WHEN the wind blows shrill, with a deadly chill, and we sit by the
cheerful blaze, do we ever think of the homeless gink, a-going his weary
ways? The daylight’s gone and we sit and yawn, and comfort is all
around; do we care a whoop for the dismal troop adrift on the frozen
ground? You eat and drink and count your chink as you sit in your easy
chair; and you’ve grown hog-fat, and beneath your hat there’s hardly a
sign of care. Do you never pause, as you ply your jaws, devouring the
oyster stew, to heave a sigh for the waifs who lie outdoors, all the
long night through? It was good of Fate that she paid the freight, and
planted you here at ease, while the other lads, who are shy of scads,
must sit in the park and freeze. But she may repent ere your days are
spent, and juggle things all around, and the bo may sleep on your
mattress deep, and you on the frozen ground!
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