little girl, then an old man in tattered clothes

who looks so hungry I give him the apple

I still have from home—Bless you, miss, he says.

I smile, but almost immediately a woman

carrying a baby holds out her hand,

and I don’t have another apple. People

who look like they have plenty of food and money

walk past and no one begs from them. Why is everyone

asking me? I ask Ruby. She studies me: You have

a kind face, she answers. Outside the station,

we get into an electric streetcar that pulls us along

the tracks, without horses. The streets are so busy—

hundreds of buggies, motorcars, bicycles,

young men and women walking arm in arm.

I’m dizzy from looking. We pass a row of mansions

with grand doorways and white pillars;

then gradually things change—smaller houses,

dirty streets. Just two more blocks,

Ruby says. It’s hard to describe what I see.

This neighborhood … it looks … so … I pause.

Poor? Ruby suggests. I nod, a little embarrassed.

Look deeper, she says. (A rat runs by.

Something smells bad. Mama would call the children

“little ragamuffins.”) A woman comes out of a brick

building, surrounded by four small children; they wave

and smile at us—at Ruby, really, but I’m included, too.

This, Ruby tells me, is the settlement house

where I live and teach kindergarten.

I’ve heard about settlement houses: people,

mostly women, live in a neighborhood where

there is work to be done—cleaning up the streets,

taking care of children, building playgrounds,

helping new immigrants get settled in America.

We stop here long enough for you to fresh up,

then, if you like, I take you over to

the White House. (For half a second, I could be

one of ten thousand tourists, and she my

gracious guide.) I thought you will

be interested, she goes on, in meeting

your Aunt Vera’s friends—the women

on the picket line. A sharp yes-and-no

shoots through me. Yes, I want to meet

these women—I want to find out for myself

if they are dangerous, misguided, unpatriotic.

And, no, I’m not prepared to stand with Ruby

and the others in the White House picket line,

where I could be arrested. I’m here to take

Aunt Vera home, not to join her and her friends—

however brave they are—in prison.

Could I? / Muriel

Could I?

Muriel

As Ruby and I walk to the White House,

I ask her how she met Aunt Vera. I meet her

in Chicago, she tells me, just after I come

from Denmark. I have never been in so large a city.

I sleep the first night in Union Station,

alone and very frighten. A rough-looking man

come up to me next morning. “You need

a place to stay?” he ask. “Come with me.”

I know not enough English to understand

what he is suggesting. I try to ignore him,