peace; this city of the dawn that still is young--invites me to talk
with it awhile before the waking hours drive it before them, and with
a sigh it passes whence it came.

It is the great city's one hour of purity, of dignity. The very rag-
picker, groping with her filthy hands among the ashes, instead of an
object of contempt, moves from door to door an accusing Figure, her
thin soiled garments, her bent body, her scarred face, hideous with
the wounds of poverty, an eloquent indictment of smug Injustice,
sleeping behind its deaf shutters. Yet even into her dim brain has
sunk the peace that fills for this brief hour the city. This, too,
shall have its end, my sister! Men and women were not born to live
on the husks that fill the pails outside the rich man's door.
Courage a little while longer, you and yours. Your rheumy eyes once
were bright, your thin locks once soft and wavy, your poor bent back
once straight; and maybe, as they tell you in their gilded churches,
this bulging sack shall be lifted from your weary shoulders, your
misshapen limbs be straight again. You pass not altogether unheeded
through these empty streets. Not all the eyes of the universe are
sleeping.

The little seamstress, hurrying to her early work! A little later
she will be one of the foolish crowd, joining in the foolish
laughter, in the coarse jests of the work-room: but as yet the hot
day has not claimed her. The work-room is far beyond, the home of
mean cares and sordid struggles far behind. To her, also, in this
moment are the sweet thoughts of womanhood. She puts down her bag,
rests herself upon a seat. If all the day were dawn, this city of
the morning always with us! A neighbouring clock chimes forth the
hour. She starts up from her dream and hurries on--to the noisy