there wondering.

"We shall have all the boats in the world for ourselves--and we shall be
free! All battle boats we shall sink in the sea! We stop all wars! So
now we begin!"

Was it indeed a beginning? Was this the opening measure of music that
would be heard round the world? My mind rejected the idea, I thought it
merest madness. But still that song rang in my ears. What deep
compelling force was here--this curious power of the crowd that had so
suddenly gripped hold of this simple Italian musician, this fiddler on
excursion boats, and in a few short days and nights had made him pour
into music the fire of its world-wide dreams?

I saw it seize on others. One day a young girl rose up in the hall. A
stenographer on one of the docks, she was neatly, rather sprucely
dressed, but her face was white and scared. She had never made a speech
before. She was speaking now as though impelled by something she could
not control.

"Comrades--fellow workers." Her voice trembled violently. She paused and
set her teeth, went on. "How about the women and babies?" she asked. "I
know of one who was born last night. And that's only one of a lot. We
have thousands of kids and old people--sick people too, and cripples and
drunks--all that these lovely jobs of ours have left on our backs.
They've got to be carried. Who's to take care of 'em, feed 'em, doctor
'em? If we're going to run the earth let's begin at home. What does
anyone know about that?"

She sat down with a kind of a gasp of relief. Her seat was close to the
platform, and I could see her bright excited eyes as she listened to
what she had started here. For the crowd, as though it had only been
waiting for this girl to speak its thought, now seized upon her
question. Sharp voices were heard all over the hall. Some said they
could get doctors, others knew of empty stores that could be had for
nothing and used as free food stations. An assistant cook from an ocean
liner told where his chief bought wholesale supplies. And the girl who
had roused this discussion, her nervousness forgotten now, rose up again
and again with so many quick, eager suggestions, that when the first
relief station was opened that evening she was one of those placed in
charge.

I saw her grow amazingly, for now I came to know her well. Her name was
Nora Ganey. At home that night when Eleanore said, "Remember, dear, I
want something to do that will let me see the strike for myself"--I
thought at once