of the square. 
 
 "Seventy-five to eighty." The fireman 
 shouted in my ear. 
 
 "Block's clear. That green light gives us 
 a clear track." 
 
 Already the block semaphores were be- 
 hind us. Blinded by the rush of air I tried 
 to see the track ahead. Like a dark ava- 
 lanche the world seemed pouring under our 
 pilot, and beneath I felt the road-bed, at 
 last in motion, shivering and swirling like a 
 mill-race. From under the engine puffs of 
 6 
 
SEMAPHORE 
 
 steam shredded into fog-rift, white in the 
 light from the round holes beneath the 
 grate-bars. And through the two great cir- 
 cles of light projected by them, as from a 
 stereopticon, flickered embankments, tele- 
 graph-poles, hills and houses, like a reeling 
 cinematograph. 
 
 "Green." 
 
 "Green," came the confirmation. 
 
 The fixed green star shone for a minute 
 and flashed past. 
 
 Faintly I heard the fireman at my ear. 
 
 "Almost ninety." 
 
 Long ago the headlight had become use- 
 less except as a warning of our approach; 
 we were past the farthest range of its illu- 
 mination before the eye could discern what 
 lay before us. Blind and helpless we tore 
 on. Broken rail, a train on the crossing, or 
 open switch, — we would never see it. But 
 "green" shone the light, and wholly trust- 
 7 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 ing in the silent men who flashed to us their 
 word of safety we never fahered. I thought 
 of a stalled train that might lie sleeping on 
 our rails. But "green" was the light, — 
 their thin cry through the long night 
 watches. 
 
 The engineer, silent, his hand fingering 
 throttle and air-brake, sat huddled high on 
 his seat. Through his goggles he watched 
 the blackness ahead. A brief second's time 
 to set his brakes was all he asked. Far off in 
 the great city the chief dispatcher was fol- 
 lowing our flight mile by mile, block to 
 block. Over the wires his voice and the 
 voices of his helpers told the rapid story of 
 our progress. In the lonely tower at the 
 next curve some one would flash the green 
 beacon to our straining eyes, and report us 
 on our way. To him others were now re- 
 porting, giving him the certain knowledge 
 that our way was safe. Keepers of the 
 8 
 
SEMAPHORE 
 
 safety of our path ; how perfectly we trusted 
 them; how great and unrewarded is their 
 perfect service. 
 
 I looked back. Behind, the Pullmans 
 cast steady squares of light on the racing 
 cut. Here was our freight. Sons of Mary; 
 even more blindly they trusted, "peace- 
 fully sleeping and unaware." 
 
 Sons of Martha; they were beside me. 
 
 "Green/' they chorused. 
 
 Out of the night came the instant crash 
 of the westbound express. With a blast of 
 air and a slamming roar it seemed to brush 
 us. It was gone. 
 
 Through a sleeping village we tore on 
 with a wild hoarse cry. Darkened windows 
 flashed reflected light. A station platform 
 whipped past our heels ; huddled groups of 
 people pressed back against the building. 
 
 "Green!" 
 
 Like brilliant stars from a rocket gleamed 
 
 9 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 a constellation at a double crossing. Ruby 
 drops of fire ; but the pale green light shone 
 steadily above. The wheels hammered on 
 the crossing. 
 
 Thicker and thicker, like colored fire-flies, 
 the switchlights tangled in a maze. We 
 were entering the city. There was the con- 
 stant rattle of switch points, and I felt the 
 growing murmur of the streets. On either 
 side buildings piled up in shapeless walls 
 like a canyon ; there were sudden glimpses 
 of interrupted streets, waiting street cars, 
 and the glare of arc lights. We were slowing 
 down. 
 
 Cleveland. The station echoed with the 
 iron coughing of engines. Men and women 
 surged between waiting trains ; their voices 
 mingled in the uproar. The departing, the 
 returning; men staggering with bags and 
 suitcases, women with little children in 
 their arms. In the green star they trusted. 
 
II 
 
 THE NARROW HOUSE 
 
 THERE is a gardener in a little Massa- 
 chusetts village who for a long life- 
 time has devoted himself to the culture of 
 roses; my friend in Elmira has cases upon 
 cases of beautifully mounted butterflies, for 
 fifteen years he has studied and collected 
 them; both have become authorities, and 
 so also has Wheelan, for the past twenty 
 years a maker of caskets. 
 
 Casket factories, no matter what we may 
 feel to the contrary, are quite like any other 
 manufacturing business that daily places 
 its orders with a hundred different houses 
 for its materials and supplies ; and so it was 
 not curiosity that first took me there, but 
 business, and on a business basis my ac- 
 II 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 quaintance with Wheelan was begun. In 
 the street some boys were playing a noisy 
 game and on an opposite corner a new 
 house was building. I opened the heavy 
 factory door and entered the dusty little 
 office of the superintendent. Fine wood 
 dust filled the air, and dust in a smooth, 
 flourlike coating lay on the desk and the 
 shelves. Wheelan was checking invoices 
 and nodded to me between figures. I sat 
 down on a chair by the door and waited. 
 Tall, thin, stoop-shouldered, hands hard 
 and twisted with labor; there is nothing 
 distinctive about him except the pleasant 
 blue eyes and a thin-set wrinkle or two 
 about the small mouth, that mean perhaps 
 a lingering sympathy with humor, perhaps 
 a simple kindliness. 
 
 "Do you want to go through the fac- 
 tory?" he finally asked me, when business 
 was done. I did and I did not, but I nodded 
 
 12 
 
THE NARROW HOUSE 
 
 and my acquiescence seemed to please 
 him. 
 
 The great main floor was cluttered with 
 machinery, and the ceiling writhed, a wav- 
 ing jungle of circling belts. The air was 
 heavy with the dry, pungent smell of oak, 
 streaked almost visibly, it seemed, with an 
 occasional clean breath of fragrant cedar. 
 Conversation was impossible above the 
 screaming of the saws and the splintering 
 stridor of the planers. Everywhere were 
 trucks, high with piles of lumber, moving 
 endlessly on through the great room, and 
 all of the oak planks were cut to one or two 
 general lengths: there were short ones, and 
 there was a size that seemed about six feet, 
 more or less. In the rear of the woodwork- 
 ing room I stopped for a minute, and, ab- 
 sorbed in the fascination of the thousand 
 flying wheels and the perfect order and the 
 system, forgot the need which created it. 
 13 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 Up in the comparative quiet of the sec- 
 ond floor the piles of boards were taking 
 shape. With the speed of long practice fifty 
 hands glued, nailed, and fitted, and every- 
 where against the walls and between the 
 work-tables stood shallow oak and cedar 
 boxes. How many there were! And yet, 
 each day a hundred were trundled into 
 waiting freight cars. 
 
 There was a smell of paint and varnish in 
 the next rooms. Piled high against the walls 
 were a thousand little boxes. How brief is 
 life ! With broad brushes the painters 
 spread the smooth, white paint. How very 
 small were they of the great pile in the 
 corner. 
 
 "Something pretty swell in Circassian 
 walnut," said Wheelan; "and those, they're 
 real mahogany, the genuine, solid stufi^." 
 
 He patted the sleek side of a great chest. 
 "First-class piano finish. That's my own 
 14 
 
THE NARROW HOUSE 
 
 design, those there, side lets down and 
 makes a divan — two pillows to match. 
 Looks real natural-like." 
 
 I looked inside the unfinished case. 
 
 "No, there is n't any finish there. No 
 one sees that. We leave the bottoms and 
 the insides rough." 
 
 Beyond, in the temporary storerooms, 
 were hundreds of long boxes of various 
 shapes and colors, piled one above the 
 other in rows, like canoes in a boathouse. 
 
 "That natural-shaped kind," Wheelan 
 said, pointing to a great section filled with 
 the traditional-shaped coffins, all painted 
 a lustrous imitation black walnut, "that's 
 the kind the soldiers and sailors use. Farm- 
 ers like 'em, too — we ship lots up to Min- 
 nesota and the Dakotas." 
 
 "Cheap, too," he continued, "but those 
 fine wood ones, they're my real delight. 
 I've got up three original designs myself — 
 IS 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 all turned out popular, too. Why, Richard 
 Hippin, you know the name, of course, used 
 that style X5 with the hand-carved claw 
 feet." 
 
 "How long will they last, those cheap 
 ones.?" Then, almost before I finished my 
 question, I suddenly realized how com- 
 pletely a long-cherished belief had been 
 torn from me, and a new realization as in- 
 stantly replaced it. A few months, or a few 
 years, what did it matter. 
 
 "Oh, the best of them go pretty quick, I 
 suppose. Them? Well, a year. But they're 
 not put so well together. These swell ones 
 ought to last for five or perhaps ten years. 
 Then, if there's a copper lining — " 
 
 I moved away to look at an oak box, 
 elaborately carved and stained a shiny, 
 brilliant green. It is a very familiar finish, 
 but I could think only of the chairs and 
 tables on a hotel roof-garden, where there 
 16 
 
THE NARROW HOUSE 
 
 is a gay little orchestra that is still playing, 
 no matter how late you stay. They are 
 finished in the same stain. 
 
 At the end of a long high room ten young 
 women were sewing white lilies of the valley 
 on filmy shrouds. Outside there was sun- 
 shine and the noise of the street; they 
 looked up when we entered, smiling and 
 chatting over their work. They were very 
 gay and their eyes seemed filled with 
 thoughts far away from white silk and 
 shapeless garments. 
 
 A man was gluing a strip of thick, black 
 cloth on the side of a casket, smoothing it 
 until there was no crease, then heating it 
 with a jet of puffy steam to give it a 
 gloss. 
 
 "How's that for style?" said Wheelan. 
 "It's so dignified and yet it ain't cheap- 
 looking, even if it is sort of plain. Put on 
 silver handles and a nice plate and you get 
 17 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 something that goes into the very best 
 houses." 
 
 Satin and fine cloth were the Hnings, but 
 beneath the rich textures the workmen were 
 stuffing excelsior. A young woman with a 
 mountainous plenitude of immaculate saf- 
 fron hair was tacking gimp along the edges. 
 She was whistling a snatch from '*The 
 Chocolate Soldier." 
 
 Down again, on a lower floor, the care- 
 fully wrapped caskets were being cased in 
 the familiar rough boxes. 
 
 "It's nice work," said Wheelan, "and 
 there's always a chance to make improve- 
 ments. Of course there are regular lines you 
 have to follow, but if a man's got his heart 
 in the work, he can show himself." 
 
 It was a long walk to the car, and on the 
 
 way I thought of an Eastern legend that I 
 
 once heard. It told of a wise and godly man, 
 
 who, in a vision, saw himself sitting on the 
 
 i8 
 
THE NARROW HOUSE 
 
 highest peak of the Himalayas. An angel, 
 descending, touched the peak with his 
 wing and a single grain of sand fell into the 
 abyss below. "Once in a thousand years," 
 said the angel, "I brush a grain of sand 
 from this lofty peak. In time I will level it 
 to the plain, — and yet eternity is but be- 
 gun." And then I thought of another who 
 said so simply: "All is vanity." 
 
