Year: 1869

~ Nb9 Hn bOui pbnt hUlh iO-biHul
when we left tho Office TO find rest for
mind and body, and to sit for an hour
10y the desk TO plant a seed by the
roadside, in hope to live to see il bear
fruit. Kind words, backed by good
intcnts, are the seeds We can plant
hero to bear fruit for us on both sides
that wall called the grave.


Instead of taking a car and coming
directly homo, as SO generally is our
won't some strange cord drew us
blocks out Of the way. To the right,
over toward that edge of the great
city from which one can see ihe
prisons and almshouscs on BlaclSwems
Island, ne walked without definite
aim, as hunter with weary step
tracks for forest depths.


Down in a tenement cellar. A dark,
dirty, dingy, dismal, doloful place. No
curtain save OF dirt, protected the pov-
erty-stricken dwellers in that little
cellar from public gaze. Before the
window a dozen boys, girls and men
stood peeping in, and at times laugh
ing, iesting, but still watching. So
we crossed the street, pushed the
crowd apart, and looked.


Into a cellar. Only poor woman
on the floor over little form on some
strav, over which an old sail cloth
was spread. Her hands were claspcd,
her hair hung uncombed over the
ragged dress. A little charcoal fur
mace without fire stood near, an old
chair broken, small dry goods box,
a little dirty tin pail, and a lamp on
the box was all the furniture we saw.


Some came, looked in, and FASTENED
away Who dare intrude upon tho
presence of grief? We lifted the iron
latch to the door and walked in. She
needed not our approach. The crowd
at the window grew larger. Our light
overcoat, with its flowing cape, was
just the thing for curtain SO with
a fruit knife in one corner Of the win.
dow, penknife in the other, we shut
out the gaze, the darkness, the curl
osity.


Only a sick babe and drunkard's
wife Dying from starvation the
little skeleton of an arm was but u
shadow-the frame of the body but a
basket of straw we could have crushed
to atoms in our hand, not over large
that it be. No food for the mother in
two days. None for the child fit to
cat in a week. A little soup from the
Mission house in that pail-bnt who
likes cold Cruel alone


Some port vino from q drug store
some oyster broth from restaurant
two blankets front a second hand store
nearby-some food for tho woman,
and rest for mother and child. And
mystic brotherhood who was not
afraid to descend for that which was
lost or being lost, and our work Tor
the week is ended


On the page before us as We write,
is the picture as we saw it TO night in
all reality. We cannot see the hou
ses, the streets, the city, the country,
the furniture in our room.
For an hour have we been in spirit
sitting with that poor wohian whose
history 10 us she told, as she by words,
BY tones, BY looks, elo4uently thanked
us for our coming, and deemed the
entrance of a stranger no intrusion.


Hers was but simple little story
but il was the great romance of sad
life to her for all Four years ago a
happy young wife. She was loved by
q agood fellow" a gay and free
hearted young mechanic, who loved
her for rare beauty and goodness of
heart. They began life as do others.
They rented n little house, and wero
happy. He ran in debt-the house
was given up, and into boarding
house they went-father, mother, aud
newborn babe.


lie was a good fellow with the boys,
lie aspired to be n politician. He
worked and talked for othcrs-staid
out nights-spent his earnings in dis
sipalion-lost his place found another
-dissipaied, lost his place-could not
pay his board bill--went with his fam
ily. to a cheaper placc--bccausc dis.
couraged, drank oitcner, and at last
found home in the little cellar where
We found his wife and babe.


Now he lived--anywhorcl Some.
times he helped shovel coal till he
earned a quarter. 1t went for drink,
Sometimes he slept on the straw in
that cellar, sometimes in the station.
house-oilencr in hallway, or under
the rubbish about new building.


Lost to himself-to his loved ones
to lifc-to all that Is good. Several
times he Had rallied and tried Ia
obtain work, but there were more men
than employment, and he roamcd Idle
And she sewed litlle-washed, men.
dcd, scrubbed Railways, stores, Offices,
steps, and sidewalks, earning few
dimes. But twas all too little





We have been thinking an hour OF
the poor ones The watch ticks the
seconds away, the hands on the dial
tell us lis past midnight But this
before we sleep. who but God pitics
the poor? They arc all over with MS.
lie was somebody's s son-brothcri he
is worse than lost now. She was once
q beautiful girl, whose rich laugh rang
merrily out; but now her tears daily
drown an hundred times all the JOY
she has. She was too good TO thus
wither by the way, and burrow, like
some crippled pet, in the dark, sticky
eravish air ofa pcstilcntial cellar.


And that poor little innocent boy
baby-what had it done TO bc thus
wronged, tortured, punishedg Nc
wonder it's father could not bear Il
como homo, and watch BY i'll Nc
wonder thousands OF fathers turn
backs upon firesidcs at home, and
look into the grimy, sticky glass tc
see anything rather than the pictures
of their own cruelty, no pen or penci
can describe


IIe was once a Jolly good fellow