<h2>X <br/><br/> IN THE COTTON MILL</h2>
<p>If you ravel a bit of cotton cloth, you will find that it is made up
of tiny threads, some going up and down, and others going from right
to left. These threads are remarkably strong for their size. Look at
one under a magnifying glass, in a brilliant light, and you will see
that the little fibers of which it is made shine almost like glass.
Examine it more closely, and you will see that it is twisted. Break
it, and you will find that it does not break off sharp, but rather
pulls apart, leaving many fibers standing out from both ends.</p>
<p>Cotton comes to the factory tightly pressed in bales, and the work of
the manufacturer is to make it into these little threads. The bales
are big, weighing four or five hundred pounds apiece. They are
generally somewhat ragged, for they are done up in coarse, heavy jute.
The first glance at an opened cotton bale is a little discouraging,
for it is not perfectly clean by any means. Bits of leaves and stems
are mixed in with the cotton, and even some of the smaller seeds which
have slipped through the gin. There is dust, and plenty of it, that
the coarse burlap has not kept out. The first thing to do is to loosen
the cotton and make it clean. Great armfuls are thrown into a machine
called a "bale-breaker." Rollers with spikes, blunt so as not to
injure the fiber,
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catch it up and tear the lumps to pieces, and
"beaters" toss it into a light, foamy mass. Something else happens to
the cotton while it is in the machine, for a current of air is passing
through it all the while, and this blows out the dust and bits of
rubbish. This current is controlled like the draft of a stove, and it
is allowed to be just strong enough to draw the cotton away from the
beater when it has become light and open, leaving the harder masses
for more beating. When it comes out of the opener, it is in sheets or
"laps" three or four feet wide and only half an inch thick. They are
white and fleecy and almost cloudlike; and so thin that any sand or
broken leaves still remaining will drop out of their own weight.</p>
<p>In this work the manufacturer has been aiming, not only at cleaning
the cotton and making it fluffy, but also at mixing it. There are many
sorts of cotton, some of longer or finer or more curly or stronger
fiber than others, some white and some tinged with color; but the
cloth woven of cotton must be uniform; therefore all these kinds must
be thoroughly mixed. Even the tossing and turning and beating that it
has already received is not enough, and it has to go into a
"scutcher," three or four laps at a time, one on top of another, to
have still more beating and dusting. When it comes out, it is in a
long roll or sheet, so even that any yard of it will weigh very nearly
the same as any other yard. The fibers, however, are lying "every
which way," and before they can be drawn out into thread, they must be
made to lie
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parallel. This is brought about in part by carding. When
people used to spin and weave in their own houses, they used "hand
cards." These were somewhat like brushes for the hair, but instead of
bristles they had wires shaped much as if wire hairpins had been bent
twice and put through leather in such a way as to form hooks on one
side of it. This leather was then nailed to a wooden back and a handle
added. The carder took one card in each hand, and with the hooks
pointing opposite ways brushed the cotton between them, thus making
the fibers lie parallel. This is just what is done in a mill, only by
machinery, of course. Instead of the little hand cards, there are
great cylinders covered with what is called "card clothing"; that is,
canvas bristling with the bent wires, six or seven hundred to the
square inch. This takes the place of one card. The place of the other
is filled by what are called "flats," or narrow bars of iron covered
with card clothing. The cylinders move rapidly, the flats slowly, and
the cotton passes between them. It comes out in a dainty white film
not so very much heavier than a spider's web, and so beautifully white
and shining that it does not seem as if the big, oily, noisy machines
could ever have produced it. In a moment, however, it is gone
somewhere into the depths of the machine. We have seen the last of the
fleecy sheet, for the machinery narrows it and rounds it, and when it
comes into sight again, it looks like a soft round cord about an inch
thick, and is coiled up in cans nearly a yard high. This cord is
called "sliver."</p>
<div>
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<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/p85_cotton_sliver.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="365" alt="Cotton Sliver" /> <ANTIMG src="images/p85_cotton_roving.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="385" alt="Cotton Roving" /> <span class="caption">IN A COTTON MILL<br/>
<br/>
The "sliver" coming through the machine, and the "roving" being
twisted and wound on bobbins.</span></div>
<div>
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<p>The sliver is not uniform; even now its fibers are not entirely
parallel, and it is as weak as wet tissue paper. It now pays a visit
to the "drawing-frame." Four or six slivers are put together and run
through this frame. They go between four pairs of rollers, the first
pair moving slowly, the others more rapidly. The slow pair hold the
slivers back, while the fast one pull them on. The result is that when
the sliver comes out from the rollers, its fibers are much straighter.
This process is repeated several times; and at last when the final
sliver comes out, although it looks almost the same as when it came
from the carding-machine, its fibers are parallel. It is much more
uniform, but it is very fragile, and still has to be handled with
great care. It is not nearly strong enough to be twisted into thread;
and before this can be done, it must pass through three other
machines. The first, or "slubber," gives it a very slight twist, just
enough to suggest what is coming later, and of course in doing this
makes it smaller. The cotton changes its name at every operation, and
now it is called "roving." It has taken one long step forward, for now
it is not coiled up in cans, but is wound on "bobbins," or great
spools. The second machine, the "intermediate speeder," twists it a
very little more and winds it on fresh bobbins. It also puts two
rovings together, so that if one happens to be thin in one place,
there is a chance for it to be strengthened by a thicker place in the
other. The third machine, the "fine speeder," simply makes a finer
roving.</p>
<div>
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<p>All this work must be done merely to prepare the raw cotton to be
twisted into the tiny threads that you see by raveling a piece of
cotton cloth. Now comes the actual twisting. If you fasten one end of
a very soft string and twist the other and wind it on a spool, you
will get a spool of finer, stronger, and harder-twisted string than
you had at first. This is exactly what the "ring-spinner" does.
Imagine a bobbin full of roving standing on a frame. Down below it are
some rolls between which the thread from the bobbin passes to a second
bobbin which is fast on a spindle. Around this spindle is the
"spinning-ring," a ring which is made to whirl around by an endless
belt. This whirling twists the thread, and another part of the machine
winds it upon the second bobbin. Hundreds of these ring-spinners and
bobbins are on a single "spinning-frame" and accomplish a great deal
in a very short time. The threads that are to be used for the "weft"
or "filling" go directly into the shuttles of the weavers after being
spun; but those which are to be used for "warp" are wound first on
spools, then on beams to go into the loom.</p>
<p>Little children weave together strips of paper, straws, and
splints,—"over one, under one,"—and the weaving of plain cotton
cloth is in principle nothing more than this. The first thing to do in
weaving is to stretch out the warp evenly. This warp is simply many
hundreds of tiny threads as long as the cloth is to be, sometimes
forty or fifty yards. They must be stretched out side by side and close
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together. To make them regular, they are passed between the
teeth of a sort of upright comb; then they are wound upon the loom
beam, a horizontal beam at the back of the loom. Here they are as
close together as they will be in the cloth. With a magnifying glass
it is easy to count the threads of the warp in an inch of cloth. Some
kinds of cloth have a hundred or even more to the inch. In order to
make cloth, the weaver must manage in some way to lower every other
one of these little threads and run his shuttle over them, as the
children do the strips of paper in their paper weaving. Then he must
lower the other set and run the shuttle over <i>them</i>. "Drawing in"
makes this possible. After the threads leave the beam, they are drawn
through the "harnesses." These are hanging frames, one in front of the
other, filled with stiff, perpendicular threads or wires drawn tight,
and with an eye in each thread. Through these eyes the threads of the
warp are drawn, the odd ones through one, and the even through the
other. Then, keeping the threads in the same order, they pass through
the teeth of a "reed,"—that is, a hanging frame shaped like a great
comb as long as the loom is wide; and last, they are fastened to the
"front beam," which runs in front of the weaver's seat and on which
the cloth is to be rolled when it has been woven. Each harness is
connected with a treadle. The weaver puts his foot on the treadle of
the odd threads and presses them down. Then he sends his shuttle,
containing a bobbin full of thread, sliding across over the odd
threads and
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under the even. He puts his foot on the treadle of the
even threads and sends the shuttle back over the even and under the
odd. At each trip of the shuttle, the heavy reed is drawn back toward
the weaver to push the last thread of the woof or filling firmly into
place.</p>
<p>This is the way cloth is woven in the hand looms which used to be in
every household. The power loom used in factories is, even in its
simplest form, a complicated machine; but its principle is exactly the
same. If colors are to be used, great care is needed in arranging warp
and woof. If you ravel a piece of checked gingham, you will see that
half the warp is white and half colored; and that in putting in the
woof or filling, a certain number of the threads are white and an
equal number are colored. If you look closely at the weaving of a
tablecloth, you will see that the satin-like figures are woven by
bringing the filling thread not "over one and under one," but often
over two or three and under one. In drilling or any other twilled
goods, several harnesses have to be used because the warp thread is
not lowered directly in line with the one preceding, but diagonally.
Such work as this used to require a vast amount of skill and patience;
but the famous Jacquard machine will do it with ease, and will do more
complicated weaving than any one ever dreamed of before its invention,
for it will weave not only regular figures extending across the cloth,
but can be made to introduce clusters of flowers, a figure, or a face
wherever it is desired. By the aid of this, every
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little warp thread
or cluster of threads can be lifted by its own hooked wire without
interfering with any other thread. Cards of paper or thin metal are
made for each pattern, leaving a hole wherever the hook is to slip
through and lift up a thread. After the cards are once made, the work
is as easy as plain weaving; but there must be a separate card for
every thread of filling in the pattern, and sometimes a single design
has required as many as thirty thousand pattern cards.</p>
<p>The machines in a cotton mill are the result of experimenting, lasting
through many years. They do not seem quite so "human" as those which
help to carry on some parts of other manufactures; but they are
wonderfully ingenious. For instance, the sliver is so light that it
seems to have hardly any weight, but it balances a tiny support. If
the sliver breaks, the support falls, and this stops the machine.
Again, if one of the threads of the warp breaks when it is being wound
on the beam, a slender bent wire that has been hung on it falls. It
drops between two rollers and stops them. Then the workman knows that
something is wrong, and a glance will show where attention is needed.
Success in a cotton mill demands constant attention to details. A mill
manager who has been very successful has given to those of less
experience some wise directions about running a mill. For one thing,
he reminds them that building is expensive and that floor space
counts. If by rearranging looms space can be made for more spindles,
it is well worth while to rearrange. He tells
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them to study their
machines and see whether they are working so slowly that they cannot
do as much as possible, or so fast as to strain the work. He bids them
to keep their gearings clean, to be clear and definite in their
orders, and to read the trade papers; but above everything else to
look out for the little things, a little leak in the mill dam, a
little too much tightness in a belt, or the idleness of just one
spindle. Herein lies, he says, one of the great differences between a
successful and an unsuccessful superintendent.</p>
<p>Weaving as practiced in factories is a complicated business; but
whether it is done with a simple hand loom in a cottage or with a big
power loom in a great factory, there are always three movements. One
separates the warp threads; one drives the shuttle between them; and
one swings the reed against the filling thread just put in.</p>
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