Ill 
 
 VULCAN 
 
 TEN years ago, the low dunes, a des- 
 ert of yellow sand and beach-grass, 
 stretched unbroken from the foot of Lake 
 Michigan south to the headwaters of the 
 Kankakee. Since the early days when the 
 good Father Marquette was paddled slowly 
 around the curving beach line to die finally 
 on the Michigan shore, they have remained 
 — a desert of soft colors in the summer, a 
 sleet-swept tract in winter. A few miles 
 north, on the western edge of the lake, a 
 vast city, in a single century, was born and 
 thrust its towers high against the horizon. 
 Then, suddenly, came an instant trans- 
 formation. Other cities, filled with the men 
 of every nation, flattened the dunes into 
 20 
 
VULCAN 
 
 level streets. Along the lake shore strange 
 structures of steel, reeking with smoke and 
 blackness, streaked the sky with a cloud by 
 day and a glare of furnaces by night. From 
 a hundred meshing tracks the clamor of lo- 
 comotives rose above the murmur of the 
 city's streets. Steel, Vulcan, had usurped 
 the wastes of sand and wiry beach-grass. 
 Progress and industry stained the blue 
 Indiana sky with the smoke of a thousand 
 chimneys. 
 
 The long concrete slip slashed the beach 
 lines. Beyond its mouth the lake, a brilliant 
 ultramarine, pounded in before the north 
 wind; but inside, the quiet water was tawny 
 with riled sand and the stain of iron. 
 Against the nearest dock an ore steamer 
 rested its long, low body beneath the 
 shadow of a steel trestle that reached out, 
 far above it. With sudden motion a grab- 
 bucket swung down on slender cables from 
 
 21 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 the trestle and disappeared in the waist of 
 the ship. In an instant it Hfted on tight- 
 ened cables, heavy with ore, and swung 
 ashore with grinding vibration of wheels 
 and electric motors, to drop its contents on 
 the ore pile that ran parallel with the dock. 
 Like a mountain range the vermilion peaks 
 of ore piled up above me, from the mouth of 
 the harbor far inland, so high that behind 
 them only the tops of the tallest furnaces 
 appeared against the sky. From the scarred 
 hills of northern Minnesota, down the 
 length of Lake Superior and Lake Michigan, 
 other steamers were bringing fresh food for 
 the hungry furnaces. The reverberation of 
 the mills rose sharp above the even cadence 
 of the surf. 
 
 Like strange Martian creatures the blast 
 furnaces squatted beyond the ore piles. 
 Ample-waisted, they flanked them, and be- 
 tween their huge structures the long row 
 
 22 
 
VULCAN 
 
 of "stoves/' high as modest skyscrapers, 
 Hfted their slender domes in even line. Be- 
 yond, a vast pile of coal reared black against 
 white heaps of broken limestone. 
 
 Inside the steel structure which inclosed 
 the furnace a score of blackened, half-naked 
 men were moulding huge troughs of sand 
 to receive the surplus iron which would 
 pour forth when later they "cast the fur- 
 nace." Hot, and enormous in girth, the 
 furnace filled the building. Inside, under 
 forced draught, and at a temperature of 
 thirty-five hundred degrees, layers of coke, 
 limestone, and iron ore were undergoing 
 their vital transformation. By the heat of 
 the consuming coke the iron was filtering 
 down in liquid flood, purified and refined 
 by the flux of melted limestone. 
 
 From beneath the furnace a squat lo- 
 comotive dragged a string of curious cars 
 across a desolate field to the steel mills. 
 23 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 On low trucks the ladles, like inverted 
 cones, carried the liquid metal, — so hot 
 that four hours might elapse before it so- 
 lidified. 
 
 In the twilight of a long corrugated build- 
 ing the brick ovens of the open hearths 
 stretched away into almost indefinable dis- 
 tance. Heat, fresh consuming heat, choked 
 the air. And from chinks in the hearths 
 a white light of indescribable intensity 
 pierced my eyeballs. 
 
 The trainload of molten metal had ar- 
 rived before us. Already a big-lipped ladle 
 had been dragged by an electric engine 
 into the gloom of the building, and up to 
 the hearth-mouth. 
 
 The doors of the hearth were thrown 
 suddenly open. A blinding whiteness 
 streaked with saffron, and heat almost be- 
 yond endurance, made me draw back be- 
 hind a column. A workman thrust a pair 
 24 
 
VULCAN 
 
 of deep-blue glasses in my hand. Slowly 
 the great ladle bent forward. From its 
 spout a trickle of fluid iron poured faster 
 and faster until the white cascade, at full 
 flood, seethed into the hearth-bath. A 
 shower of sparks, strange flowery pyrotech- 
 nics, shot high into the gloom. Through 
 the blue glass I peered into the hearth. Like 
 an infernal lake it swirled and eddied, a 
 whirlpool of incandescent flame. Leaping 
 tongues of pink and lavender danced in the 
 blue darkness. Shielding their goggled faces 
 from the heat, the workmen cast lumps 
 of rich ore into the hearth-mouth, — black 
 silhouettes of men against the blue glare of 
 an uncanny firelight. 
 
 Behind the long row of open hearths huge 
 cranes rumbled back and forth on their 
 tracks beneath the roof, the operators, con- 
 cealed somewhere on their rivet-studded 
 frames, directing the swinging cables that 
 25 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 lifted and carried weights inconceivable. 
 High in the dark vault a great crane swung 
 over us. 
 
 ** They 're going to tap a heat/' shouted 
 the assistant superintendent in my ear, his 
 words sounding faint and fragmentary 
 above the steady roar that filled the build- 
 ing. 
 
 On the floor below, an electric motor 
 trundled an empty ladle into place beneath 
 the rear of one of the hearths. 
 
 Then from the hearth, with a mad daze 
 of brilliancy, fifty-six tons of molten steel 
 began to disgorge itself. Once more I put 
 on the blue glasses. Against the deep purple 
 gloom of the building the stream of metal 
 shot forward and bent in the soft curve of 
 running water. Like pale moonbeams the 
 sunlight rays from glassless windows pierced 
 the darkness, and sharp across them leaped 
 the avalanche of steel, a flood of brilliant 
 26 
 
VULCAN 
 
 • 
 
 pink and blue that showered the room with 
 a constellation of falling stars. 
 
 For a brief minute I took off the glasses. 
 In the terrible glare of light all background 
 disappeared. Gone were the dark shapes 
 of the toilers beneath; gone the uncanny 
 moonlight. Yellow, tawny, brilliant as the 
 contact of an electric arc, the swirling metal 
 scorched my vision. A halo of flame seemed 
 to envelop the ladle. 
 
 It was full. Through the glass, again, 
 it boiled soapy and seething, the crest of 
 its wave-tossed surface crimson and blue. 
 Slowly from the crane above, two great 
 hooks, like bent fingers, caught the handles 
 on its sides, lifted it, and with a hail of 
 sparks and a glare of heat against our faces, 
 swung it far above us. Then, with grinding 
 reverberation, it moved past, far down the 
 long gallery, to be poured into ingots in the 
 waiting moulds. 
 
 27 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 In the "blooming mill" there was the 
 continuous rumble of mighty thunder. 
 Cherry-red against the darkness, the incan- 
 descent ingots of steel shot back and forth 
 between giant fingers that pressed and 
 worked them at every passing; for like 
 dough that must be kneaded to acquire a 
 certain consistency, steel must be worked 
 to obtain those qualities which its ultimate 
 purpose will demand. 
 
 Into a great plank a hundred feet long 
 the solid ingot flattened resistlessly be- 
 tween the stroking rollers. Then, finished, 
 it shot abruptly beneath a knife that 
 snipped it lightly into even bars of manage- 
 able weight. 
 
 In the structural mill the billets of steel, 
 still malleable with glowing heat, rumbled 
 noisily back and forth on the metal floor, 
 propelled invisibly by countless whirling 
 rollers that shot them with incredible speed 
 28 
 
VULCAN 
 
 and certainty of direction. As I looked 
 down the length of the gloomy building, the 
 glare of the moving bars of metal contrasted 
 so sharply with the black floor that they 
 alone were visible, like strange illuminated 
 bodies that floated and swam on a sea of 
 inky water. Through devious channels they 
 navigated, palpably changing, narrowing, 
 lengthening, until at last, in the far end of 
 the building, the finished angle-bar or I- 
 beam was deposited, a perfect thing, of 
 cooling lead-gray steel. 
 
 And still more buildings; parallel with 
 each other; equally vast; filled with dark- 
 ness and tumult, the shifting shapes of 
 giant roof-hung cranes, and the red glow of 
 heated metal. Like paste from a tube, a 
 thin rope of white-hot steel emerged from a 
 shapeless machine that crouched squat on 
 the iron floor, and with a breath of heat 
 disappeared in the breast of another mon- 
 29 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 ster that trembled with the reverberation 
 of a hundred hammers. And faster than 
 the hand of my watch could count the sec- 
 onds, a hail of railroad spikes, still glowing, 
 leaped finished from its thundering womb. 
 Bolts, spikes, nuts, and rivets, madly, with 
 the tumult of clashing steel, poured finished 
 from the vitals of the uncouth machines. 
 
 Plates of steel for the flanks of ships 
 which will some day transport the wares 
 of a trading world. Rails and spikes to carry 
 high over mountain passes the flitting 
 trains that make distant cities one. Bolt, 
 rivet, and girder for the towering building. 
 Steel, steel for its multifold destinies, here 
 it is born in heat and labor. Steel for an 
 age of steel. 
 
 In the twilight of the late summer after- 
 noon the world seemed strangely quiet and 
 at peace. Sharp and black against the yel- 
 low sky the roofs and stacks of the mills 
 30 
 
VULCAN 
 
 rose like the sky-line of a ruined city ; and 
 in an occasional opening the blue lake 
 gleamed with the brilliant light of sapphire. 
 In the gathering darkness electric lights 
 began to glimmer. Flares of dull-red gas- 
 flame burst out like volcanoes and suddenly 
 were gone. 
 
 Loud and metallic a hurdy-gurdy lifted 
 the rippling cadence of a Neapolitan air 
 in a distant street. Beyond the mill-yard 
 gates the saloon windows shone gayly and 
 arc lights trembled into life. Day was over. 
 
IV 
 
 LEVIATHAN 
 
 A COLD northeast wind had come up 
 from the sea, and before it the fog 
 was flying in great, torn clouds of mist, like 
 rifted smoke. Above the deck of the yacht 
 it billowed past the thin slant masts, and at 
 times, when it opened a little, the sun, a pale 
 yellow disk, shone weakly for a minute until 
 another gust of fog closed in before it. Aft, 
 the propellers combed out on the pitching 
 green surface of the sea a channel of soapy 
 white, that ended not many yards astern, 
 where fog and water met. 
 
