“What is strange, there never was in any man sufficient faith in the power of rectitude, to inspire him with the broad design of renovating the state on the principle of right and love.”—Emerson. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the Nation’s Capital, and rode to my hotel between tiers of newly erected seats, and banners and flags and festooned arches, and myriads of many-colored lights which soon were to burst forth in royal splendor. Already the prodigal display, costing half a million dollars, to inaugurate a president, was nearing completion. Already people were coming from far and near, spending five million more. The New Willard hotel had assumed that air of distinction it always does just before a happening of some national import. In the faces of the handsome men I saw and read the character of decision and intellect, and the many beautiful ladies, gowned in fabrics of priceless value, made an exceedingly pleasant study; and with this vision be At about ten o’clock I went to my room to change my evening clothes for my workingman’s outfit. Walking down the stairs and slipping out a side door, I was not noticed, and was soon lost in the avalanche of humanity on the streets. I asked of the first policeman I met where I could get a free bed, and he looked at me seemingly in surprise and said, “A free bed?” then continued, “Go to the Union Mission.” I asked, “Do they charge for a bed there?” and he replied, “Yes, 10 or 15 cents.” “But I haven’t even that tonight,” I answered. Then he seemed to remember that Washington had a municipal lodging house, and told me I would find it on Twelfth Street, next to the police station. I asked two other policemen with similar results, and started in search of my desired object. I looked down Pennsylvania Avenue, a blaze of lights, and for one mile I could see and read guiding signs of theaters, breweries, hotels, and cafÉs. Presently I came to Twelfth Street, dark and gloomy, but there was no sign as in Chicago to guide the homeless man or woman, boy or girl, to the door of the free home. It was with difficulty I found it. There was a three-cornered box over Before entering I stepped back into the street and looked up at the building. It was an old three-story brick building, with no sign of a fire escape. I entered and found myself in a low and very narrow passageway. I applied to the “office” through a small window-door for my bed. There was an honest-faced, comfortably dressed young man just ahead of me, who gave his occupation as machinist, received his bed check, and passed on. When I stepped to the window and asked for a bed, I received no word of welcome from a woman seated at her desk, her demeanor being decidedly unwelcome. Abruptly a man’s voice asked from within, “Are you willing to work for it?” I replied earnestly that I was. The woman then snatched up a pen and asked, “Were you ever here before? Where were you born? Where do you live? What is your business?” My answers apparently being satisfactory, she thrust me a bed check, and said something about a light and something else which I did not understand, and slammed the door in my face. I stepped along and found myself in the woodyard among piles of wood, saws, sawbucks, and sawdust. I tried several doors, and finally found one that ad Shivering with the cold, I got out, was given a towel to dry myself, and then a little old cotton nightshirt with no buttons on it. Several of us being ready, we were led by the Superintendent up another flight of narrow stairs, through another long hall, and up two more series of steps to a small dormitory. I would have suffered with the cold if I had not seized an extra blanket from an I heard one boy say to another, “I tell you, I’m hungry. I could eat a mule and chase the rider up hill. Did you have any supper to-night?” And the other boy replied, “A policeman gave me a dime. What do you think of that? And I got two scoops of beer and the biggest free lunch you ever saw, and I feel fine.” I heard a man say to the one next to him, “Do you think this place will be pulled to-night?” and the other answered, “Why, no; what makes you think so?” The first one said, “They pulled the Union Mission one night for vags, but I don’t think they will pull this place, because it’s a city lodging house.” Comforted by that thought, they both fell asleep. During the night a frail boy, with no clothing except the thin nightshirt, went to the toilet, down the long cold halls and stairways, into the still more cold woodyard. When he returned he had a chill, and as he lay down I heard him groan. I said, “What is the matter, boy?” and he replied, “I have such a pain in my side.” Just at daylight we were called, went down into a cheerless room, and were given our clothes, then We went in to breakfast and sat down to a stew of turnips and carrots, in which there was a little meat. In mine there were three pieces of meat about as big as the end of one’s thumb. There was some colored sweetened water called “coffee,” and some bread. I did not care for mine, but the other men and boys ate ravenously. When the boy on my right had finished his, I said, “Ask for some more.” He replied, “It wouldn’t do no good; they only allow one dish.” Then a hollow-eyed, thin-handed man on my left said, “Are you going to eat yours?” I said, “No,” and he eagerly asked if he could have it. I said, “You most certainly can,” and then he asked me if I was not well. It was the first word of kindness I had received. He took the dish and emptied it all into his, but glancing up I caught the appealing look of the boy opposite. He took the boy’s empty dish, putting part of it into his dish, and the boy ate as though he had had nothing before. Having finished breakfast, and while we were We waited to be assigned to our work. I wanted to saw wood, the wood looked so clean and inviting, and, too, I had sawed wood when I was a boy on the farm, and knew how; but I was not allowed to do so, and was given the task of making the beds. It was rather repellant to me at first, but I thought of those far down through the years of the past, a great deal more worthy than I, who had done things much more humble for humanity’s sake. I can assure the honest man and boy who slept beneath those coverings that night that I had tried my best to make them comfortable, although the linen was not changed, nor the blankets aired. Some of the men scrubbed, and some swept the floors and stairs; some worked about the dining-room; others sawed wood. There is a sign, sometimes seen to-day in the dance halls of our Western camps, “Don’t shoot the pianist, he is doing the best he can,” and so with the Superintendent of Washington’s Municipal Lodging House, under the conditions he may be doing the best he can. Work is always a grand thing. The floors and stairs were clean, also our food and dishes. He impressed me as being the right man in the right kind of a place. But the Washington Federal Lodging House is only a suggestion of such an institution. As the house now stands it is the lodger, the workless man and boy, who keeps the floors and stairs and windows clean. They do it willingly, but they should be treated fairly for their labor. Not one should be allowed to go to bed hungry. He should be given a clean, warm bed to sleep in, and a good wholesome breakfast, and all he can eat. He should be given a pleasant welcome, an encouraging word, and a cheerful farewell,—it means so much, and costs nothing. I did not stay to see the inauguration. Somehow |