ered from the dreadful cold,
and that was a great deal; but in addition they had counted on the money
they would not have to pay for coal--and it was just at this time that
Marija's board began to fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought trials
of its own; each season had its trials, as they found. In the spring
there were cold rains, that turned the streets into canals and bogs; the
mud would be so deep that wagons would sink up to the hubs, so that half
a dozen horses could not move them. Then, of course, it was impossible
for any one to get to work with dry feet; and this was bad for men that
were poorly clad and shod, and still worse for women and children. Later
came midsummer, with the stifling heat, when the dingy killing beds of
Durham's became a very purgatory; one time, in a single day, three men
fell dead from sunstroke. All day long the rivers of hot blood poured
forth, until, with the sun beating down, and the air motionless,
the stench was enough to knock a man over; all the old smells of a
generation would be drawn out by this heat--for there was never any
washing of the walls and rafters and pillars, and they were caked with
the filth of a lifetime. The men who worked on the killing beds would
come to reek with foulness, so that you could smell one of them fifty
feet away; there was simply no such thing as keeping decent, the most
careful man gave it up in the end, and wallowed in uncleanness. There
was not even a place where a man could wash his hands, and the men ate
as much raw blood as food at dinnertime. When they were at work they
could not even wipe off their faces--they were as helpless as newly born
babes in that respect; and it may seem like a small matter, but when the
sweat began to run down their necks and tickle them, or a fly to bother
them, it was a torture like being burned alive. Whether it was the
slaughterhouses or the dumps that were responsible, one could not say,
but with the hot weather there descended upon Packingtown a veritable
Egyptian plague of flies; there could be no describing this--the houses
would be black with them. There was no escaping; you might provide all
your doors and windows with screens, but their buzzing outside would be
like the swarming of bees, and whenever you opened the door they would
rush in as if a storm of wind were driving them.

Perhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the country, visions
of green fields and mountains and sparkling lakes.