landt Street in Manhattan, where I called
upon a candy-manufacturer who wanted bonbon-makers. The French foreman,
in snowy cap and apron, received me in a great room dazzling with
white-tile walls and floor, and filled with bright-eyed girls, also in
caps and aprons, and working before marble tables. The Frenchman was
polite and apologetic, but they never hired any but experienced workers.

It was half-past three, and I had two more names on my list. Rose-making
sounded attractive, and I walked all the way up to Bond Street. Shabby
and prosaic, this street, strangely enough, has been selected as the
forcing-ground or nursery of artificial flowers. Its signs on both
sides, even unto the top floor, proclaim some specialization of
fashionable millinery--flowers, feathers, aigrets, wire hat-frames. On
the third floor, rear, of a once fashionable mansion, now fallen into
decay, I stumbled into a room, radiantly scarlet with roses. The
jangling bell attached to the door aroused no curiosity whatever in the
white-faced girls bending over these gay garlands. It was a signal,
though, for a thick-set beetle-browed young fellow to bounce in from the
next room and curtly demand my business.

"We only pay a dollar and a half to learners," he said, smiling
unpleasantly over large yellow teeth. I fled in dismay. Down Broadway,
along Bleecker, and up squalid Thompson Street I hurried to a paper-box
factory.

The office of E. Springer & Company was in pleasant contrast to the
flower sweat-shop, for all its bright colors. So, too, was there a
grateful comparison between the Jew of the ugly smile and the portly
young man who sat behind a glass partition and acknowledged my entrance
by glancing up from his ledger. The remark he made was evidently witty
and not intended for my ears, for it made the assistant bookkeeper--a
woman--and the two women typewriters laugh and crane their necks in my
direction. The bookkeeper climbed down from his high stool and opened
the glass door. He was as kind now as he was formerly merry. Possibly he
had seen my chin quiver the least bit, and knew I was almost ready to
cry. He did not ask many questions; but presently he sent one typewriter
flying up-stairs for the superintendent, and the other was sent to ask
of the forewoman if all the jobs were filled. The superintendent proved
to be a woman, shrewd, keen-faced, and bespectacled. The forewoman sent
down word that No. 105 had not rung up that morning, and