 I was standing on the forward deck, my 
 
 face dripping with moisture and a thousand 
 
 little beads of mist clinging like dew to my 
 
 clothes. The air was heavy with the smell 
 
 32 
 
f LEVIATHAN 
 
 of green salt water, borne strong on the rising 
 breeze, and the smell of the ship, that inde- 
 finable blend of odors exhaled from cabin, 
 galley, and engine-room. From below decks 
 came the murmur of the engines, and 
 from beneath the bows, where her sharp 
 prow carried a white bone in its teeth, 
 the noise of rushing water was flung back 
 on the wind. Aft, in the shelter of the 
 deck-houses, a white- jacketed Japanese was 
 passing sandwiches to the ladies. 
 
 The first mate, who stood beside me, 
 peered up into the fog. 
 
 "Rotting out a bit," he said; "guess 
 there's a chance it'll burn off by noon. 
 Won't see much of the launching if it don't." 
 
 As he spoke, there was a sudden gap in 
 the flying mist and from a square of blue the 
 sun shone brightly for a minute. From the 
 port bow came the soft, low tolling of a bell 
 buoy, and as the fog grew weaker it seemed 
 33 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 to start toward us out of the mist, a swing- 
 ing tripod of blackened iron, the water 
 swashing and surging on its circular base as 
 it careened in the heaving sea. As the yacht 
 cut past it, the bell for an instant struck 
 loud and clear, and then grew faint and was 
 gone as we swept it far behind. 
 
 An hour later the fog had lifted and the 
 last white shreds were flying inland over the 
 hills. From the open sea the wind came cold 
 and clear, and under the brilliant sunlight 
 the water sparkled a vivid blue, broken by 
 bands of green. On our starboard side the 
 coast-line pressed out against the water, 
 rocks and the green of trees dark against the 
 pale horizon. In a sweeping curve the yacht 
 swept past a dipping spar buoy, from which 
 a pair of gray gulls rose with screaming pro- 
 tests and headed for the land. 
 
 We were all on the forward deck now, 
 watching the houses of the town and trying 
 34 
 
LEVIATHAN 
 
 to mark the shipyards. Aloft, the crew were 
 dressing the yacht in a riot of signals; 
 strings of yellow, red, and blue bunting 
 flung in flying festoons from every spar tip, 
 each flag snapping free in the steady breeze. 
 The houses of the town grew larger; two 
 church spires appeared, thin and lofty 
 against the sky, and a long streak of yellow, 
 on a little headland, evolved into a sprawl- 
 ing summer hotel perched high above the 
 breakwater. 
 
 "There she is!" some one shouted. 
 
 High above the houses by the water's 
 edge a black bulk loomed upward. There 
 were masts above ; masts and the flutter of 
 flying flags. It was the new ship upon the 
 ways. 
 
 The harbor was cluttered with vessels. 
 
 A dozen dingy schooners, like shabby gulls, 
 
 swung at anchor against the tide. Tugs and 
 
 fishing-boats swarmed in a wild disorder. 
 
 35 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 White excursion steamers, their decks slant- 
 ing with passengers crowded on the shore 
 rail, lumbered up and down the harbor, 
 paddle-wheels frothing against their sides. 
 Power dories and boats and launches sput- 
 tered recklessly back and forth, their un- 
 muffled engines exploding in irregular vol- 
 leys as they half swamped in the swell from 
 every passing boat. From the shore came 
 the intermittent blare of a brass band ; now 
 a few clear notes and then a silence as the 
 music was blown back by the breeze. And 
 above all the noisy uproar of the harbor, the 
 great, six-masted schooner lifted its smooth, 
 black sides from the shingled buildings that 
 seemed to cling like barnacles to its keel. 
 
 From the shore came the sharp strokes 
 of axes and hammers. A police-boat offi- 
 ciously rocked past us. " Keep back of the 
 lines," shouted an excited man through a 
 megaphone ; " she '11 swing this way." Grad- 
 
 36 
 
LEVIATHAN 
 
 ually the tugs and steamers drew back into 
 line; before them a great square of open 
 water shimmered in the sunlight. 
 
 "She's off!" shouted the mate. 
 
 Motionless the great ship seemed to cling 
 to the ways. There was a lull in the wind 
 and from her after-deck came a few blar- 
 ing bars of "The Star-Spangled Banner." 
 Above the heads of the players an American 
 flag lazily coiled and blew open from the 
 peak. 
 
 No one but the mate saw her start, but 
 suddenly I realized that with constantly in- 
 creasing speed the towering ship was gliding 
 down the ways to the water's edge. A roar 
 of many voices, the brazen clamor of the 
 band, shrieking whistles, and the detona- 
 tions of yachts' cannon seemed to quicken 
 her speed. From the shadow of the smooth, 
 straight keel puffs of gray smoke fanned up 
 against her sides, for the friction had ignited 
 37 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 the grease-soaked blocks beneath her. Fast- 
 er and faster, stern foremost, she swept to 
 the sea. With a dull roar she reached it and, 
 half submerged by her plunge, the stern 
 buried itself in the water and a white wave 
 curled up around it. Like a swimmer breast- 
 ing the surf she reared up again, and again 
 plunged with a pitching motion; again and 
 again, each one growing fainter, until at 
 last she rode smoothly, in the middle of 
 the harbor, her long black body swinging 
 against her anchor chains and the two tugs 
 which held her. 
 
 The launching was over and another ship 
 had begun her brave life. Perhaps she 
 might be the last giant of her kind. Steel 
 plates and smoking funnels have replaced 
 stout oak and widespread canvas. I thought 
 of the days when every harbor was a ship- 
 yard, when great clippers raced back with 
 tea-packed holds on record runs from 
 
 38 
 
LEVIATHAN 
 
 Shanghai and Hongkong to New York ; rec- 
 ords that stand to-day. 
 
 Outside of the harbor we met a dingy 
 tramp steamer, light-laden, her rusty plates 
 unpainted, her propeller threshing half 
 above sea. From her black funnel a cloud 
 of smoke trailed far astern. Here was the 
 conqueror. 
 
 Two years later I read of the abandon- 
 ment of that great vessel I had seen first 
 greet the sea. She was impracticable, they 
 said; too many men were needed to work 
 her sails ; soon the great masts were to fall, 
 and the decapitated hulk, filled with oil, was 
 to be towed by tug from port to port. 
 
HIGH TENSION 
 
 THE purple blackness of the sky was 
 misted with a myriad stars, faint 
 coruscations which illuminated the night 
 with a dim radiance. Against the stars rose 
 the black silhouettes of the hills, and be- 
 tween them the broad river was faintly 
 visible, an expanse of silent blackness that 
 glistened here and there like polished mar- 
 ble in the starlight. 
 
 The watchman came limping down the 
 parapet, his lame foot scraping on the con- 
 crete floor. 
 
 "Better take a look at the dam," he 
 shouted; "ain't often you see water going 
 over this time of year." 
 
 Like a half-strung bow the long dam 
 40 
 
HIGH TENSION 
 
 curves its slanting concrete wall from cliff 
 to cliff across the valley. At one end, piled 
 up against its smooth white face in an angle 
 with the cliff, the power house braces its 
 broad back squarely against it : a great con- 
 crete building, its topmost story alone ap- 
 pearing above the crest of the dam. And 
 through the latticed grills, from the deep 
 reservoir of the valley above, the silent 
 water discharges, whirling, reeling, and 
 staggering under the mighty pressure, into 
 the deep-lying turbine chambers, whence it 
 finally emerges in a roaring but shattered 
 torrent from the draft tubes beneath the 
 firm-planted feet of the building. 
 
 In the dim starlight and the gleam of the 
 lantern, the river stretched limitless in the 
 darkness, but following the edge of the dam, 
 the smooth surface seemed ripped open as 
 though by a keen blade, and a long curl of 
 foaming white marked where the crowding 
 41 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 water leaped its barrier and fell gleaming to 
 the bed of the river below. 
 
 "Do you have much trouble with the ice 
 in winter?" I asked, as the watchman stood 
 with his hand on the door which leads from 
 the dam into the power house. 
 
 "No, it ain't so bad. Pretty seldom that 
 the ice gets bad in the forebay." In ex- 
 planation he waved his arm at the basin 
 directly behind the power house. "It's all 
 protected with a boom of logs so that the 
 ice and floating stuff won't jam up against 
 the grills. It's down there in the power 
 house where they have the trouble; there 
 and out on the transmission lines." 
 
 For a minute we stood in the doorway. 
 As though wiped clean from the sky the 
 stars along the horizon had disappeared and 
 only above were they still shining clearly. 
 Then for a second distant lightning flick- 
 ered behind the hills, sharply defining 
 42 
 
HIGH TENSION 
 
 the outline of trees against a cumulus of 
 clouds. 
 
 "Guess you'll see some fun if you stay 
 late enough to-night; there's a storm up 
 river, — that's where three of our trans- 
 mission lines go, up to Bolton." He pushed 
 the door open and we entered the top floor 
 of the power house. On a steady wave of 
 heated air came the roar of machinery and 
 smell of oil. A long flight of stairs, beyond 
 another door, led sharply down between 
 smooth, white walls of concrete to several 
 floors below. Halfway down, the lights on a 
 landing shone brightly, and at the foot a 
 glare of light sharply outlined the square 
 opening to the stair well. 
 
 From the landing I glanced about me. A 
 long room brilliantly lighted occupied the 
 entire floor of the building. Down the cen- 
 ter and along the walls extended rows of 
 stone shelves and alcoves. Here were the 
 43 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 giant oil switches which opened or closed at 
 the touch of the operator on the switch- 
 board gallery on a floor below, loading or 
 clearing the transmission lines of an electric 
 current sufficient to light and turn the 
 wheels of distant cities. On shelves gleamed 
 the heavy copper bus bars, switch sidings 
 where the current pulsed from the genera- 
 tors and without a pause surged out a hun- 
 dred miles. 
 
 "Ain't no place to visit," said the watch- 
 man. "There's seventy thousand volts on 
 them bars, an' if you get too near it will 
 jump at you; enough to kill an elephant, 
 an' you'd never know what hit you." 
 
 At the foot of the stairs the air fanned 
 hot in our faces and the scream of the gen- 
 erators rose shrill and deafening. We were 
 standing on the switchboard gallery, a 
 curved balcony which clung to the wall of 
 the generator room twenty feet above the 
 44 
 
HIGH TENSION 
 
 floor and midway to the roof. Below in a 
 long line the great generators filled the 
 smooth stone floor. 
 
 "Well, guess I'll have to leave you," said 
 the watchman. "Through for the night. 
 Shake hands with Mr. Fogarty, he's night 
 operator, he'll show you the rest." 
 
 The night operator, a spare young man 
 in clean overalls and a blue shirt, led me 
 to a chair beside his table. 
 
 "Here's where we direct things," he ex- 
 plained, "kind of hard to hear if you are n't 
 used to the noise, so you can watch and I '11 
 tell you all I can. There's a bad electric 
 storm up the valley and we are liable to be 
 pretty busy here for a few hours." 
 
