weeks of a hot summer in New York. In near neighborhood to my rooms were
blocks of buildings which had shops on the first floor and tenements
above. In these lived the families of small tradesmen, and mechanics of
the better sort. During those scorching nights every window was thrown
open, and all sounds were borne with distinctness through the hot still
air. Chief among them were the shrieks and cries of little children, and
blows and angry words from tired, overworked mothers. At times it became
almost unbearable: it was hard to refrain from an attempt at rescue. Ten,
twelve, twenty quick, hard blows, whose sound rang out plainly, I counted
again and again; mingling with them came the convulsive screams of the
poor children, and that most piteous thing of all, the reiteration of "Oh,
mamma! oh, mamma!" as if, through all, the helpless little creatures had
an instinct that this word ought to be in itself the strongest appeal.
These families were all of the better class of work people, comfortable
and respectable. What sounds were to be heard in the more wretched haunts
of the city, during those nights, the heart struggled away from fancying.
But the shrieks of those children will never wholly die out of the air. I
hear them to-day; and mingling with them, the question rings perpetually
in my ears, "Why does not the law protect children, before the point at
which life is endangered?"

A cartman may be arrested in the streets for the brutal beating of a horse
which is his own, and which he has the right to kill if he so choose.
Should not a man be equally withheld from the brutal beating of a child
who is not his own, but God's, and whom to kill is murder?




The Inhumanities of Parents--Needless Denials.