t at last was
splendid even if her body was weak. It dragged her up from the floor.
And now she could see him all around her--on top the hill of rags, on
top the mountain of iron, amid the bursting bags of waste
paper--blinking down as he sat enthroned upon the debris--the twisted,
broken, discarded things of the city that people call the Devil's Own.
"These are mine!" he called. "And you belong to the debris. You are
one of the broken, useless things." From all points he moved toward
her. She could no longer fight him off. There was no escape. "Grit,"
she cried, "Grit, you can stop him. You ... you was a stone wall...."

Stumbling back, her hand struck a familiar object. There was a tinkle
of bells. She wheeled around, and there in the shadows of the
dilapidated old warehouse someone was drooping over the handle of the
junk-cart--a collarless man with baggy breeches and a nose that leaned
toward the smudges and hollows of his cheek. He was striving to move
the cart. "Not alone," cried Great Taylor. "You can't do it alone! But
we can do it together!" She took hold of the handle. The thing moved.
"Easy as a baby carriage," she laughed. "We should always done it
together...."

Out of the gloom, through the arched doorway into the sunlight moved
the cart with its jingling, jangling bells. Glossy-haired women with
their baskets made way for it and the cart bumped down over the curb.
Teamsters drew aside their heavy-hoofed horses. Peddlers rolled their
push-carts back to the curb.

"The street opens when we work together," laughed Great Taylor.

"Who is she talking to?" asked the people.

"Talking to herself," the ignorant replied.

"And why is she looking up like that?"

"Looking for junk."

"And why does she laugh?" they asked.

"Who knows? Who knows? Perhaps she's happy."

A song burst from her throat: "Rags," she sang, "old iron ... bottles,
and ra-ags...."

People inside their houses heard her song and the bells of her cart.
"It's nothing," they laughed, "it's only Great Taylor." A woman came
to a window and waved an object that glinted in the sunlight. "How
much?" she called down. But Great Taylor seemed not to hear. A child
ran out with a bundle in her arms. "Rags," called the child, then
stepped back out of the way, wondering. Great Taylor was passing on.
An elevated train sent down a cataract of noise, but her song rose
above it: "Rags ... old iron...." And when she reached the avenue a
policeman with