﻿A man smiling in the midst of his misfortunes is either witless or a . . . philosopher. A broken leg is nothing to smile about. An empty pocketbook is no giggling affair. A cell in a prison is nothing to get comical about. An ingrowing stomach is hardly a suitable subject for laugter. A suit of B. V. D.s in February is nothing to grin over. Carrying the “banner” these cold nights is no occasion for great and prolonged mirth. 

Last year 40,000 Italians came to this country— 53,000 went back. Fifteen thousand Americans, in the same period, had the temerity to commit suicide and dodge all prosperity, incidently a pile of work. 

All our lives we have worked for “living wages, and no more.” Now we can start to earn dying wages. 
— T-bone Slim, Industrial Worker. 

