iles above Pittsburg. The
great strike of July, 1892, with its attendant horrors, is a lurid
chapter in the story of American industry. With shuddering interest,
we view the famous great bank of ugly slag at the base of the steel
mills, where the barges housing the Pinkerton guards were burned by
the mob.

To-day, the Homesteaders are enjoying their Sunday afternoon outing
along the town shore--nurses pushing baby carriages, self-absorbed
lovers holding hands upon riverside benches, merry-makers rowing in
skiffs or crossing the river in crowded ferries; the electric cars,
following either side of the stream as far down as Pittsburg, crowded
to suffocation with gayly-attired folk. They look little like rioters;
yet it seems but the other day when Homestead men and women and
children were hysterically reveling in atrocities akin to those of the
Paris commune.

Approaching Pittsburg, the high steeps are everywhere crowded with
houses--great masses of smoke-color, dotted all over with white shades
and sparkling windows, which seem, in the gray afternoon, to be ten
thousand eyes coldly staring down at Pilgrim and her crew from all
over the flanking hillsides.

Lock No. 1, the last barrier between us and the Ohio, is a mile or two
up the Monongahela, with warehouses and manufacturing plants closely
hemming it in on either side. A portage, unaided, appears to be
impossible here, and we resolve to lock through. But it is Sunday, and
the lock is closed. Above, a dozen down-going steamboats are moored to
the shore, waiting for midnight and the resumption of business; while
below, a similar line of ascending boats is awaiting the close of the
day of rest. Pilgrim, however, cannot hang up at the levee with any
comfort to her crew; it is necessary, with evening at hand, and a
thunder-storm angrily rising over the Pittsburg hills, to get out
of this grimy pool, flanked about with iron and coal yards, chimney
stacks, and a forest of shipping, and to quickly seek the open country
lower down on the Ohio. The lock-keepers appreciated our situation.
Two or three sturdy, courteous men helped us carry our cargo, by an
intricate official route, over coils of rope and chains, over lines of
shafting, and along dizzy walks overhanging the yawning basin; while
the Doctor, directed to a certain chute in midstream, took unladen
Pilgrim over the great dam, with a wild swoop which made our eyes swim
to witness from the lock.

We had laboriousl