Cries of An Early 20th Century Child: By Snapshot Historian

     I don't want to go out today father; not into the field of smog 

you call progress. Every day at the appointed hour of which you 

sentence me to my trail of tears, I contemplate how your boss 

goes about his day. How does he possess the rudeness to offer us 

barely a penny for our deeds? I hold the conviction since the time 

his mother bore him to this world his heart has always been absent 

of sympathy. So abandon the novel belief your boss will reward us 

with greater an amount of wage.

   You encourage me with the hope I will find fulfillment in my 

labor. I hear neither weight nor a sprinkle of truth in your words 

father. I find no fruit in my labor, not even the satisfaction of hard

work our ancestors spoke of. I see myself as only a conductor to an 

angry audience of machinery, an audience that hopes to consume 

me.

     I dread my every day passing through the unpaved streets of 

Boston. It oppresses me because I know ounce I walk into the 

house of metal my eyes will not make contact with the sun until 

my next trail of tears. My ears will be kept away from hearing the 

pleasing sounds of nature, and instead will be shaken by the 

boisterous shrieks of appliances.

       
    Father, I see I have no choice but to depart from our tiny home. I 

will go grab my coat now and my heavy boots, I will be on my 

way to work death's instruments. Farewell father, please you and 

mother pray I will make it home the way I stand before you now. 

Into the smog I go.