“Ye are not of the night nor the darkness.”—I Thessalonians 5:5.

On one of Los Angeles’ perfect winter Sabbath mornings, I was idly strolling down the street, when a breezy, pleasant faced woman appeared, looked at me closely and then asked if I was homeless. The genial little lady urged me with a great deal of force to come to the institution in which she was interested, and where, she assured me, I would be well fed and sheltered as long as I chose to stay. So pleasant was the description of her home, her welcome so genuine, I rejoiced in the thought that here in hospitable Los Angeles was provided an emergency home for those with whom untoward circumstances had not dealt kindly.

I was interested at once in the invitation so kindly extended to me, and I asked the good woman how I would get to the “home.” She began by telling me which street-car to take. I said, “Just give me the street and number and I will walk." She answered, "I can not do that very well.” She explained to me that she would give me carfare but was not allowed to do so. There was another woman a little further down the street who could and would give me the required nickel. Walking on down the street, I was told by a man standing on the sidewalk that there had been several women on the corner urging men to come out to a free home, and giving out carfare, but they would not return until the next Sunday morning.

Following the woman’s directions, I took a car. After riding what I supposed to be about two miles, I asked the conductor if we were nearly there; he laughingly replied, “We haven’t started yet.” And then I found that this “home” was nearly four miles from the place where laborers congregated in the heart of the city. A four-mile walk—a pleasant prospect for a hunger-weakened man, perhaps ill as well!

On finally reaching the place, I found it an institution of some kind of religious enthusiasts. There were many there. It was one of their feast days, and the end of the dinner was near at hand. I was given a cordial welcome, and handed a plate of potatoes and beans. Tea, coffee, and meat I learned they regarded as sinful, smacking too much of the flesh.

This plate of potatoes and beans, the leader declared, was sanctified food. On this feast day there had been a shower of pies and cakes, but the sanctified pie had run out. We were invited to remain to a four-hour feast of religious worship, which would be followed by another feast of edibles. As this latter attraction was referred to many times, we had reason to believe a regular Belshazzar was in store for us. Out in a sort of shed, after four long hours of religious praise, in a din of sound of voice and song, beneath swinging collections of crutches and pipes and bottles, we were called to the promised supper. Back into the banquet hall? Oh, no! But we carried the backless benches in from the shed, and placed them in a row along by the back or kitchen door of the house. I noticed there were only about half seats enough for the guests, so that one half stood while they waited, and it was nearly an hour from the time we began to gather for the much heralded “full meal” before we were served.

The weather had changed. At the going down of the sun, in southern semi-tropical climes in midwinter, there is a penetrating chill in the air. Cold mist and rain is of frequent occurrence. With the fast falling night had come a chilling fog cloud. It was an appalling, an appealing, a heart-rending, cruel sight, this company of two hundred and fifty men. There were no women among them.

As these destitute men stood there, half-clothed, enveloped in the vapor of the coming night, I read, on almost every face, despair and hopeless grief. I judged that a great many of them were tubercular, or the thin emaciated faces may have been evidences of exposure and want. I, too, was suffering with the cold, and I turned to a strong, healthy young fellow near me and said to him, “That cup of hot coffee will receive a hearty welcome.” Just then an attendant came out of the kitchen with a very large pitcher and filled it with cold water from the hydrant. My interlocutor turned and laughingly remarked, “Jack, there is your hot coffee!” Then the chief leader of this spiritual beneficence appeared, rubbing his hands together, and said to a visiting brother as he glanced down the line, “Isn’t this glorious?”