 Along the back of the gallery a multitude 
 of white-faced dials with quivering indica- 
 tors were set in high panels of marble, be- 
 low them the handles of the controlling 
 switches. 
 
 45 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 There was a sudden, palpitating light be- 
 yond the windows and fast behind it a rend- 
 ing crash of thunder like the snap of an iron 
 girder. At the same minute the telephone 
 in a booth beside the switchboard rang 
 shrilly. 
 
 ''Lightning struck one of our transmis- 
 sion towers about thirty miles from here!" 
 shouted the operator as he dashed out of the 
 booth and began to work at the switch- 
 board. "I'm cutting out that line so that 
 the repair crew on the section can straighten 
 things out." 
 
 He was telephoning again, telling his men 
 that the line was dead and safe. Outside, 
 the storm was breaking in full force, and 
 the trembling light through the tall win- 
 dows disclosed the black hills and the river 
 like the reeling film of a cinematograph. A 
 blinding flare seemed to blast the windows 
 and with it came a terrific crash of thunder. 
 
 46 
 
HIGH TENSION 
 
 "Another line's gone/' he shouted; "that 
 one hit mighty near here. Did you hear it 
 scream?" On the board there was a flick- 
 ering of the needles on several of the dials. 
 Again came the telephone ; a minute at the 
 board, and again he answered. "We're in 
 bad to-night," he called to me. "This has 
 n't left me much to work with, but we've 
 got to keep things going." 
 
 From far below, and at times rising above 
 the note of the generator, came a deep 
 booming, a bass note that tuned with the 
 wilder song of the machines: it was the 
 roar of the tailraces where the water thun- 
 dered down from the turbine chambers 
 through the draft tubes to the bed of the 
 river. 
 
 For a long hour the operator moved 
 slowly back and forth before the switch- 
 board. Now and then the telephone jingled 
 and short messages were given and re- 
 
 47 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 ceived. Over his shoulder he threw to me 
 occasional explanations, strange techni- 
 cal sentences filled with incomprehensible 
 phrases: ^yiir^v - ^scr-pB^ ^, electrolytic arrest- 
 ers, picking phases, and getting the gen- 
 erators in step again. Then came the mes- 
 sage that repairs on one of the sections had 
 been made. 
 
 The strain was over and he dropped 
 limply in a chair beside me. 
 
 For a minute I watched him. "Mighty 
 little the people in the cities know," I said, 
 "when things go wrong." 
 
 He laughed a little. "No, and, friend, 
 to-night's nothing; why, some nights we 
 have trouble." 
 
VI 
 
 FIRE-DAMP 
 
 IN the soft, yellow glow of his safety- 
 lamp, Campbell peered into the black- 
 ness of the tunnel. On either side a long row 
 of props, chalked with fungus growth, and 
 bending under the weight of the low roof, 
 stretched out beyond the dim lamplight and 
 disappeared, and behind them the rough 
 walls of coal glistened like broken glass. 
 There was no sound, but the steady pres- 
 sure of the air current, dry and pungent, 
 seemed to carry a vibration that sang 
 softly in his ears. Then from behind him 
 came the noise of feet, clumping over the 
 coal-strewn floor of the tunnel. 
 
 "Any gas in Number Six.?'' Campbell 
 shouted, without turning his head. The 
 49 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 words were sharp and clear, but there was 
 no echo. Still peering ahead into the black- 
 ness he waited until the sound of the man's 
 feet grew louder, and a faint increase in the 
 yellow haze of light told him he was stand- 
 ing beside him. 
 
 "No, it's all clear in Six." There was 
 an uneasiness in the voice, and Campbell 
 turned and looked down into the sharp, 
 thin face of the mine inspector. 
 
 "Well, let's go ahead." Slowly they 
 walked into the blackness, over the uneven 
 floor, and slowly as they advanced the faint 
 light of their lamps, for the brief moment of 
 their passing, disclosed the gleaming walls 
 of the tunnel, the low roof, the track clut- 
 tered with broken coal, and monotonous 
 files of white-splashed timbers that melted 
 into blackness behind them. 
 
 "She's back in Paris entry," said Camp- 
 bell. He was a large-framed man with fair, 
 SO 
 
FIRE-DAMP 
 
 uncut hair that curled shghtly beneath the 
 bottom of his blackened pit cap ; over his 
 strong, white teeth a drooping yellow mus- 
 tache, heavy with coal dust, half hid deep- 
 creased lines about his mouth. Twice in the 
 three long months that had just passed 
 "She" had swept resistless through the 
 miles of tunnels, — a wave of rending and 
 scorching flame, which burst into being 
 when perhaps some latent spark from the 
 fire which had long ago closed the mine, or a 
 defective gauze in a safety lamp, had ig- 
 nited the explosive mixture of air and gas 
 which completely filled the "workings." 
 To them "She" was a creature, an inde- 
 scribable something, a terrible personifica- 
 tion of death and destruction; and in the 
 silent places of their hearts they feared her. 
 "She ain't going to let go again," said 
 Campbell. " It was n't fire set her off 
 last time. It was Johnny Cashay's lamp 
 SI 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 touched her off. There must have been a 
 hole somewhere in the gauze." 
 
 "Sam!" They stopped and Hstened, and 
 Campbell moistened his finger and held it 
 high above his head, close under the roof. 
 
 "The air's moving good; Five will be 
 clear of gas in an hour, and we can explore 
 up to Four. Do you smell nothing ? " They 
 sniffed the dry air which blew softly past 
 them. 
 
 "I thought I smelled smoke," said 
 Campbell. For a second they were silent. 
 
 " Don't get it," the other man answered. 
 
 Ten feet ahead of them lay a dinner 
 bucket beside the rails, where, long ago, 
 on the night of the fire, some miner had 
 dropped it in his flight. The cover had 
 fallen off, and the half-spilled contents 
 was beaded with the white crust of decay. 
 Campbell kicked it with his foot, and the 
 mass rolled out into the ditch. 
 52 
 
FIRE-DAMP 
 
 "Never did get to eat his banana/' he 
 said. 
 
 At regular intervals they passed the 
 black openings of tunnels that turned off 
 from the main entry. Once they walked a 
 few yards up into one of the cross tunnels, 
 but a sharp pointing of the tiny yellow 
 flames in their safety lamps warned them 
 of the presence of gas, and they stumbled 
 back to the main track and continued. 
 
 "What's the time?" Sam fumbled in his 
 pocket, and distinctly they heard the clear, 
 metallic ticking of the watch, as he held it 
 up in the lamplight. 
 
 "Pretty near noon." 
 
 "We'll go back, I reckon. Can't go much 
 further now, but by two the air ought to 
 clear it out enough so we can get to the 
 heading." 
 
 For ten minutes they tramped silently 
 back along the rough track, and then turned 
 S3 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 sharply to the right. One hundred feet be- 
 yond was the foot of the hoisting shaft. 
 For a brief second they stood and sniffed 
 the air. 
 
 Suddenly, far off, like distant thunder, 
 came a sound from the recesses of the mine. 
 
 "My God!" screamed Campbell, "she's 
 let go!" 
 
 In a panic of fear they dashed a few yards 
 into the cross cut, and flung themselves, 
 their faces buried in their arms, on the tun- 
 nel floor. Steady and unwinking one of the 
 safety lamps gleamed where it had fallen. 
 A heavy vibration trembled on the air. 
 The far-off thunder boomed louder and 
 nearer; a wild tumult of sound shrieked 
 down the entry; and a cyclone blast of 
 wind, black with its pall of coal dust, spun 
 them like dead leaves far into the cross cut. 
 Fast on the wind, like an unleashing of 
 Hell, came a wave of flame, blanketed in 
 54 
 
FIRE-DAMP 
 
 pitchy smoke: flame incandescent with 
 light and heat: flame that scorched the 
 gleaming walls of coal into blackened coke, 
 and brushing with its fiery touch the oak 
 beams and props, blackened and charred 
 them in the brief moment of its flight. 
 
 From the distant entries through which 
 it had passed the roar of the falling roof 
 was lost in the thunder of the flame wave, 
 as it hurled itself on its course through the 
 mine galleries to the shaft mouth. 
 
 In the blackness and sudden silence 
 that followed, Campbell lifted himself to 
 his knees. The lamps were extinguished; 
 and the burned-out air seemed thick with 
 intense heat. Groping in the blackness he 
 crawled until he encountered the walls of 
 the cross cut, and then, turning, followed 
 it, reaching out to touch it after each con- 
 vulsive effort. Once he stopped for a long 
 minute; it was Sam, and he knew that he 
 55 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 was dead. A sudden animal fear of death, a 
 tremendous mustering of every nerve and 
 sinew to resist, seized him. In the vitiated 
 atmosphere and in utter blackness he con- 
 tinued. Something seemed to flicker like 
 electric flashes before his eyes, and softly he 
 sank down between the rails. For in from 
 the far tunnels of the mine poured the poi- 
 sonous after-damp: the deadly gas which 
 follows an explosion. 
 
VII 
 
 SKYSCRAPER 
 
 THE old brick building had vanished 
 before the wreckers in a cloud of 
 broken brick and plaster. From my win- 
 dow I could look down into the cavity 
 which had held it. Already the muddy 
 floor was dotted with the toadstool tents of 
 the excavators, and day and night unceas- 
 ingly wagon-loads of sticky clay and mud 
 dragged up the incline to the street. Far 
 down in the stifling air of the caissons the 
 concrete roots were being planted, tied with 
 cement and steel to the very core of the 
 world. 
 
 The foundations were finished and the 
 first thin steel columns stretched upward. 
 In a day they multiplied. A hundred black 
 57 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 shoots pierced the soil ; a hundred sprouting 
 shoots, in even rows, Hke a well-planted 
 garden. In ordered plan the crossbeams fell 
 into their places, and the great lattice of 
 the substructure shaped itself. Then, above 
 the uproar and vibration of the street, rose 
 the angry clatter of the pneumatic riveters, 
 steel against steel in a shattering reverbera- 
 tion. 
 
 With incredible rapidity the gaunt frame 
 piled upward. On the topmost story the 
 derricks crouched like giant spiders, thin 
 legs firmly braced against post and I-beam, 
 casting their threads of steel softly to the 
 distant street to take a dozen tons of girders 
 in their grasp and lift them, gently turning, 
 to the top. Against the pale sky the black 
 ribs of the building surged higher. As 
 through prison bars I saw the distant blue 
 of the harbor; the familiar view had van- 
 ished; a miracle had transformed it. Un- 
 S8 
 
SKYSCRAPER 
 
 tiring, hour after hour, the derricks lifted 
 bales of steel to swing into their destined 
 place; and as each new story was bolted 
 down the derricks lifted themselves heavily 
 to the new level, clean cut against the sky, 
 above the highest towers of the city. 
 
