Gibbons's. The day was cold and clear, but the ground was
slippery with sleet, and, holding on to my arm, Bettina made valiant
effort to pilot me aright.
As we walked she talked, and the names of the occupants of various
houses passed were told to me, together with the particular kind of
work in which they were engaged, and the amount of wages which were
earned by different members of the household. The information given
me had been gained from her schoolmates, and what at first had seemed
appalling frankness and freedom, I soon learned was a community
custom, and a comparison of earnings a favorite subject of discussion
among children of all ages. Recess, it appears, is the usual time
for an exchange of facts concerning family affairs.
"Myra Blunt, who sits in front of me, says she's going in the
pickle-factory as soon as she's fourteen." Bettina slipped, but
caught herself, and held my arm more firmly.
"She's our ashman's daughter, and she's got a mole right on the end
of her nose. It's a little on one side, but it looks awful funny,
and Jimmie Rice says she'll stay in that pickle-factory all her life
if she don't have that mole taken off.
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