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The Weavers 107
all the manufacturers to hell because I am a mother!
Not one of the four could I keep in life ! It was
cryin more than breathin with me from the time each
poor little thing came into the world till death took pity
on it. The devil a bit you cared ! You sat there prayin
and singin ,
and let me run about till my feet bled, tryin
to get one little drop o skim milk. How many hundred
nights has I lain an racked my head to think what I
could do to cheat the churchyard of my little one? What
harm has a baby like that done that it must come to such
a miserable end eh ? An over there at Dittrich s
they re bathed in wine an washed in milk. No! you may
talk as you like, but if they begins here, ten horses won t
hold me back. An what s more if there s a rush on
Dittrich s, you will see me in the forefront of it an
pity the man as tries to prevent me I ve stood it long
enough, so now you know it.
Thus the tide sweeps over Old Hilse, as it must
sweep over every obstacle, every hindrance, once
labor awakens to the consciousness of its solidaric
power.
An epic of misery and revolt never before
painted with such terrific force, such inclusive art
istry. Hence its wide human appeal, its incon
trovertible indictment and its ultra-revolutionary
significance, not merely to Silesia or Germany, but
to our whole pseudo-civilization built on the mis
ery and exploitation of the wealth producers, of
Labor. None greater, none more universal than
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