This was what usually happened
to all beginners at "pickin' sklits."
One of the women raised Mysie up, gave her a drink from a flask
containing cold tea, and sat her aside to rest a short time.
"Just sit there a wee, my dochter," she said with rough kindness, "an'
you'll soon be a' richt. They mostly a' feel that way when they first
start on the scree."
Mysie was feeling sick, and already the thought was shaping in her mind
that she would never be able to continue. She had only worked an hour as
yet, but it seemed to her a whole day.
"Six and sixpence a week" sang the tables as they swung; "six and
sixpence a week" whirred the engines; "six and sixpence a week" crashed
the screes; and her head began to throb with the roar of it all. "Six
and sixpence a week" as the coal tumbled down the chutes into the
wagons; "six and sixpence" crunched the wheels, until it seemed as if
everything about a pit were done to the tune of "six and sixpence a
week."
It was thundered about her from one corner, it squealed at her from
another, roared at her from behind, groaned at her in front; it wheezed
from the roof, and the very shed in which they stood swayed and shivered
to its monotonous song.
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