The box social was the beginning of a round of gaieties.  The following night I went with my box-social friend to a ball.  Neither of us danced, but we arrived early and took good places for looking on.  The barren hall was dimly lighted.  In the corner there was a stove; at one end a stage.  An old man with a chin beard was scattering sand over the floor with a springtime gesture of seed sowing.  He had his hat on and his coat collar turned up, as though to indicate that the party had not begun.  By and by the stage curtain rolled up and the musicians came out and unpacked a violin, a trombone, a flute and a drum.  They sat down in the Medieval street painted on the scenery back of them, crossed their legs and asked for sol la from an esthetic young lady pianist, with whom they seemed on very familiar terms.  The old man with the chin beard made an official entree from the wing, picked up the drum and became a part of the orchestra.  The subscribers had begun to arrive, and when the first two-step struck up there were eight or ten couples on the floor.  They held on to each other closely, with no outstretched arms as is the usual form, and they revolved very slowly around and around the room.  The young men had smooth faces, patent leather boots, very smart cravats and a sheepish, self-conscious look.  The girls had elaborate constructions in frizzed hair, with bows and tulle; black trailing skirts with coloured ruffled under-petticoats, light-coloured blouses and fancy belts.  They seemed to be having a very good time.

On the way home we passed a brightly lighted grocery shop.  My friend looked in with interest.  “Goodness,” he said, “but those Saratoga chips look good.  Now, what would you order,” he went on, “if you could have anything you liked?” We began to compose a menu with oysters and chicken and all the things we never saw, but it was not long before my friend cried “Mercy!  Oh, stop; I can’t stand it.  It makes me too hungry.”

The moon had gone under a cloud.  The wooden sidewalks were rough and irregular, and as we walked along toward home I tripped once or twice.  Presently I felt a strong arm put through mine, with this assurance:  “Now if you fall we’ll both fall together.”

After four or five days’ experience with a machine I began to work with more ease and with less pain between my shoulders.  The girls were kind and sympathetic, stopping to help and encourage the “new girl.”  One of the shirt finishers, who had not been long in the mill herself, came across from her table one day when I was hard at work with a pain like a sword stab in my back.

“I know how you ache,” she said.  “It just makes me feel like crying when I see how you keep at it and I can guess how tired you are.”

Nothing was so fatiguing as the noise.  In certain places near the eyelet and buttonhole machines it was impossible to make one’s neighbour hear without shouting.  My teacher, whose nerves, I took it, were less sensitive than mine, expressed her sensations in this way: