the hard-hearted father.
"Give her away--anything. I can't keep her."

And this time he really escaped. Left alone with his charge, the
pedler bethought himself of a friend in Pitt Street who had little
children. Where so many fed, there would be easily room for another.
To Pitt Street he betook himself, only to meet with another setback.
They didn't want any babies there; had enough of their own. So he went
to a widow in East Broadway who had none, to be driven forth with hard
words. What did a widow want with a baby? Did he want to disgrace her?
Adam Grunschlag visited in turn every countryman he knew of on the
East Side, and proposed to each of them to take the baby off his
hands, without finding a single customer for it. Either because it was
hurt by such treatment, or because it thought it time for Hansche's
attentions, the child at length set up a great cry. Little Abe, who
had trotted along bravely upon his four-years-old legs, wrapped in a
big plaid shawl, lost his grip at that and joined in, howling
dolefully that he was hungry.

Adam Grunschlag gave up at last and sat down on the curb, helpless and
hopeless. Hungry! Yes, and so was he. Since morning he had not eaten a
morsel, and been on his feet incessantly. Two hungry mouths to fill
beside his own and not a cent with which to buy bread. For the first
time he felt a pang of bitterness as he saw the shoppers hurry by
with filled baskets to homes where there was cheer and plenty. From
the window of a tenement across the way shone the lights of a
Christmas tree, lighted as in old-country fashion on the Holy Eve.
Christmas! What had it ever meant to him and his but hatred and
persecution? There was a shout from across the street and voices
raised in laughter and song. The children could be seen dancing about
the tree, little room though there was. Ah, yes! Let them make merry
upon their holiday while two little ones were starving in the street.
A colder blast than ordinary came up from the river and little Abe
crept close to him, wailing disconsolate within his shawl.

"Hey, what's this?" said a rough, but not unkindly voice at his elbow.
"Campin' out, shepherd fashion, Moses? Bad for the kids; these ain't
the hills of Judea."

It was the policeman on the beat stirring the trio gently with his
club. The pedler got up without a word, to move away, but little Abe,
from fright or hunger, set up such a howl that the policeman made him
stop to explain. While he d