Methodist University Progressive Era Upton Sinclair The Jungle Paper DUE APRIL 13, 2020: Upton Sinclair: “The Jungle” RUBRIC: Progressive Era Paragraph:

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Upton Sinclair – “The Jungle”

DUE APRIL 13, 2020

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Write a Paragraph Explaining how the conditions at the Sausage Factory in

“The Jungle” Impacted Social and or Political Change in the United States.


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Thanks April 13, 2020 (DUE) RUBRIC: Progressive Era Paragraph:
Upton Sinclair – “The Jungle”
DUE APRIL 13, 2020
Please Follow Directions in Rubrics


Organization ●

each part of
the essential

Uses relevant
examples and
details to
Identifies at ●
least 3
relevant facts ●


with a topic
sentence and
Addresses one ●
part of the

Uses relevant
examples and
details to
Addresses one part ●
of the essential
Uses few relevant
facts or does not

use relevant facts,
examples and
details to answer
Does not
address the
Does not use
relevant facts,
examples, and
details to
Identifies at ●
least 2
relevant facts ●
Identifies at least 1 ●
relevant fact
Makes few relevant ●
connections or
does not make
between historical
Identifies 0
relevant facts
Does not
4-5 Complete ●

with a topic
sentence with
no concluding
2-3 Complete

Lacks Organization, ●
is missing a topic
and concluding
1-0 Complete
is missing a
topic and
Write a Paragraph Explaining how the conditions at the Sausage Factory in
“The Jungle” Impacted Social and or Political Change in the United States.
Pam Song
April 9, 2020
Core 4
Please Follow directions in the RUBRICS ABOVE
“The Jungle” Impacts of Social and Political Change in the United States
In the novel “The Jungle” conditions at the sausage factory impacted political change in
the United States by the passage of the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906.
ADD – 1
ADD – 2
ADD – 3
ADD – 4
Finish- In conclusion, from the experiences of many workers at the sausage factory and from
journalists such as Upton Sinclair reform and change were introduced to the United States.
By Upton Sinclair
Chapter 1
It was four o’clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages began to arrive. There
had been a crowd following all the way, owing to the exuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The
occasion rested heavily upon Marija’s broad shoulders—it was her task to see that all things went
in due form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying wildly hither and thither, bowling
every one out of the way, and scolding and exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija
was too eager to see that others conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself. She had
left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive first at the hall, had issued orders to the
coachman to drive faster. When that personage had developed a will of his own in the matter,
Marija had flung up the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to tell him her
opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not understand, and then in Polish, which he
did. Having the advantage of her in altitude, the driver had stood his ground and even ventured to
attempt to speak; and the result had been a furious altercation, which, continuing all the way
down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of urchins to the cortege at each side street for
half a mile.
This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the door. The music had
started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull “broom, broom” of a cello, with the
squeaking of two fiddles which vied with each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics.
Seeing the throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the ancestors of her
coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage, plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to
the hall. Once within, she turned and began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, “Eik! Eik!
Uzdaryk-duris!” in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music.
“Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines and Liquors. Union
Headquarters”—that was the way the signs ran. The reader, who perhaps has never held much
converse in the language of far-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place was
the rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as “back of the yards.” This information
is definite and suited to the matter of fact; but how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to
one who understood that it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the life of one of God’s
gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona
She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from pushing through
the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon. There was a light of wonder in her eyes
and her lids trembled, and her otherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress,
conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders. There were five pink paper
roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright green rose leaves. There were new white cotton
gloves upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly. It
was almost too much for her—you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the
tremor of her form. She was so young—not quite sixteen—and small for her age, a mere child;
and she had just been married—and married to Jurgis, of all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the
white flower in the buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant
Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with beetling brows, and
thick black hair that curled in waves about his ears—in short, they were one of those
incongruous and impossible married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to
confound all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound
quarter of beef and carry it into a car without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a
far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with his tongue each
time before he could answer the congratulations of his friends.
Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and the guests—a
separation at least sufficiently complete for working purposes. There was no time during the
festivities which ensued when there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the
corners; and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked sufficiently hungry,
a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that
no one goes hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the
stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did their best,
and the children who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A
charming informality was one of the characteristics of this celebration. The men wore their hats,
or, if they wished, they took them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they
pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches and singing, but no one
had to listen who did not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was
perfectly free. The resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies,
of which there were present a number equal to the total possessed by all the guests invited. There
was no other place for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted
of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In these the babies slept, three or four
together, or wakened together, as the case might be. Those who were still older, and could reach
the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat bones and bologna sausages.
The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare save for a calendar, a
picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a gilded frame. To the right there is a door from the
saloon, with a few loafers in the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding
genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a carefully oiled curl plastered
against one side of his forehead. In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the room
and laden with dishes and cold viands, which a few of the hungrier guests are already munching.
At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed
decoration, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green
and yellow candies. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of
a range with much steam ascending from it, and many women, old and young, rushing hither and
thither. In the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling heroically
to make some impression upon the hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied, and an open
window whence the populace imbibes the sights and sounds and odors.
Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through it, you discern Aunt
Elizabeth, Ona’s stepmother—Teta Elzbieta, as they call her—bearing aloft a great platter of
stewed duck. Behind her is Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar
burden; and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow
bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form—there is a
ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns,
bowls of milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six feet from your back, the bar,
where you may order all you please and do not have to pay for it. “Eiksz! Graicziau!” screams
Marija Berczynskas, and falls to work herself—for there is more upon the stove inside that will
be spoiled if it be not eaten.
So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the guests take their
places. The young men, who for the most part have been huddled near the door, summon their
resolution and advance; and the shrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he
consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids, whose insignia of
office are paper wreaths, come next, and after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys
and girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a
plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman—whose duty it will be, later in the evening, to
break up the fights—draws up a chair to the foot of the table. And the children shout and the
babies yell, and every one laughs and sings and chatters—while above all the deafening clamor
Cousin Marija shouts orders to the musicians.
The musicians—how shall one begin to describe them? All this time they have been
there, playing in a mad frenzy—all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, to music. It is the
music which makes it what it is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a
saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions of
the sky.
The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle is out of tune, and there
is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an inspired man—the hands of the muses have been laid
upon him. He plays like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can feel
them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with their invisible feet they set the pace,
and the hair of the leader of the orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets,
as he toils to keep up with them.
Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the violin by
practicing all night, after working all day on the “killing beds.” He is in his shirt sleeves, with a
vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint
candy. A pair of military trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of
authority proper to the leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but even so these
trousers are about eight inches short of the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them
or rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of
such things.
For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired—you might almost say inspired
separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a
wizened-up little face, irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his brows
knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink—the very ends of his necktie bristle out. And every
now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically—with
every inch of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.
For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of the orchestra. The
second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and
patient look of an overdriven mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls
back into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental nose, and he plays
with his eyes turned up to the sky and a look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon
his cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his
task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o’clock in the
afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar
per hour.
Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika has risen in his
excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge over toward the
tables. His nostrils are dilated and his breath comes fast—his demons are driving him. He nods
and shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at last the long form
of the second violinist also rises up. In the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step,
upon the banqueters, Valentinavyczia, the cellist, bumping along with his instrument between
notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a
Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are eating, some are
laughing and talking—but you will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them who
does not hear him. His notes are never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks
and scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed the dirt and noise
and squalor about them—it is out of this material that they have to build their lives, with it that
they have to utter their souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or mournful and
wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is their music, music of home. It stretches out its
arms to them, they have only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade
away—there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snow-clad hills. They
behold home landscapes and childhood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to
waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat
upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or that; and then the
fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’ eyes, and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions,
and away they go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women cry
out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses and
pledging each other. Before long it occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which
celebrates the beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this masterpiece
Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making his way toward the head,
where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius
is so short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but still
he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must follow. During their progress,
needless to say, the sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the
head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to pour out his
soul in melting strains.
Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little something, when Cousin
Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but, for the most part, she sits gazing with the same
fearful eyes of wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her sisters, too, keep
running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems scarcely to hear them—the music
keeps calling, and the far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over
her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to wipe them away,
and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then
flushes red when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has
reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona’s cheeks are scarlet, and she
looks as if she would have to get up and run away.
In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the muses suddenly
visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers’ parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the
musicians do not know it, she has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but
powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she handles cans of beef that
weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens
her mouth, it is tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue flannel shirtwaist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny arms; she has a carving fork
in her hand, with which she pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a
voice of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room vacant, the three
musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil
through stanza after stanza of a lovesick swain’s lamentation:—
“Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;
Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam,
Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,
Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!”
When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas rises to his feet.
Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’ father, is not more than sixty years of age, but you would think that
he was eighty. He has been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good.
In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell upon him, and he had to
leave; out in the country the trouble disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle rooms at
Durham’s, and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he
is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns away his wan and battered
face until it passes.
Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken out of one of the books
and learned by heart; but in his youthful days Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really
make up all the love letters of his friends. Now …
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