enerations come and read it--a fearful record of human
suffering--a sweet memorial of human virtue--when many of these old
woes, we trust, shall have passed away for ever.

Permit me, in closing, to present two or three incidents illustrative of
this heroism and sacrifice among the Children of the Poor.

Take, for instance, the account of a writer who tells us that in the
street he "met a little girl, very poor, but with such a sweet sad
expression," adds he, "that I involuntarily stopped and spoke to her.
She answered my questions very clearly, but the heavy, sad look never
left her eyes a moment. She had no father or mother. She took care of
the children herself; she was only _thirteen_; she sewed on check
shirts, and made a living for them." He went to see her. "It is a low,
damp basement her home. She lives there with the three little children,
whom she supports, and the elder sick brother, who sometimes picks up a
trifle. She had been washing for herself and little ones. 'She almost
thought that she could take in washing now,' and the little ones with
their knees to their mouths crouched up before the stove, looked as if
there could not be a doubt of sister's doing anything she tried. 'Well,
Annie, how do you make a living now?' 'I sew on the check shirts, sir,
and the flannel shirts; I get five cents for the checks, and nine cents
for the others; but just now they wont let me have the flannel, because
I can't deposit two dollars.' 'It must be very hard work?' 'O! I don't
mind, sir; but to-day the visitors came, and said we'd better go to the
poor-house, and I said I couldn't like to leave these little ones yet;
and I thought if I only had candles, I could sit up till ten or eleven,
and make the shirts.' ... She had learned everything she knew at the
Industrial School.... She never went to church, for she had no clothes,
but she could read and write.... 'It was very damp there,' she said,
'and then it was so cold nights.'"

I will, in the next place, introduce you to a garret-room, six feet by
ten. The occupants are a poor mother and her son. The mother works at
making shirts with collars and stitched bosoms, at six shillings and
sixpence per dozen, for a man who pays half in merchandise, and who,
when she is starving for bread, puts her off with calico at a _shilling_
a yard that is not worth more than fourpence! But _he_ is not the martyr
in the case. When the visitor entered, her son George, about twelve
years