ed. No noise of childhood, though the children were
there. They were flung into an arena for a long day's fight against a
thing of steel and steam, and there was no time for anything save
work, work, work--walk, walk, walk--watch, forever watch,--the
interminable flying whirl of spindle and spool.

Early as it was, the children were late, and were soundly rebuffed by
the foreman.

The scolding hurt only Shiloh--it made her tremble and cry. The
others were hardened--insensible--and took it with about the same
degree of indifference with which caged and starved mice look at the
man who pours over their wire traps the hot water which scalds them
to death.

The fight between steel, steam and child-flesh was on.

Shiloh, Appomattox and Atlanta were spinners.

Spinners are small girls who walk up and down an aisle before a
spinning-frame and piece up the threads which are forever breaking.
There were over a hundred spindles on each side of the frame, each
revolving with the rapidity of an incipient cyclone and snapping
every now and then the delicate white thread that was spun out like
spiders' web from the rollers and the cylinders, making a
balloon-like gown of cotton thread, which settled continuously around
the bobbin.

All day long and into the night, they must walk up and down, between
these two rows of spinning-frames, amid the whirling spindles,
piecing the broken threads which were forever breaking.

It did not require strength, but a certain skill, which,
unfortunately, childhood possessed more than the adult. Not power,
but dexterity, watchfulness, quickness and the ability to walk--as
children walk--and watch--as age should watch.

No wonder that in a few months the child becomes, not the flesh and
blood of its heredity, but the steel and wood of its environment.

Bull Run and Seven Days were doffers, and confined to the same set of
frames. They followed their sisters, taking off the full bobbins and
throwing them into a cart and thrusting an empty bobbin into its
place. This requires an eye of lightning and a hand with the
quickness of its stroke.

For it must be done between the pulsings of the Big Thing's heart--a
flash, a snap, a snarl of broken thread--up in the left hand flies
the bobbin from its disentanglement of thread and skein, and down
over the buzzing point of steel spindles settles the empty bobbin,
thrust over the spindle by the right.

It is all done with two quick movements--a flash