Chapters 17
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1 01 - Eight Hours - Read by AJG 2:13
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Anna Goss Sign the petition! Write my name! She said, ask me! Oh, she's fooling! Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This? Why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's airy, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers? I like them, yes, though goodness knows I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them, they cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it almost it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred. Sir, my heart swells so that I—there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir— Make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, if you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a sense worth, ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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2 02 - Eight Hours - Read by AK 2:52
Baker Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Amon Khan. Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I have been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes, no, not now. This? Why? A flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew on the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone. Like a little green cloaked white-capped fairy. Fawn of flowers, I like them, yes.
Though, goodness knows, I don't see many. I'd have to buy them, they cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do, that before I know it, almost. It's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think, of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking? I was country bred. Sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, was the use of thinking. If I cut right, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave.
There's plenty of girls to fill our places. They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age. Sir, she's gone away. To spend the summer across the water. But us, oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us still bear losses? No, not a sense worth, ah. You'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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3 03 - Eight Hours - Read by APS 2:47
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens.
Sign the petition! Write my name! She said, ask me! Oh, she's fooling! Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This, why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area where it stood. And nodded, all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers! I like them, yes, though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park! How can I, sir? The only day that I have. It's Sunday, and then there's always so much to do, that before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it? Why? When I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred, sir, my heart swell so, that I there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it? No. Please, I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? I'll just say, shortly, with careless faces, if you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away, to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you see, I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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4 04 - Eight Hours - Read by BC 2:31
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Bryce Kreis, Youngstown, 11-24-21. Sign the petition. Write my name, she said. Ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough? Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This, why a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area. Where it stood and nodded, all alone. Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.
Fond of flowers? I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many. I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park? How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir. Like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred, sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, If you're not suited, you'd better leave.
There's plenty of girls to fill our places. They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth, ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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5 05 - Eight Hours - Read by BK 2:51
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk.
Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough? Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This? Why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers? I like them, yes, though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park? How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday. And then there's always so much to do that before I know it almost it's Monday. Like it, sir? Like it? Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred, sir. My heart swells so that I... There, there. What's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir. "'Make a cross and let you write my name below it. "'No, please, I'm ashamed I can't. "'Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. "'And what's the use of it, anyway? "'They'll just say shortly with careless faces, "'If you're not suited, you'd better leave.
"'There's plenty of girls to fill our places. "'They're kind enough to their own, no doubt.' Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir. She's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a sense worth. Oh, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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6 06 - Eight Hours - Read by CJPH 2:25
Baker, Jr. Read for Lipovox.org by Chad Horner. Located in Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out I once was stronger. A bad cough, oh that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust, I'm bending over. It hurts me sometimes, no, not now. This, why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area where it stood, and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy.
Fond of flowers. I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many. I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. Can I, sir? The only day I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do, that before I know it almost it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brick with the cattle drinking? I was country bread, sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, if you're not suited, you'd better leave.
There's plenty of girls to fill our places. They're kind enough. To their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age. So she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh, well, we're only hands.
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7 07 - Eight Hours - Read by CZ 2:37
Baker, Jr.
Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me? Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours. "'Are from eight till six, you see? It wears one out. I once was stronger.' "'A bad cough? Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust, and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now.' "'This? Why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area where it stood, and nodded all alone like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.' Fond of flowers? I like them, yes, though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park? How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir? Like it? Why, when I think of the woods and the brook, with the cattle drinking, I was country-bred, sir. My heart swells so that I—there, there. What's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly with careless faces, if you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir. She's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No. Not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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8 08 - Eight Hours - Read by HS 2:28
Baker, Jr.
Sign the petition. Write my name, she said asked me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it still seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why a flower, a bit of clover? I picked it up. As I came to work, it grew in the grass, in someone's area, where it stood and nodded, all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I can never spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do. That before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the kettle drinking, I was country bred, sir. My heart swells so. That I there, there. What's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed, I can't. Sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, if you're not suited, you better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away, to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see, I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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9 09 - Eight Hours - Read by KLA 3:24
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Carrie Adams, your book voice, on the 23rd of November, 2021, at Mesa, Arizona.
Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough? Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust. And bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This? Why a flower? A bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes, though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park! How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir. Like it? Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred. Sir, my heart swells so that I... There, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age. Sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a sense worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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10 10 - Eight Hours - Read by LCW 2:52
Baker, Jr. Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, Ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now. And it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why, a flower. A bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers? I like them, yes. Though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much. And I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park? How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday. And then there's always so much to do, that before I know it, almost it's Monday. Like it, sir. Like it? Why, when I think of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country-bred. Sir, my heart swells so that I—there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it. No. Please. I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter, just my age. Sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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11 11 - Eight Hours - Read by LKS 3:04
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Lakshmi. Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why? I have been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now. And it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one now. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This? Why? A flower. A bit of clover. I picked it up. As I came to work, it grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-clogged, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers, I like them, yes.
Though goodness knows I don't see many. I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do, that before I knew it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bread, sir, my heart swelled so, that I... What's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what is the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave.
There's plenty of girls to fill our places. They are kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age. Sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh, well. We are only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir. And I knew bosses.
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12 12 - Eight Hours - Read by MM 2:26
Baker Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Markus Mesheschak.
Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I can never spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir. Like it. Why, then, I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking? I was country bread, sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just stay shortly with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own no doubt, our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a sense worth that, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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13 13 - Eight Hours - Read by NL 2:17
Baker, Jr. Signed the petition, write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's foolin'. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schoolin'? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust, and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood, and nodded all alone. Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday. And then there's always so much to do, that before I know it, almost it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinkin', I was country bred, sir, my heart swell so, that I there, there, what's the use of thinkin'? If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. I want the use of it anyway. They'll just say shortly with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away. To spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you see, I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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14 14 - Eight Hours - Read by PS 2:45
Baker, Jr.
Sign the petition. Write my name, she said. Ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust, and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This, why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass, in some one's area. Where it stood, and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers? I like them, yes. Though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much. And I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park? How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday. And then there's always so much to do that before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking—I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so that I—there, there, what's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes. I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say, shortly, with careless faces, if you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir. She's gone away, to spend the summer across the water. But us—oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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15 15 - Eight Hours - Read by QRCH 2:28
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox by Quentin Halliday.
Sign the petition. Write my name. She said ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This, why, a flower, a bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass, in someone's airy, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes. Though goodness knows I don't see many.
I have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday. Then there's always so much to do, and before I know it, almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir? Like it? Why, when I think of the woods and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bread, sir. My heart swells so, and I there, there... What's the use of thinking? If I could write, sir, make a cross and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed. I can't some- Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly with careless faces. If you're not suited, you better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir, she's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us, oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth. You see, I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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16 16 - Eight Hours - Read by REH 2:18
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Rob Halliday. Sign the petition. Write my name. She said ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems like longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why, a flower? A bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's area, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers.
I like them, yes, though goodness knows I don't see many. I'd have to buy them, they cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that before I know it, almost it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods and the brook, with the cattle drinking, I was country bred, sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, that's the use of thinking. If I could write, sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please, I'm ashamed I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know it. And what's the use of it anyway? They'll just say shortly with careless faces.
If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places. They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir. She's gone away to spend the summer across the water. But us? Oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear their losses? No, not a cent's worth. Ah, you'll see. I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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17 17 - Eight Hours - Read by SA 2:21
Baker, Jr. Read for LibriVox by Sean Sign the petition. Write my name. She said, ask me. Oh, she's fooling. Where do you think a girl like me could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so. That's ten years now, and it seems longer. The hours are from eight till six, you see. It wears one out. I once was stronger. A bad cough. Oh, that's nothing, sir. It comes from the dust, and bending over. It hurts me sometimes. No, not now. This. Why, a flower. A bit of clover. I picked it up as I came to work. It grew in the grass in someone's arie, where it stood and nodded all alone, like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy. Fond of flowers. I like them, yes, though, goodness knows, I don't see many.
I'd have to buy them. They cost so much, and I never can spare a single penny. Go to the park. How can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday, and then there's always so much to do that, before I know it almost, it's Monday. Like it, sir, like it. Why, when I think of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking, I was country bred, sir, my heart swells so, that I there, there, was the use of thinking. If I could write, Sir, make a cross, and let you write my name below it. No, please. I'm ashamed. I can't. Sometimes I don't want all the girls to know. And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces. If you're not suited, you'd better leave. There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt. Our head just worships his own young daughter. Just my age, sir. She's gone away. To spend the summer across the water. But us—oh, well, we're only hands. Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a sense worth. Ah, you see, I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.