After more prayer, they came to us bringing what they called sandwiches, one for each man. These “sandwiches” were two very thin slices of bread, between which they had put a touch of some sour sort of sauce, and with each one was given a cup of cold water. A gaunt, sunken-eyed man, with white trembling hands, said to me, “I am afraid there won’t be enough to go around and we won’t get any.” But we got ours, and he swallowed it almost in a mouthful. I held mine waiting for an excuse to give it to him, and soon he asked me, “Aren’t you going to eat yours?” I replied, “No, I do not like the sauce between the bread.” I shall never forget how eagerly the thin hand grasped the slice, as he exclaimed, “I would give a fortune, if I had it, for a cup of hot coffee!” And then some hungry wretch spoke up, saying, “If Christ was on earth today, I think he would have changed that cup of cold water, given in his name, to hot coffee.” I asked this starving man if he could not find work, and if he had no trade. “Yes,” he answered, “I am a lather, but since they use the steel laths it is hard for us to get the work we formerly did. Besides,” he continued, “I am not young any longer nor strong enough to keep steadily at work as I once could, even though I now had the work to do. I came down here believing I could get work, easy work, out-doors in the fruit and orange groves, which would be beneficial to my health, but the fruit trust hire all Japs because they can get them cheaper, and, even though I have offered to work as cheaply as they do, they will not hire me.”

The day was done and this little drift of the flotsam and jetsam of Los Angeles floated back to the city to buffet with chance and luck for a place to sleep.

When I first arrived at the “institution,” I asked for the privilege of staying until I could help myself. The attendant told me he would see me after the service. As nothing was said to me again nor any of us urged or asked to remain, and being obliged to find something to eat, I left. As we went away, each man was offered a nickel for carfare, and I said to the helper who doled out the nickels, “Will you give me another to come back on? I must go to the city to look for work.” But I found he couldn’t think of such a thing.

No doubt, on the minds of the gullible rich and charitably inclined who contribute to such institutions, the report of this feast day and of the great number "fed" must have made a great impression. These people were teaching Christ, too, as they understood or pretended to understand Him. On this day, if they had found one man of character strong enough to accept and follow the beautiful Christ Life, was it not worth while? From their standpoint, yes, but they overlooked utterly the sin of continuing the pauperization of those two hundred and fifty men, by their makeshift charity. During their four hours of praise and prayer and “testimony,” not one single word was said about the causes that compelled those men to be there. Nor a single remedy was mentioned to change conditions, nor a word uttered against the methods used by religious societies, missions, single and associated charities, prison associations, societies for the prevention of crime and mendicancy, in their dealings with mendicancy.

It was after dark when I again reached the city. The rain had ceased, and the myriads of scintillating lights filled the city with a glow of splendor. I began my testing of the generosity of the city of Los Angeles toward its destitute homeless. As in other cities, I met with rebuffs at all of those institutions and religious bodies ostensibly existing for the sole purpose of helping the homeless. I tried all that I had heard of or that the police knew anything about. Finally, as I had been in other cities, I was driven to the Municipal building provided for law-breakers and criminals. As I sat there waiting for the jailer to lock me in, I thought of the frightful night spent in the bullpens of other places,—of the nerve-racking night when I came so near swooning in the city prison of Pittsburg, and last but not least, of that madhouse, the Old Bastile of San Francisco. As I heard the clang of iron doors, and in the distance the cursing of men and the cry of lost women, I said to myself, “I don’t think it necessary for me to go through this terrible trial to bring before the good people of Los Angeles the need of a Municipal Emergency Home,” and I quietly crept away.

On the following Sunday, I addressed the Y. M. C. A., and I told them of my experiences in Los Angeles. I spoke of going first to one very prominent institution and of being denied any of its privileges for less than thirty cents, in real money. I did not give the name of the establishment and when I had finished, one of the officers of this body got up and said, “If Mr. Brown had come here he would have been taken care of.” I replied, “This was the first place I came to.” After they had caught their breath, he haltingly said, “But Mr. Brown, you did not see the right man.”

I found in Los Angeles, as in every other city that I visited, that the Y. M. C. A. is nothing more nor less than a rich men’s club. I found men worth a great many thousands of dollars rooming there. They paid from thirty to fifty dollars a month for their rooms. And I found boys on small salaries also living there but living on one and two meals a day, in order to be able to pay their paltry room rent.