 Like beetles the steel-workers clambered 
 surefooted over the empty frame. Far out 
 on the end of narrow beams they hung 
 above the void ; on the tops of slender col- 
 umns they clung, waiting to swing into 
 place a ton of steel. Braced against nothing 
 but empty space, they pounded red-hot 
 rivets with their clattering hammers; like 
 flies they caught the slim-spun threads of 
 the derricks and swung up to some inac- 
 cessible height. On flimsy platforms the 
 glow of their forges blinked red in the twi- 
 light. 
 
 I am thinking also of other workers: of 
 men who measured this tall tower on their 
 59 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 slide-rules, of grimy workers who followed 
 their mystic blue-prints and made each 
 piece with such fine precision that the great 
 masses of steel fell softly into their final 
 place with hairbreadth accuracy, rivet-hole 
 to rivet-hole, and tongue in groove. Engi- 
 neers, who foresaw each bolt and fitted so 
 perfectly mass on mass with only imagina- 
 tion and their books of figures to guide them ; 
 workers in the steel mills of the distant city 
 who moulded each beam and pillar to go 
 together like a watch, — theirs is the silent 
 forgotten labor! 
 
 Day faded in fog and darkness. Black- 
 blurred, the frame of the skyscraper rose in 
 the gray of the mist and the shadow of the 
 night. Through the tangle of its skeleton 
 frame the flaming red and yellow of an elec- 
 tric sign spattered a trail of jeweled fire 
 against the sky. Another, with a flash of 
 myriad color, shone and was gone. Far^ 
 60 
 
SKYSCRAPER 
 
 down in the streets the glare of automobile 
 lights stroked the gleaming blackness of the 
 pavement. From surrounding buildings the 
 glitter of countless windows shone brightly 
 through the mist. But high above the fire- 
 fly activity of the city the black frame of 
 the skyscraper touched the starless sky. 
 Like beacon fires the forges of the workers 
 glowed intermittently, panting breaths of 
 red, half smothered in the approaching 
 night. In graceful curves, like tiny comets, 
 the heated rivets, tossed from forge to the 
 waiting bucket of the riveter, gleamed yel- 
 low and vanished. I thought of Whistler's 
 nocturnes ; of the fireworks at Cremorne. 
 
 I stood on the rough staging of the top 
 floor of the tower. Above, the light steel 
 ribs of the dome met in a heavy rosette from 
 which a flagpole pointed to the drifting 
 clouds. Standing on its base a man was 
 arranging the tackle which would lift him 
 6i 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 up the slender mast^ to paint it, or gild the 
 ball at its tip. He saw me and leaned down. 
 
 "Come up/' he shouted. 
 
 I climbed the ladder and, with his arm 
 to steady me, crawled out above the dome. 
 There was room for my feet beside his. I 
 heard him laughing beside me. 
 
 "Don't break off that pole, I've got to 
 climb it." 
 
 I looked down. The curving ribs of the 
 dome ended in a shallow cornice twenty 
 feet below. That was all. Far down the 
 roofs of neighboring buildings lay flat and 
 small in the sunlight. Like the great black 
 matrix for a printed page the roofs and 
 streets extended to the harbor and the hills ; 
 like column rules the shallow grooves of 
 avenues cut sharply the solid lines of the 
 side streets. Here and there were the open 
 spaces of public squares ; far off, the green 
 sweep of a city park. And everywhere 
 62 
 
SKYSCRAPER 
 
 above the roofs wisps of steam and smoke 
 lay softly on the breeze. Like crooked fin- 
 gers the wharves caught the edge of the 
 harbor; the water was a quivering green, 
 dotted with toy boats that crossed and re- 
 crossed Hke water-insects, leaving a churn 
 of white behind them and a smear of smoke 
 above. 
 
 Straight down in the street the cars 
 crawled jerkily in two thin lines, the 
 beetle-backed roofs inch long in the dis- 
 tance. And everywhere were the moving 
 dots of people, swarming upon the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 It was very still. Far below, the noises 
 of the street, the living cry of the city, rose 
 like the murmur of a river in a deep caiion. 
 Beside me, the steeple-jack leaned easily 
 against the mast, his eyes watching the 
 distant glimmer of the sea. I looked up 
 and the slowly moving clouds seemed 
 
 63 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 suddenly to stand still, the tower took up 
 the motion, and racing across the sky, the 
 flagpole seemed bending to the earth. 
 
 Down in the street I joined the crowd on 
 the sidewalk, necks bent back to watch a 
 tiny speck at the top of the thin shaft of 
 the flagpole. 
 
 "Pretty high up," said some one. 
 
 "Yes," answered another, "but they're 
 putting in the foundation for a higher one 
 on the corner." 
 
VIII 
 
 DYNAMITE 
 
 ISOLATED and avoided, the high ex- 
 plosive plant Hes half hidden in a waste 
 of sloughs and sand dunes. Like the barren 
 country that surrounds it, the plant itself 
 seems a part of desolate nature, stunted 
 and storm-beaten as the wind-swept hills. 
 Against the straight line of the horizon rise 
 no massive structures of steel or stone ; no 
 sound of man or machine breaks the soft 
 stillness ; no smoke clouds stain the blue of 
 the autumn sky. Half buried in the rolling 
 sand a hundred small green buildings scat- 
 ter in wild disorder along winding paths 
 among the scrub oaks. The voices of un- 
 disturbed wild fowl rise from the fens and 
 marsh land. 
 
 6s 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 In the little office at the gate I left my 
 matches and put on a pair of soft wooden- 
 pegged powder shoes. Outside, the faint 
 flavor of last night's frost freshened the 
 morning air, and above the red and yellow 
 of the scrub oaks the autumn sun was shin- 
 ing in a pale-blue sky. 
 
 At my side the superintendent was ex- 
 plaining the processes of manufacture I 
 was soon to see, but my mind was curiously 
 unresponsive ; in the peace of the morning 
 air an ominous presence seemed to surround 
 me; an invisible force that needed but a 
 spark or the slightest impulse to awaken it, 
 annihilating and devastating in its sudden 
 fury. 
 
 Beyond the office, like the letter "S" a 
 high sand dune bent in a general east and 
 west direction, a sweep of marsh land in 
 each sheltering curve. Against the outer 
 bank of its first wide crescent the small 
 66 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 power plant and a row of red one-story 
 buildings marked a single street. From the 
 open door of the power house the rhythmic 
 drone of a generator accentuated the still- 
 ness. Down a track between the buildings 
 a horse plodded slowly over the worn ties, 
 dragging a small flatcar, the driver leaning 
 lazily against one of the uprights which 
 supported a dingy awning. 
 
 The manufacture of dynamite consists of 
 two separate processes, which are con- 
 ducted individually up to a certain point, 
 when their products meet and by their 
 union the actual dynamite is produced. 
 In the little buildings by the power house 
 the first of these products was in course of 
 manufacture. Here the fine wood dust, 
 mixed with other materials, was prepared, 
 an absorbent to hold the nitroglycerine 
 which was being made a half-mile be- 
 yond the nearest sand dune. Packed in 
 
 67 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 paper cartridges the nitroglycerine-soaked 
 "dope/' or sawdust, is called by a single 
 name — Dynamite. 
 
 In two great open pans slowly revolving 
 paddles were turning over and over a mass 
 of wood pulp, fine and soft as snow. The 
 room was warm from the sunshine on the 
 low roof and the drying fires below the 
 pans; there was a strong, clean smell of 
 sawdust. The building was deserted ; unat- 
 tended the paddles swung noiselessly with 
 the low sound of well-oiled machinery. 
 
 Inside the next building a couple of men 
 were weighing great measures of white 
 powder from bins along the wall. The super- 
 intendent picked up a printed slip from a 
 desk by the window. 
 
 "Nitrate of soda, nitrate of ammonia, 
 wood pulp, marble dust. That's the for- 
 mula for this batch. Sometimes we put in 
 sulphur, or flour, or magnesium carbonate. 
 68 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 It's all according to what kind of explosive 
 is wanted; what it's to be used for." 
 
 Far down at the end of the Httle street 
 the strong, hot smell of paraffine hung 
 heavy in the air. Inside, against the walls 
 of the building, the paper cartridges were 
 drying; racks of waxed yellow tubes half 
 filled the building. 
 
 Here the first process of manufacture was 
 completed. Stable and harmless, the fra- 
 grant wood dust was being prepared for its 
 union with that strange evanescent spirit 
 which would endow it with powers of light- 
 ning strength and rapidity. 
 ' With our powder shoes sinking in the 
 sliding sand we climbed the path to the 
 top of the hill which marked the center of 
 the twisted dune. On its summit the frame 
 building of the nitrater notched the sky. 
 Here, in the silence between earth and 
 clouds, a mighty force was seeking birth. 
 
 69 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 Perched on a high stool, an old man in 
 overalls bent intently over the top of a 
 great tank, his eyes fixed on a thermometer 
 that protruded from its cover. Above, a 
 shaft and slowly turning wheels moved 
 quietly in the shadows of the roof. There 
 was a splashing of churning liquid, and 
 the bite of acid sharpened the air. The old 
 man turned his head for a moment to nod 
 to us. Below his feet a coil of pipes white 
 with a thick frost rime entered the bottom 
 of the tank, a cooling solution to keep the 
 temperature of the churning acid within 
 the limit of safety. 
 
 As we stepped inside the doorway, the 
 splashing grew louder; the bitter reek of 
 the acid seemed to scorch my nostrils. 
 Slowly the old man turned a valve be- 
 side him and a thick trickle of glycerine 
 flowed heavily into an opening in the top 
 of the tank. Inside the blackened caldron 
 70 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 a strange transformation was in progress. 
 Were the glycerine allowed to become com- 
 pletely nitrated by the acid the windows of 
 the distant city would rattle in the blast 
 that would surely follow. Carefully, the 
 nitrating must be brought almost to that 
 danger-point and abruptly arrested; so 
 near, that later in the form of dynamite the 
 nitrating could be instantly completed and 
 the desired explosion obtained by the jar- 
 ring impulse of an electric spark. Like a 
 child pushing a dish to poise on the table 
 edge the old man was bringing this dynamic 
 mixture to a precarious balance. 
 
 The superintendent pointed to a cistern 
 filled with water behind the nitrater. 
 
 "Before we had the brine pipes to keep 
 the acid cool, it used to heat up occasion- 
 ally. It gives up red fumes when it passes 
 the danger-point. You ought to see the 
 quick work Old Charley used to do, — 
 71 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 open that faucet in the nitrater to let the 
 acid and glycerine dump into the cistern 
 and drown; blow the alarm whistle, and 
 then everybody beat it!" 
 
 The old man looked up from the ther- 
 mometer. "She's ready." 
 
 Deliberately he climbed down from the 
 stool and opened a switch behind him; the 
 splashing of the paddles ceased ; the process 
 was completed. 
 
 Behind the tank an earthenware faucet 
 opened into a long lead gutter that passed 
 out of the building. Fascinated, I watched 
 him as he slowly turned the handle. From 
 the spout a stream of viscous liquid gushed 
 noisily and flowed off in a sullen current. 
 
