There was the usual assortment of drunks, petty thieves—male and
female, black, white and coffee-colored—disorderlies, vagabonds and a
man in full-dress suit and a wide expanse of dull ecru shirt-bosom.

The place was stuffy, foul-smelling, and reeked with a stale
combination of tobacco and beer and patchouli, and tears, curses, fear
and promises unkept.

The Judge turned things off, but without haste. He showed more
patience and consideration than one usually sees on the bench. His
judgments seemed to be gentle and just.

The courtroom was clearing, and I started to go.

-------------------------------------

As I was passing down the icy steps a piping child’s voice called to
me, “Mister, please give me a lift!”

There at the foot of the steps, standing in the snow, was a slender
slip of a girl, yellow and earnest, say ten years old, with a shawl
pinned over her head. She held in her hand a rope, and this rope was
tied to a hand-sled. On this sled sat a little boy, shivering, dumpy
and depressed, his bare red hands clutching the seat.

“Mister, I say, please give me a lift!”

“Sure!” I said.

It was a funny sight.