The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1930-12-25
BY MYRA PAGE

On the way to the children's bread
line, at Third Ave. and the Bowery,
I pass by Wanamakers, with its win
dows glittering with tinsel, red and
green trimmings, and luxurious pres
ents with which to entice the we'll
to-do to BUY Now and Bring Back
Prosperity There are windows full
of antiques, of handsome silk dress
ing gowns for tired business men, .
Spanish shawls, specially imported, D
of heavy table linens and silverware.
On one side Of the store there are
trucks lined up and being filled with
crates marked "Glass-Handle With
Care"
Women in heavy Silks and furs
pour out of the revolving doors and,
chatting gaily, go to their waiting
cars. A "Sally" shakes her dinner
bell at them, stamps her feet near
the Army dinner pot and calls,
Merry Xmas, remember the poor"
Crossing over to the Bowery and
heading south, I pass block after
block of men and women whose white
strained faces, shabby clothes and
aimless air mark them as unem-
ployed from whom all immediate
hope of a job has departed, weeks
ago. The eyes of many are blood
shot from hunger and loss of sleep.
Some are past-colored. They are in
the last stages of slow starvation.
Over these hunger-marchers there
towers monster sign of smiling
mother cutting slices of bread for her
rosy-cheeked children, and, under
meath, the words, zone More Slice
of Bread a Meal. Good For You,
and Helps Solve the Unemployed
Problem"
One man slun1ps down on grating
and pulls his frayed overcoat over
his head. He has been out again all
night. Everywhere he dropped to
sleep, in the subways, doorways or
stations, the cops kept driving him
out. Keep nnovin'. This amt no
lodge. Keep movin'." Now he is
dizzy for sleep and little food. He'll
stop here, where there's a bit of
warmth, and even when the cop
slams him on the soles he won't
move on. Let the cop do his worst
He's moved on for the last time.
Back of this sleeper is small,
east-side store, in which another sign
screams in gilded letters, merry
Xmas-Sale-Sale."
The entire block in front of the
Salvation Army headquarters at the
Bowery is damned with children,
with scattering here and there of
old women and men and few
mothers with babes in arms. The
waiting throng overflows into the
street and more than one youngster
is nearly run down by taxis speeding
business men home to their Park
Ave. residences.
Each child carries pail. It is
still more than a hour before the
small ladle of milk and loaf of bread
will be given out, but each one wants
to be sure to be in time. The kids
tell me that the older ones come
straight from school and wait maybe
two hours or more, while the smaller
tots may come even earlier. All hail
from the lower east-side. Most OF
them have little, pinched faces, worn
shoes and hand-me-dow clothing.
One child is hardly any larger than
the pail she carries.
my pop works on a building, three
days week." bright-eyed lad an
swers my question. "No, he amt a
carpenter, or nuthin' like that. Jes
works on buildings" CHes a day
laborer) "Yestiddy he wuz laid off,
n thar amt nuthin fer us kids to
eat"
II amt coming here no more" one
prim little girl complained. eve get
pushed around and hurled" But
how you COMA git ia eat?' "Shucks,"
another retorted, this amt nuthin.
I'd ruther git scratch or two thin
60 without eny suppah n breakfast
One mother in line, who is carry
ing her baby and holding another
child by the hand, has been cvicted
from her flat because she can't pay
rent. She's not sure where she can
sleep tonight, but at least she must