 "Nitroglycerine," — the superintendent 
 pointed his finger at the splashing stream ; 
 "of course, it's impure now, mixed with 
 acid. We'll see it purified in the separating- 
 houses." 
 
 72 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 I was disappointed. Vaguely I had ex- 
 pected something would happen ; how could 
 this dull, oily liquid be that fearful thing 
 that had been represented. 
 
 "There's enough in that trough now to 
 wreck a battleship/' he added. 
 
 Under the crest of a curving hill a half- 
 mile away, was the mix house. From the 
 nitrater we had followed the nitroglycerine 
 through the dangerous process of its separa- 
 tion from the acid, its perfect neutraliza- 
 tion. Here, at last, the explosive fluid would 
 assume its final form. Mixed with the ab- 
 sorbent dope, in a crumby consistency it 
 would become dynamite. 
 
 The sunshine filled the little room with 
 yellow light; a blue fly buzzed noisily 
 against the window. Facing the flat marsh 
 land the building rested in a deep cut in 
 the hillside ; behind it the solid hill, on either 
 side an artificial embankment or barricade 
 73 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 of sand and timber. In the center of the 
 room was a cumbersome machine Hke an 
 archaic mill for crushing grain. Hung from 
 an axle revolving on a perpendicular cen- 
 tral shaft, two great wooden wheels, four 
 feet in diameter, rested in a circular trough ; 
 a pair of giant cart wheels with broad, 
 smooth tires of pine. 
 
 There was a sound outside the building. 
 Down a boardwalk that disappeared behind 
 a hill in the direction of the separating- 
 house, came a man pushing a square wagon 
 completely covered with rubber blankets, 
 — three hundred pounds of nitroglycerine. 
 
 Swiftly the two workmen filled the circu- 
 lar trough with the prepared wood pulp. 
 The wagon was trundled softly into the 
 room. From a tank in the corner a measure 
 of brown, sweet-smelling, aromatic oil was 
 mixed into the contents of the cart. 
 
 Something was going to happen. A sud- 
 74 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 den impulse to run before it was too late 
 seized me. The cart was pushed beside the 
 trough. From a hose in its base a heavy 
 brown fluid gushed over the powdery dope. 
 Slowly the steady stream became a trickle 
 and ceased. 
 
 There was a faint sound and I knew that 
 the current was thrown in; the great axle 
 began to revolve on the shaft. One and 
 then the other, the giant wheels turned 
 heavily. Under the advancing ploughs the 
 brown stain of nitroglycerine faded in the 
 yellow of the dope. Round and round; 
 heavily the smooth wheels pressed the floc- 
 culent mass, cleanly the sharp ploughs 
 turned furrows behind them — Dynamite. 
 
 I started violently at the voice of the 
 superintendent. It seemed hours instead 
 of minutes since this death-taunting ma- 
 chine had begun ; hours in which each sec- 
 ond might bring annihilation. 
 75 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 "It's mixed." 
 
 The wheels ceased to revolve. With 
 wooden shovels the workmen scooped the 
 dynamite from the trough and pitched it 
 into fiber cans, as big as barrels. 
 
 As though built to withstand the siege 
 guns of an enemy, the dugouts of the pack- 
 ers faced the marsh in a long straggling line 
 against the hillside. Like the mix house, 
 each building sank deep into the sandbank, 
 its sides protected by enveloping barricades. 
 
 In each small cell two men were working. 
 There was little talking. Silence hung heavy 
 over the hills and marsh land; a strange 
 blending of peace and terror that made 
 harsh sounds improper and jarring to the 
 senses. 
 
 With quick dexterity the empty paper 
 tubes, that I had seen manufactured when 
 I first began this perilous journey, were in- 
 serted in the packing-machine. An abrupt 
 
 76 
 
DYNAMITE 
 
 movement, and they were packed with dy- 
 namite and laid in boxes beside the workers. 
 
 I picked up one of the "sticks" from a 
 half-filled box. " Stump Dynamite." 
 
 Hour after hour, day after day, the filled 
 boxes were trundled down the board walk 
 to the magazine. "Stump Dynamite." I 
 had always thought of this great industry 
 as a destructive agency, of high explosives 
 as carriers of death and desolation. But 
 where the forests have vanished before the 
 axes of the woodmen, dynamite is clear- 
 ing fields for the next year's planting. In 
 the black entries of the mine the undercut 
 coal-face falls shattered at the blast of the 
 explosives. Through the walls of mountain 
 ranges it is tearing loose the solid rock, that 
 trains may some day follow the level rails ; 
 through blasted tunnels flows water to 
 moisten the lips of a parching city; from 
 ocean to ocean it has opened a giant cut 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 that deep-sea vessels may carry their car- 
 goes by shorter routes; deep under the 
 strata of the earth's crust its sudden shock 
 shakes the oil-well into life; its rending 
 breath tears the red ore of iron from the 
 living rock. 
 
 Labors of Hercules ! What are the feats 
 of the earthborn son of Jupiter to the mighty 
 wonders accomplished by this tabloid thun- 
 derbolt. Death and destruction may come 
 from its sharp detonation, but for every 
 life that goes out in siege or battle a hun- 
 dred lives are sustained by its quiet labor in 
 field or mine. 
 
 The afternoon sun was setting behind a 
 mist of autumn clouds. In the silence of the 
 dunes and marsh the clear call of a bird 
 sounded sharp and silver-tuned in a run of 
 hurried melody. 
 
IX 
 
 THE MILLS 
 
 FROM the car-windows, as the train 
 crosses the arched stone bridge, you 
 can see the mills piled high above the south 
 bank of the river. Vast and dingy, the 
 broken roofline notches high against the 
 blue Minnesota sky. Like the battlements 
 of some feudal castle, the stone and brick 
 walls tower upward, here and there the 
 square shaft of a grain-storage tank rising 
 turret-like above the roofs. At the foot of 
 the cliff, although the mills seem to rise ab- 
 ruptly from the very edge of the water, the 
 river courses in bent and broken streams, 
 diverted and trained in the harness of 
 industry; through a hundred mill-races 
 in thick black torrents; a white blue 
 79 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 shimmer over the apron-dam across the 
 river. 
 
 Gathering strength in every mile of its 
 course, the great river, rising in the silent 
 waters of Itasca to pour a torrent twenty- 
 five hundred miles away into the Gulf of 
 Mexico, pauses here for a brief minute to 
 stroke into life the mighty turbines of the 
 flour-mills. Above the dams that hold the 
 river in check, the water, deep and silent, 
 floods back between wide banks ; below the 
 tail-races of the mills it spurts noisily in a 
 shallow bed, far down between high bluffs 
 of weathered stone. But at the falls the 
 mills, silent and apparently devoid of life 
 or activity, mark the measure of its flow. 
 And from that ceaseless flowing energy 
 comes the power to grind the grain for a 
 nation's^ bread. 
 
 Like a shelf against a wall the railroad 
 tracks cling to the cliff. Above the clanking 
 80 
 
THE MILLS 
 
 of freight cars and the mutter of the river, 
 a vibrant murmur of myriad muffled wheels , 
 fills the shadow of the mills. Beside the 
 tracks thin streaks of wheat gleam yellow 
 on the grimy ballast. Here two great floods 
 are meeting! From the flat reaches of the 
 Dakotas, from the wheat lands of Minne- 
 sota and the rolling fields of Montana, from 
 Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and the banks 
 of the Athabaska, the tide of grain is at the 
 flood. Unceasing, mightier by far than the 
 "father of waters," one hundred thousand 
 freight cars, fat and heavy with their rich 
 lading, are emptying the season's harvest. 
 And from the shipping platforms fifteen 
 million barrels of flour go out each year into 
 the markets of the world. 
 
 The freight cars are unloading. From 
 
 the wide doors the scoops are pushing a 
 
 stream of yellow grain. Like liquid it pours 
 
 over the car-sills and down between the 
 
 8i 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 steel grills beside the tracks. Never has 
 the touch of human hands defiled it. Born 
 of the soil, it has been reaped and winnowed 
 by the clean blades of wood and steel; never 
 in the long process which will transform it 
 into flour, will the touch of man's hand 
 stain its perfect purity. 
 
 From bins below the tracks, endless con- 
 veyors were already gathering the grain 
 in a long flow upward, up above the mill- 
 roofs, far up to the tops of giant elevators, 
 there to fall, a vast measured treasure, into 
 the storage tanks beneath. With the assist- 
 ant head miller, I climbed slowly to the 
 top. The windows were misted with the 
 dust of harvest, and even at that great 
 height there was a fine powder of ivory 
 flour on the floor and ledges. He pushed up 
 a window. In the warm afternoon sunlight 
 the mill-roofs lay below me. Far down be- 
 yond, the river, blue and sparkling, swirled 
 82 
 
THE MILLS 
 
 in soft eddies about the dams and forebays. 
 Beyond, the city stretched away to the 
 roUing green of the low hills. And above 
 was the blue of a cloudless sky. 
 
 Here, almost two hundred and fifty years 
 ago, the captive Hennepin dedicated to his 
 patron, St. Anthony of Padua, these falls 
 where for so many years, in a cavern be- 
 neath, had dwelt that Great Unk-te-hee 
 who created both man and earth. Gone is 
 the guileful father of the RecoUets ; gone are 
 the Sioux, whose tepees clustered about the 
 cataract ; gone even is that sheer leap of the 
 river down forty feet, where now the low 
 slant of the apron-dam smooths the water 
 in its descent. The ranges of the buffalo are 
 rich with golden grain. It pours through 
 the grills beside the elevators. From the 
 skein of mazing tracks the wail of a freight 
 engine shrills loud and clamorous. 
 
 A conveyor was lifting grain from one 
 
 83 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 of the tanks; on an endless belt it passed 
 through a long high-swung gallery from 
 the elevators to the mill. We followed to 
 watch its progress. At the far end of the 
 gallery the crawling belt with its steady 
 rivulet of grain entered the top floor of the 
 mill and disappeared in a ponderous ma- 
 chine. Above the roar of belts and wheels 
 the miller called to me. His hand was filled 
 with stones and nails and little flakes of 
 wood, a heterogeneous mass of refuse. Here 
 the grain was cleaned, all foreign impurities 
 removed. Across the low ceiling, up and 
 down, slanting at every angle, the "legs," 
 long boxlike tubes through which the flour 
 is carried from floor to floor, cluttered the 
 great room. Down the center a battery of 
 strange objects, bristling with rings of pipes 
 like spokes in a row of rimless wheels, flut- 
 tered with unseen life. They looked like a 
 misshapen organ, and I half expected to 
 
 84 
 
THE MILLS 
 
 hear the notes of some strange music echo 
 from the pipes. The dust-collectors. 
 
