44
YARTISAN REVIEW
"Oi, little children
I"
said Tessie, the old finisher, to the circle of
girls around her. . "It's such a sad song 1 Oi, such hands, such golden
fingers 1 Bessele, may vigor reach into your little bones 1 Hand me my
pocket-book. I'll give him a whole nickle 1 Listen, listen 1 Imagine such
a musician to be without work, to have to wander through the factories
and climb the filthy staircases.
Oi,
what times we lived to see
I"
She
sighed.
The second variant was expiring in slow resignation.
It
was inter-
cepted by brisk, plaintive notes:
My neiqhbor has a white-washed house,
lJ.ly
neighbor has a loving spouse,
But I have no little house,
Neither happiness nor spouse •
.•
The song faded out. The operators demanded "A gay little piece
I"
"A dance, a daoce
I"
"Playa dance for them
I"
the boss said with a sneer. "Playa dance,
and sec my great mechanics waltzing in their seats."
"The Rhumba
I"
called the turner, who loved jazz. "The Rhumba
I"
he repeated. With one stroke he rammed a pair of sleeves into the open
armholes of an overcoat. "The Rhumba
I"
"The Dupa!" countered the blackbearded presser and let his Hoff–
man machine hiss. "Play the Internationale. I demand the Internationale!"
"He demands
I"
chuckled the boss. "Look at him, mister. This is
my great presser, Arke-Levy, who carries the Communist l'vlanifesto under
his small prayer shawl, and presses Bolshevism into the jackets
I"
There was a roar of laughter.
Arke-Levy was quick with his answer.
"I dropped my prayer shawl all right, but your jackets remain the
~ame
burlap as ever
I"
He curved his lips in disgust. "Call this 'coats'?
Call this 'seams'? It's pasted together with spit. The whole thing needs
to be Bolshevised. The belt loops falling off; one pocket made of flannel,
the other of calico. The Negroes are paying hard cash for these rags.
The miners' kids dress in this trash
I"
"Hey, Mr. Fiddler
I"
the presser exclaimed. "Up with your bowl
Smite the strings and tack the corners
I"
He stepped on the paddle and
clamped down the upper head of the Hoff-man machine. \Vith his right
hand he directed the musician:
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!
