we saw poor Eunice struggling at the same hopeless lesson.
The foreman, whose name proved to be Isaacs,--"Abe" Isaacs,--brought us
our first "lot" of work. Mine consisted of six dozen coarse muslin
corset-covers, which were already seamed together, and which I was
shown how to "finish" with an embroidery yoke and ruffled edging about
the arm's-eye. There is no basting, no pinning together of pieces; all
the work is free-hand, and must be done with infinite exactness. I must
hold the embroidery and the finishing strips of beading on the edge of
the muslin with an exact nicety that will insure the edges of all three
being caught in one seam; a process difficult enough on any
sewing-machine, under any circumstances, but doubly so when the lightest
touch sends the three-ply fabric under the needle with an incalculable
velocity. Result of my first hour's work: I had spoiled a dozen
garments. Try as I would, I invariably lost all control of my materials,
and the needle plunged right and left--everywhere, in fact, except along
the straight and narrow way laid out for it. And, to make matters still
worse, I was painfully conscious that my old woman vis-a-vis was
laughing at my distress with her irritating "Yi, yi!"

As I spoiled each garment I thrust it into the bottom of a green
pasteboard box under the table, which held my allotment of work, and
from the top of the box grabbed up a fresh piece. I glanced over my
shoulder and saw that Bessie was doing the same thing, although what we
were going to do with them, or how account for such wholesale
devastation of goods, we were too perturbed to consider. At last,
however, after repeated trials, and by guiding the seam with laborious
care, I succeeded in completing one garment without disaster; and I had
just started another, when--crash!--flying shuttles and spinning bobbins
and swirling wheels came to a standstill. My sewing-machine was silent,
as were all the others in the great workroom. Something had happened to
the dynamo.

There was a howl of disappointment.

"Yi, yi!" screamed the old woman, throwing up her hands in a gesture of
unutterable disgust; and then, catching my eye, her wrinkled old lips
parted in a smile of friendly interest.

"How many did ye bungle?" she chuckled, leaning over and looking
furtively up and down the room, as if afraid of being caught talking to
me. I blushed in confusion that was half fright, and she raised a
forefinger menacingly:

"Yi! y