To my Readers:

In the strife of life some men lose place through physical weakness or
lost opportunities or impaired abilities; struggle on as they may, they
must always be the Under Dog in the fight.

Others are misjudged—often by their fellows; sometimes by the law. If
you are one of the fellows, you pass the man with a nod. If you are the
law, you crush out his life with a sentence.

Still others lose place from being misunderstood; from being out of
touch with their surroundings; out of reach of those who, if they knew,
would help; men with hearts chilled by neglect, whose smouldering
coals—coals deep hidden in their nature—need only the warm breath of
some other man's sympathy to be fanned back into life.

Once in a while there can be met another kind, one whose poverty or
uncouthness makes us shun him at sight; and yet one, if we did but know
it, with a joyous melody in his heart, ofttimes in tune with our own
harmonies. This kind is rare, and when found adds another ripple to our
scanty stock of laughter.

These Under Dogs—grave and gay—have always appealed to me. Their
stories are printed here in the hope that they may also appeal to you.

F.H.S.

NEW YORK.