 On the floor below, the maze of the legs 
 grew more bewildering. Here the purifiers 
 were ranged in mighty companies, and the 
 fine white smoke of flour tinged the air. 
 Like soft snow it dusted my shoulders. 
 The miller pushed back a slide in one of 
 the machines; within, a reel of silk was 
 slowly turning, and through its fine meshes 
 the flour sifted continuously. He scooped 
 up a handful and held it out to me. It 
 seemed fine and white, but the grinding and 
 purifying were only half completed. 
 
 Every machine was in quiet motion. 
 But the mill seemed deserted. On the vast 
 floors a few men wandered in and out 
 among the machines. In the mellow half- 
 light and the comparative stillness, un- 
 aided, almost unattended, these stolid 
 workers of wood and steel performed their 
 8s 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 laborious functions. In the apparent con- 
 fusion of a perfect system, all natural order 
 seemed reversed : up a floor or two through 
 the twisting legs, the flour flowed to the 
 next machine, then back again, and again 
 up to a higher floor. It was incomprehen- 
 sible. The scheme was lost in the multiplic- 
 ity of operations. 
 
 The monotony of the murmuring ma- 
 chines was suddenly broken. Wearied of 
 only the silent turning of hidden wheels, a 
 roomful of huge barrel-like creatures sus- 
 pended between roof and floor had burst 
 suddenly into impassioned life. Reeling 
 and swaying like drunken dancers, the 
 bolters vibrated with angry tumult. In their 
 allotted places they dizzily shook their 
 dusty sides, flinging madly about in a ro- 
 tary motion. 
 
 The days of the big mill-stones have van- 
 ished; corrugated steel-rolls have usurped 
 86 
 
THE MILLS 
 
 their places. In aisles, the roller-mills filled 
 the floor, like stocky pianos in a salesroom. 
 Between the fine teeth of the long steel rolls 
 the clean grain flaked to flour. Here a series 
 crushed the outer husk of the wheat berry; 
 another battery ground fine the clean meal ; 
 and still others there were, each grinding 
 finer and finer, endlessly. And between 
 these grindings came the processes I had 
 seen above, scouring, bolting, separating, 
 and purifying. 
 
 Beyond the open doors of the shipping 
 platforms long lines of freight cars were 
 waiting, half filled with sacks and barrels of 
 flour. Here at last was life and activity. In 
 white caps and uniforms the millers were 
 packing the finished product. Between 
 high-piled sacks, trucks trundled noisily. 
 The floor was white with flour. On slow- 
 moving belts the filled sacks passed out 
 from beneath machines which filled and 
 87 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 weighed the contents to the fraction of an 
 ounce. With long looping stitches the sew- 
 ers fastened the tops. 
 
 Beside the door two huge mill-stones lay 
 half buried in the earth. With the wander- 
 ing father of the Recollets, they were al- 
 ready but memories of a mighty past. Be- 
 hind the city the sun had set in a strong, 
 clear, yellow light. Up in the mill-windows, 
 electric lights were twinkling. The night 
 run had begun. Ceaselessly, day and night, 
 forever, to grind corn for a nation's bread. 
 
T 
 
 X 
 
 TELEPHONE 
 
 HERE was a continuous sound of 
 many voices; a steady cadence in 
 which no individual note dominated ; a hun- 
 dred women's voices incessantly repeating 
 brief sentences with a rising inflection at 
 the end, each sentence lost in the continuous 
 tumult of sound. In a long line, perched on 
 high stools, they sat before the black panels 
 which rose behind their narrow desk. Into 
 the transmitters — hung from their necks — 
 they articulated their strange confused cho- 
 rus. And apparently without relation to the 
 words they uttered, a hundred pairs of hands 
 reached back and forth across the panels, 
 weaving interminably a never-to-be-com- 
 pleted pattern on its finely checkered face. 
 
 89 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 On the panels a thousand Httle lights 
 blinked white and disappeared. Tiny sparks 
 of ruby and green flashed and were gone. 
 Untiring, the white stars flickered in and 
 out, and behind them raced the tireless 
 hands, weaving a strange pattern with the 
 long green cords. And unbroken, unintelli- 
 gible, the murmur of the girls' voices vi- 
 brated unceasingly. 
 
 Outside, under the gray sky of a rainy 
 day, the life of the city was at the flood. 
 Over slim wires, buried in conduits below 
 the trampled street, or high strung, swing- 
 ing in the rising wind, the voices of a thou- 
 sand people told their thousand messages 
 to waiting ears. A passing thought, per- 
 haps, that you would have me hear ; with a 
 single movement you lift the transmitter 
 from the hook beside you ; white flashes the 
 tiny lamp on the black panel; a girl's hand 
 sweeps across the board and plugs in the 
 90 
 
TELEPHONE 
 
 connection. Space, useless, is swept aside; 
 though actual miles may intervene I am 
 suddenly beside you. 
 
 Messages of business that can make or 
 ruin, death, love, infidelity, appeal! Auto- 
 matically, surely, she weaves back and 
 forth across the panels. Clotho, Lachesis, 
 and Atropos, — Parcae of the switchboard ! 
 
 Here is the throbbing pulse of the city 
 bared and visible. Night is over; with rap- 
 idly increasing frequency the flashing drops 
 of light indicate that the activity of day has 
 begun. Every action must be expressed in 
 words, and, bared and concentrated, that 
 word-current of the city rises like a gather- 
 ing wave. From ten in the morning to five 
 minutes after, the tide is at the flood. The 
 flicker of lights is dazzling ; the girls' hands 
 race dizzily behind their flashing summons. 
 Business is at its height. But here on an- 
 other row of panels the occasional flash of 
 91 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 lights offers a curious contrast: this is a 
 panel for a part of the residence district; 
 from seven to eight in the evening its lights 
 will glow with activity. Then business is 
 over and the downtown panels will be dark- 
 ened. Here is a visual shifting of scene and 
 interest. Work over, the social engagements 
 are made, and business is forgotten. There 
 is a friendly gossiping along the wires. 
 
 Night has come, and a dozen girls watch 
 the long, deserted boards. Like the occa- 
 sional glimmer of a cab lamp late upon the 
 street, the signals, one by one, flash and are 
 gone. The world is fast asleep. Far down 
 at the end of the panel a signal brightens. 
 " Number please .? " — " Police ! " It was a 
 woman's voice. From the card index "Cen- 
 tral" picks out the street address which cor- 
 responds to the number, and the nearest sta- 
 tion is advised of the call. Had the woman 
 no time to finish her message? There is 
 92 
 
TELEPHONE 
 
 another light burning on the panel. Al- 
 ready she is forgotten and the slim hands 
 are making another connection. Police or 
 doctor, — the night calls are laden with 
 portent. 
 
 What interests the world to-day? Does 
 something disturb the minds of men .? The 
 flashing panels answer. As surely as the 
 sun will rise to-morrow will the increased 
 throb of light betray the fevered interest of 
 mankind. Five o'clock! usually there is a 
 slacking up, but not to-day. Heavier than 
 at the busiest five minutes in the whole 
 twenty-four hours, come the calls for con- 
 nections. Did the White Sox win their 
 game ^ It is the final of the series. Who was 
 elected? Politics to-day runs high. War? 
 The troops are off; marines have landed! 
 Strikes, fires, or the sinking ship ; the racing 
 hands weave faster; the steady hum of the 
 girls' voices accelerates almost impercep- 
 93 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 tibly. Here beats the pulse upon the sur- 
 face ; they know its normal rise and fall ; by 
 its fevered beat they can read diversion or 
 disaster. 
 
 Back over the years the superintendent 
 recalled the various events which had been 
 dramatically visualized on the switchboard 
 panels. Twelve years ago, about; the pan- 
 els were fewer then. It was almost five 
 o'clock in the afternoon; in a quarter of 
 an hour the day operators would be leav- 
 ing, tired from their long labor at the board. 
 The lights were flashing slowly, perfectly 
 recording the slackened beat of business. 
 Five minutes to five, — a wave of white 
 light seemed to flare across the downtown 
 panels, suddenly, unexpectedly. Ignorant 
 of the cause, the girls plugged in the de- 
 sired connections. Every one seemed to be 
 calling out to the residence sections. For 
 a brief minute there was a pause — The 
 94 
 
TELEPHONE 
 
 flood of light was gone as abruptly as it had 
 come. Then Hke a flame across the resir 
 dence panels gleamed the signals, calling 
 back, a hundredfold, back to the stores and 
 offices. 
 
 The men had heard first the terrible 
 rumor. Their messages across the wires to 
 their homes had sought the answer to their 
 first thought that she, that they, were safe. 
 And then back, in anguished women's 
 voices, came frantic appeals for names of 
 the missing. For long hours through the 
 night the white-faced girls held to their 
 posts; and in their tired eyes the signals 
 burned feverishly. That night Chicago 
 shuddered in its grief, — for in the flames 
 of the Iroquois Theatre, at a holiday mati- 
 nee, had gone out the lives of countless 
 women, men, and little children. 
 
XI 
 
 FROM A THOUSAND HILLS 
 
 IT was two o'clock in the afternoon, but 
 already the gray sky of a raw March day 
 seemed to carry a somber twilight. A west 
 wind filled the heavy air with the smoke 
 and grime of the city, a dark pall through 
 which shone dimly the lights in the office 
 windows. Dearborn Street, black with 
 melting slush and congested with noonday 
 traffic, roared its deep, masculine mono- 
 tone, the clangor of street cars and the 
 shrill whistles of the traffic policemen rising 
 in higher harmony sharply above the 
 steady resonance. To the east, beneath the 
 black structure of the Elevated, the lake 
 gleamed a white square at the street end, 
 cold and cheerless. 
 
 96 
 
FROM A THOUSAND HILLS' 
 
 Five miles from the business district, a 
 deserted tract in the center of the crowded 
 city, lie the stockyards. Beyond the wide 
 gate a road stretches indefinitely into the 
 distance. On either side, above the high 
 fences, rises here and there the irregular 
 mass of great brick buildings, breaking de- 
 fiantly the perfect level of acre upon acre of 
 fenced inclosures. As I entered the gate a 
 couple of men on horseback, riding with the 
 ease of cowboys, galloped past me; their 
 boots and silver spurs branding them just 
 in from the plains with a trainload of cattle. 
 
 In the office of the packing plant, lights 
 were burning. Behind a desk a man nodded 
 at my request and called a guide, and to- 
 gether we passed through a door in the far 
 end of the room. Low, heavily timbered 
 roofs, floors soft with sawdust, and the yel- 
 low gleam of occasional incandescent lights 
 shining dimly in the gloom of the building 
 97 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 seemed suddenly to fill me with a sense 
 of vast, uninhabited places. We stopped 
 for a minute before a long table piled high 
 with hams and slabs of meat. Two men 
 were working behind it; silently, swiftly, 
 and automatically. With the regularity 
 of clockwork a thin, small-featured man 
 stabbed each piece of meat as it passed 
 before him and sniffed at the sharp steel 
 skewer as he drew it forth. At the end of 
 the table his companion, a great German in 
 a white linen suit, branded the smooth 
 black slabs on a white-hot die which 
 gleamed from the table top. 
 
