You are here
قراءة كتاب The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself
THE LONG DAY
THE STORY OF A NEW YORK WORK-
ING GIRL * * AS TOLD BY HERSELF
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1905
Copyright, 1905, by
The Century Co.
Published October, 1905
THE DEVINNE PRESS
TO MY THREE "LADY-FRIENDS"
Happy, fortunate Minnie; Bessie, of gentle memory; and that other, silent figure in the tragedy of Failure, the long-lost, erring Eunice, with the hope that, if she still lives, her eye may chance to fall upon this page, and reading the message of this book, she may heed.
CONTENTS
| CHAPTER | PAGE | |
| I | In which I Arrive in New York | 3 |
| II | In which I Start Out in Quest of Work | 16 |
| III | I Try "Light" Housekeeping in a Fourteenth-street Lodging-house | 27 |
| IV | Wherein Fate Brings Me Good Fortune in One Hand and Disaster in the Other | 44 |
| V | In which I am "Learned" by Phœbe in the Art of Box-making | 58 |
| VI | In which Phœbe and Mrs. Smith Hold Forth upon Music and Literature | 75 |
| VII | In which I Acquire a Story-book Name and Make the Acquaintance of Miss Henrietta Manners | 92 |
| VIII | Wherein I Walk through Dark and Devious Ways with Henrietta Manners | 108 |
| IX | Introducing Henrietta's "Special Gentleman-friend" | 123 |
| X | In which I Find Myself a Homeless Wanderer in the Night | 142 |
| XI | I Become an "Inmate" of a Home for Working Girls | 151 |
| XII | In which I Spend a Happy Four Weeks Making Artificial Flowers | 180 |
| XIII | Three "Lady-friends," and the Adventures that Befall Them | 197 |
| XIV | In which a Tragic Fate Overtakes my "Lady-friends" | 215 |
| XV | I Become a "Shaker" in a Steam-laundry | 229 |
| XVI | In which it is Proved to Me that the Darkest Hour Comes Just Before the Dawn | 249 |
| Epilogue | 266 | |
THE LONG DAY
I
IN WHICH I ARRIVE IN NEW YORK
The rain was falling in great gray blobs upon the skylight of the little room in which I opened my eyes on that February morning whence dates the chronological beginning of this autobiography. The jangle of a bell had awakened me, and its harsh, discordant echoes were still trembling upon the chill gloom of the daybreak. Lying there, I wondered whether I had really heard a bell ringing, or had only dreamed it. Everything about me was so strange, so painfully new. Never before had I waked to find myself in that dreary, windowless little room, and never before had I lain in that narrow, unfriendly bed.
Staring hard at the streaming skylight, I tried to think, to recall some one of the circumstances that might possibly account for my having entered that