The San Francisco call., 1898-02-01

IT N. eight years there have been fifty
 nine deaths in San Francisco due to a
 | lack of lenders on street cars. Since
 the first of this young year of '98 three people have been killed, their lives for feited to the niggardly god who is wor- shiped by corporations >; :: It's an old story. this, of accidents which need never have occurred. of suf- fering that might have been prevented, of lifelong sorrow inflicted unneces- sarily, stupidly wantonly. It's an old story to the ordinary newspaper reader, butt seven times every year 1t comes with all the force of novelty upon some one; some one who has read with easy, quickly passing sympathy of the victim before the. last. But now it is some ones well-beloved who Is last on the list, and his own experience teaches him to realize what others have endured. ...-''i. =: ;; The last one to-day is fair-haired little girl, baby not yet<..3 years old. And to. the father and mother has come in an enlightening agony the knowledge of what all this newspaper talk about fenderless cars means. William Johnson and his wife understand the question thoroughly: now, It is exquisitely sim plified for these two unhappy people: To them a fenderless car means the sudden crushing out of a young life, the sicken- ing thought of a childs suffering, the un- endurable memory. of a baby's trust and loving faith In those in whose charge: It Is: turned to-. doubt :. and reproach and awful fear. ?. . -'.I can't blame myself says the poor mother. She:doesn't weep now, but there are unshed tears in her: low, trembling voice. '.She had left me only a minute, two minutes before. .>:<. >::. K F. .:. are VOlI QOfnP2'.:I a Sked. her.: : q Tn the yard, she said. :...:>: ::
 .tAnd not five minutes after that my little boy ran and asked me where Hulda was. ..,-' :-. :: =: .' >...: =. :.
 'f.She's in the yard T said ..:: ..:.:: .s No, she isn't, he answered, his face white with fright. She's killed. She s run over by the cars :.+. ..
 .I went out into the street. but I was afraid to look, and then, when the people came in to me I knew 1t was my child nobody else's. '' U. =: > -:
 s Poor woman! For a moment she had hoped that some other busy mother and not herself had lost the. pet of the house. hold. .~* <.: =.
 .+*'But now she went on, wrapping and unwrapping her hands in the little shoul- der shawl she wore, now we must bury her first We can't think of anything else yet. But why shouldn't the street. car company pay for their stinginess. their cruelty? It. can't bring my. baby backto me, but 1t may make them more =careful and save some other woman S baby-if mine couldn't be: saved" -: =::- :
 But 1t could. ."'.3safd the father. He was sitting bent forward in his chair, in that weak, bowed attitude a strong man, and particularly a laboring man, adopts, his idle hands clasped~ and his head dropping. E People on. the sidewalk waved to: the motorman: when. the car was. twenty feet from the baby yet: But he didn't stop. '' 2t'No,, I wouldn't blame the motorman,' D said the mother gently. < Poor man, he must: do what the company tells him: The cars go flying past here. He couldn't stop. I+think:'' x +...: =. These two love to talk: about the little : one. She was the baby. for one. thing, the only girl and: she'd such a sweet, merry temperament that the neighbors had grown to note with an. eye-caress the pretty little: figure in it's blue ging ham apron, the warm gray woolen guimpe the bright red short cape and the snug small hood from which. the fiaxen cnrls esca ped in straw-like tangled punches. : "I could trust her so,'' said the mother