The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1927-08-19
A Street in a Mining
Village

on his fingers "Me, my wife Mary,
my four kids, Frank, Anna, Nick, Joe
and you, you four lazy boarders,
you drink up all my beer,-I got
worry for you tool"
Proska's wife Mary comes in from
the porch. She is young and hand
some like him, robust and straight.
She carries in a huge armful Of
clothes; the sweat streams from her
face. She puts the clothes on the
basket that is already Overlooking
with the days washing, "My God, l
work hard today!" she exclaims, fan
ming her face with her apron.
what I keep you in my house for,
woman ?" her husband jokes with
her, gently smiling. "Only wash
clothes for me, that's ALI"
Mary laughs. This does not bother
her. She is her husbands partner,
not his slave. She goes with him to
his meetings; reads his books. She
was with him in Jugo-Slavia, coming
to America, in the soft-coal, now
here. She will be with him where
ever the Revolution takes them. Is
it his fault that she must wear her.
self out with homework THAT is
the woman's life. The women must
fight. the class-struggle too; like in
Russia, here too, they must make
themselves better life. That is
Mary's philosophy.
Outside, on the broken front steps
of their house, hangs Joe, a four
year old, Mary's youngest. His bare
feet have been scrubbed clean with
soap; he is not supposed to get them
dirty again before bedtime. The
street, however, is great tempta-
ton, there, the boys are play
ing
Next door, Marion, pretty, fifteen
/ year-old Marion sits sulking. Her
beau did not come tonight. All for
nothing are her white, powdered
cheeks, her high heeled slippers, her
slim, soft body. Marion is a worker
in a silk mill for seven dollars
week. When you work like that, it
is big disappointment if your beau
does not show up on his night. Now
she sits in the heat and trundles a
white, skinny, squirming baby. This
is her sister, the youngest of brood
of eleven. A funny little baby, grimy
and damp and sickly, but smiling
nevertheless with an endearing little
smile. There are plenty of babies
like this. There are two of them
now across the street, in the arms
of slatternly mothers. 1t is too hot
to put them to bed in the little, sun
! baked bedrooms. Very cheap is life,
workers life, in the mining village.
| Cheap as the life of the miners in the
mine is the life of the children in the
home, quickly begotten, easily snuffed
] out
I Twilight brings no GOODNESS. Now
the dark sky hangs low like a blanket
! over the village. The gas lamps are
! lighted on the street. In their circle
the children play, the girls and fell
lows flirt.
Up the street, is place known in
popular parlance as house." Out
/ side, just a cottage, little bigger
and better looking than the others.
inside, bar-room, with drinks GO
ing fast and furious on this hot night;
upstairs, many rooms with the shades
always pulled down. Here the young
fellows come as thick as the night
moths that swarm around the street.
lamps. Booze and vice after
the day spent in the darkness, in the
damp Notwithstanding, dreary
mine; an hour of light and excite
ment a quick red blaze of heat and
passion, after the hours of toll that
are like a long, slow night. An old
man totters out Of the saloon door,
snickering senselessly. Everybody
laughs as he staggers home down the
street. Never mind, he will be up
again tomorrow, ready for work
when at five o'clock the colliery
sounds its five long-drawn, deep
throated whistles.
Slowly sleep comes to quiet the
teeming warm proletarian life. The
colliery too ceases it's heavy throb-
bing; there is sudden silence as
| though the pulse of the village had
stopped. All is still and sleep pre-
pares for new day of struggle.