WHILE seated in my warm abode I see John Doe pass up the road, that man
of many woes; he wears one rubber and one shoe, the wintry blast is
blowing through his whiskers and his clothes. He has no place to sleep
or eat, his only refuge is the street, his shelter heaven’s vault; I see
him in the storm abroad, and say, “But for the grace of God, there goes
your Uncle Walt.” John Doe with gifts was richly blest; he might have
distanced all the rest, had Fortune kindly been; but Fortune put the
kibosh on the efforts of the luckless John, and never wore a grin. I
wonder why an Edgar Poe found life a wilderness of woe, and starved in
garrets bare, while bards who cannot sing for prunes eat costly grub
from golden spoons, and purple raiment wear. I wonder why a Robert Burns
must try all kinds of shifts and turns to gain his daily bread, the
while a Southey basked at ease and stuffed himself with jam and cheese,
a wreath upon his head. Such things have never been explained; I know
not why it is ordained that I find life a snap; and gazing from my door
I see John Doe, in speechless misery, a homeless, hungry chap.
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