You see a mother sick. Her hair has lost its color, her face looks like a ghost, and blood is streaming from her left hand. She is laying her in makeshift bed. The year, if you’re wondering is 1904. Yes, I know what you’re thinking “Oh, The Victorian era is all glamour and expensive house with footmen and servants.” Well your half right. I’m a factory girl and that’s my mother who’s sick. She cut her hand open badly well she was working in a factory. I live in the black alley in a three room shack with my three bothers. My father died only a few months ago in a factory fire.
Today, as I’m getting ready for work by putting my hair in a bun and slipping on my work dress I can’t help but feel excited because I’m getting paid. I’m the only one who can support my family now , since Momma’s out sick and my bothers are not even old enough to sweep. Before I leave, I go into the kitchen to remind my three bothers to take good care of Momma. There, all sitting around the small, wood table eating there mush.
“Now boys,” I say in a motherly tone, “take good care of Mother. I will be back as soon as I can.”
The boys nod their heads.
I go into Momma’s bedroom to give her a goodbye kiss. The bed seems empty without Father, but still as tidy as ever. Momma’s face is buried in all the thin blankets and sheets. I walk up very slowly as not to wake her up to the bed and kiss Momma’s warm forehead. Her hand is still bloody from the cut she got from using the wheels. After that I leave bedroom and head out into to the kitchen to get my lunch pail and go out the door.
It’s a cold, windy morning. I walk along 21st Avenue past all the shops and stands. People are crowded the streets but I mange to make it though. A newspaper boy, no younger than me is standing sidewalk side and yelling out the latest news headlines. Finally I make it to work. I stand outside ready to face the hard day ahead of me. The factory is made of brick with lots of windows. I work 12 hours a day 6 days a week. I walk inside the hot factory and take off my sorry excuse for a coat. And slowly walk over to my station.
“Get working girl!” says the overseer, Mr. Jones. He walks over to me and pokes me with his cigar. It leaves a burn spot on my sleeve. I put down my lunch pail and go over to the bobbins. The noise from the big machines hunts my ears but you get use to it. I get my spinning machine ready for the starting bell. Another one will sound at noon for a lunch break. The first bell sounds and then the machines start. I have to be fast on my toes to keep up with the bobbins so that they won’t get tangle up.
By the middle of the day, my hands are sore and so are my sounders but I had to do this for Momma. We all need this money even if it isn’t much. Suddenly the machines stop but it isn’t noon yet. I hear a scream and someone says:
“My hand, it’s stuck in the wheel!”
“Jo!” says Mr. Jones.
A young lady, about nineteen comes hurrying to Mr. Jones.
“Take this boy back and clean up his hand.” he says.
The woman obeys and takes him back. I can hear her talking in hushed tones to the boy. The boy’s hand is dripping blood see the boy’s hand it looks like he cut his finger off
“Ok scene’s over everyone back to work.” yells Mr. Jones. The bell starts back up. Wow, I think I’m lucky. Of course I’d been working a lot longer than that boy. My fingers are hard and his are weak. I feel sorry for him. At the lunch hour I sit against the wall and listen to the older women gossip about the latest news.
“You know that child has no mother to guide him.” says an older lady who is standing around with her friends.
I expected she was talking about the boy who hurt his hand earlier this morning.
“Oh that poor boy.” said a younger lady who was standing next to the older lady.
I couldn’t image having my mother gone at such a young age. It’s hard enough living without my father.
After work, I walk home in the dark. The street lights are dim. They shine on my faded out dress. I walk down the street to our stack. It looks like an outcast with its falling roof and a wood panel for a door. But head inside to be greeted by cheery fire lilted by my bothers. I take off my coat and hang it on the hand craved wood coat rack. It the most valuable thing in our house. Momma wouldn’t sell it for anything. I go looking for my brothers since there not in the kitchen working on their homework. I leave kitchen and go into my mother’s bedroom. I’m surprise to see Mother propped up against her pillow. She has the boys on either side of her and she is stoking their hair like a forgotten treasure.
“Well how’s are little working woman doing today?” said Mother, a smile on her face.
“Fine.” I say, even though my legs are numb and my shoulders feel like they’re burned.
But Momma smiled an awarding winning smile which made it all worth it.
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