 "That's the government inspector," ex- 
 plained the guide; "smells every piece. He 
 can tell with his eyes shut if anything that 
 ain't A number i comes by." 
 
 Slowly we climbed the slippery stairs to 
 the fourth floor of the building. At the 
 stairhead some high windows swept the 
 
 98 
 
FROM A THOUSAND HILLS 
 
 acres of yards below them. Almost as far as 
 the eye could see extended, like a giant 
 checkerboard, the streets and avenues of 
 pens and inclosures. In smooth curves, 
 railroad tracks twisted and bent with a 
 glint of worn steel rails. Far off a locomo- 
 tive shot suddenly a burst of white steam 
 against the sky and the long train of cattle- 
 cars behind it clanked into life. In the 
 pens there was a restless moving of the 
 backs of countless animals as they wan- 
 dered back and forth from barrier to bar- 
 rier, a constant motion that seemed to make 
 the whole yard eddy like the shifting sur- 
 face of a dark-brown sea. A confused sound 
 of shuffling hoofs and doleful lowing hung in 
 the air, and above all that great sea of life 
 rose pungent the smell of a myriad ani- 
 mals. 
 
 From the pens below a long string of cat- 
 tle moved slowly up an inclined roadway 
 99 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 against the side of the building, which in 
 gradual ascents and planes reached finally 
 the floor on which I stood. Behind the 
 slow-moving beasts a half-dozen men, like 
 yapping terriers, goaded them from the 
 rear. Aiding in their own destruction they 
 were slowly climbing to the slaughter-house 
 on the top of the building, whence the meat 
 would descend by gravity from floor to floor 
 to be cured, packed or dressed, and finally 
 loaded into the waiting cars. 
 
 There was a smell of warm, fresh blood 
 in the slaughter-house. From a gallery 
 against the wall I looked down over a wide 
 room dim in the pale glow of scattered 
 lights. The cement floor was black with 
 water and darker streaks, and the rubber 
 boots of the workmen glistened in the wet. 
 There was a clatter of hoofs and the shouts 
 of men. Into a long, narrow pen on the far 
 side crowded a score of steers, dazed and 
 
 lOO 
 
FROM A THOUSAND HILLS 
 
 stumbling on each other in a panic of fear, 
 their nostrils dilated at the smell of blood. 
 On the platform above the pen the men ran 
 back and forth, separating the cattle until 
 they were evenly distributed into a long 
 line. Then gates were lowered and the 
 pen became divided into a dozen compart- 
 ments. Along the platform two men with 
 great sledges advanced from pen to pen. A 
 long, clean swing of mighty arms, the dull 
 knock of the sledge against a skull, and at 
 each stroke a steer crumpled with a clatter 
 of hoofs and disappeared. In a minute it 
 was ended; the front side of the pen was 
 lifted and the great limp bodies were 
 dragged out with chains and tackle. 
 
 In the five minutes which followed a 
 dozen men with long, thin knives stripped 
 the hides, hoofs and entrails from the steam- 
 ing bodies. Almost before I realized it, it 
 was over; a man with a hose was washing 
 
 lOI 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 the floor; the slaughtered carcasses were 
 being wheeled away, and into the pen an- 
 other bunch of cattle were crowding and 
 sniffing the heavy air. 
 
 It was night when I left the building. 
 Against the low clouds the sudden flares of 
 light from the open hearths of the steel 
 mills gleamed like summer lightning. As I 
 walked out through the gate into the glare 
 of the crowded street there came from the 
 darkness behind me the low, far-off wail of a 
 steer, and then, faint and distant, another 
 answered it. 
 
A 
 
 XII 
 
 CONCRETE 
 
 CROSS the street the vast frame of 
 
 a concrete office building is climbing 
 steadily skyward. Reinforced with rods 
 of steel and lacing wire the gray white stone 
 seems endowed with a strength and perma- 
 nency for all eternity. Each week the con- 
 fining boards that mould the concrete are 
 stripped from the topmost story and a new 
 section is revealed; above, the scaffolding 
 and moulds are replaced and I watch and 
 wait for the next disclosure of its steady 
 progress. 
 
 What is this substance that has enabled 
 men to mould, in monolithic form, struc- 
 tures which defy the wearing touch of pass- 
 ing years ; what is this man-made stone that 
 103 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 until to-day the ages only have been able 
 to produce? The roots which bind the 
 building to the bedrock are made of it; the 
 building which lifts its mass above them 
 is born of it; street and sidewalk in the 
 crowded city, the dam which checks a 
 mighty river in its course, and the humble 
 cattle-trough in the farmer's barnyard are 
 moulded perfect from its mutable sub- 
 stance. Plastic, tractable, it flows into the 
 waiting moulds to solidify, in forms that 
 only years of patient labor with natural 
 stone could produce. Flawless and beauti- 
 ful in form and texture it lends itself to a 
 thousand purposes. An age of concrete is 
 at hand. 
 
 Like giant train-sheds the buildings of 
 the cement mills loom, half hidden in a 
 cloud of dust that drifts and eddies like 
 snow about the roofs, low-lying between 
 earth and sky. 
 
 104 
 
CONCRETE 
 
 Beyond the gateway, the buildings di- 
 vide into two main groups separated by a 
 sweep of open ground. There is no sign of 
 life ; no sound except a distant rumbling like 
 the grinding wheels of the freight trains 
 beyond the gate. As though shod in flannel 
 my feet sink softly in the dust; already 
 my clothes are powdered with it, a dull, 
 gray, impalpable dust of infinite fineness. 
 
 The interest in this vast industry lies 
 principally in the future uses of its prod- 
 uct. Its transmutation from the living 
 rock of incalculable ages to a form which 
 may be reverted to an adamant consistency, 
 guided and controlled, is simply a long 
 series of heating and grinding processes 
 that are striking chiefly for the tremendous 
 nature of the machinery involved. In the 
 gloom of the buildings a disintegration of 
 the very bone of the earth was in progress. 
 From a slender trestle behind the mills 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 strings of cars cast down a clattering 
 shower of broken stone, fresh from the 
 quarry's deep incision; and on the loading 
 platforms the finished cement was being 
 loaded into box-cars — cities in sacks and 
 barrels. 
 
 The roar of grinding stone vibrated in 
 the air. Through clouds of motionless dust 
 occasional lights gleamed dully, like ship's 
 lamps in a fog. Almost ankle-deep in places 
 the cement covered the floors and rested in 
 soft mounds on stairsteps and girders. Far 
 off in the semi-darkness the shapes of men 
 appeared and were gone. 
 
 Before me, stretching entirely across the 
 width of the building, the first of a long 
 line of drying-kilns blocked my passage 
 with its giant body. A dozen feet in di- 
 ameter, it rested at a slight angle, one end 
 lifted a few feet above the other. Rumbling 
 dully, below the shrill clatter of the grind- 
 io6 
 
CONCRETE 
 
 ing rock, they revolved slowly on their 
 carriages, while through their intensely 
 heated interiors a torrent of broken stone 
 tumbled over and over in gradual descent 
 to the openings in their lower ends. At the 
 base of each kiln a jet of flame gleamed a 
 warm cherry through the dust as it shot its 
 incandescent stream into the base of the 
 revolving tube. Cold and lifeless the broken 
 stone poured into the upper end from the 
 crowded hoppers; white with heat it tum- 
 bled, a piercing, gleaming torrent from the 
 base of the kiln. 
 
 Cooled and blackened the dried stone 
 passed on from the drying-kilns to the 
 crushing-mills, steel monsters that ground 
 it to powder with a clanking reverberation. 
 
 High above the kilns, on a great plat- 
 form beside the storage hoppers, the crush- 
 ing-mills that I had heard since I first en- 
 tered the building stretched off into gloom. 
 107 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 As though seized with a frenzy of labor, 
 they writhed and shook in an excess of mo- 
 tion ; black Cyclops beating the very rock to 
 dust beneath their iron-shod feet. Loud as 
 I shouted, my voice was lost in the smash- 
 ing roar of their foot-beats ; my body quiv- 
 ered with the vibration of their agonized 
 labor. 
 
 Blended with the powder of other stones 
 in the mixing-hoppers, the endless stream 
 passed on to the tube mills, where pebbles 
 of flint beat it to a finer consistency. Like 
 gray flour, the endless belts bore it in a 
 slender stream to the waiting bins. 
 
 In the burning-building another battery 
 of kilns like those in the drying-room with- 
 ered the powdered dust to clinkers. Above 
 me, the black bellies of the kilns, reaching 
 from wall to wall, turned slowly with a 
 steady motion, great cylinders of steel re- 
 volving gently between giant fingers. Red 
 io8 
 
CONCRETE 
 
 through the dust burned the Hght of the 
 flame blasts at their bases. Through blue 
 glasses I peered up into the slanting tube, 
 — as the burning tunnel of a mine it seemed 
 redolent with heat and flame. 
 
 In the finishing-mill were repetitions of 
 previous processes by which the clinker was 
 resolved again to the fine powder of the 
 finished cement. Like millers, white with 
 flour, occasional workers passed among the 
 machines ; but it is not men that I remem- 
 ber, rather a feeling of their absence, — 
 an impression of vast machinery auto- 
 matically and ceaselessly performing its 
 perfect functions. 
 
 Even the sampling had been reduced 
 to an automatic process. Fascinated, I 
 watched a slender arm of steel that dipped at 
 perfect intervals a sample from a moving 
 belt, lifted it high, swallowed it, and paused, 
 waiting the moment for a repetition of the 
 109 
 
AMERICA AT WORK 
 
 act. Somehow, through that sHm arm, the 
 tiny handfuls of cement passed out in reg- 
 ular order to the laboratories in a distant 
 building, where with scales and test tube 
 the destroying touch of centuries was con- 
 centrated in a few days or hours of grueling 
 test. 
 
 From the storage building the waiting 
 cars were being loaded with sacks and bar- 
 rels of cement. For ten thousand years 
 man has toiled to build for perpetuity. 
 Rotted and gone with the dust of ages are 
 the temples of antiquity. The great blocks 
 of the pyramids stand in their places de- 
 faced and worn by the winds of centuries; 
 stone alone endures. But in these sacks 
 and barrels rested a new and magic sub- 
 stance, the stone of the future ages; no 
 blast or chisel is called upon to cleave it ; in 
 its fine texture will be none of the imperfec- 
 tions of the natural parent; no crack or flaw 
 no 
 
CONCRETE 
 
 will break its even texture. Nor is strength 
 or skill required to mould it to its everlast- 
 ing form. Firm rooted to the ribs of the 
 earth it will carry the weight of lofty mono- 
 liths; through its smooth base new rivers 
 will bear water to the city's mouth. Be- 
 neath sea and land, on the lonely farm and 
 the crowded city street, this mutable sub- 
 stance has proved its right everlastingly 
 to endure in imperishable concrete. 
 
 THE END 
 
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
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A YEAR IN A COAL-MINE 
 
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THE DIPLOMACY OF 
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