Surely it is a strange and heterogeneous procession that issues
evening by evening from the caves and dens of London's
underworld. But notice there is also a returning procession!
For as the sun sinks to rest, sad-faced men seek some cover where
they may lie down and rest their weary bones; where perchance
they may sleep and regain some degree of passive courage that
will enable them, at the first streak of morning light, to rise
and begin again a disheartening round of tramp, tramp, searching
for work that is everlastingly denied them. Hungry and footsore,
their souls fainting within them, they seek the homes where wives
and children await their return with patient but hopeless
resignation.

Take notice if you will of the places they enter, for surely the
beautiful word "home" is desecrated if applied to most of their
habitations. Horrid places within and without, back to back and
face to face they stand.

At their doorway death stands ready to strike. In the murky
light of little rooms filled with thick air child-life has
struggled into existence; up and down their narrow stairs patient
endurance and passive hopelessness ever pass and repass.

Small wonder that the filthy waters of a neighbouring canal woo
and receive so many broken hearts and emaciated bodies.

But the procession now changes its sex, for weary widowed women
are returning to children who for many hours have been lacking a
mother's care, for mothers in the underworld must work if
children must eat.