London s streets ? Believe me, you would think a
thousand centuries had come and gone before the
east paled into dawn; you would shiver till you
were ready to cry aloud with the pain of each ach
ing muscle; and you would marvel that you could
endure so much and live. Should you rest upon a
bench, and your tired eyes close, depend upon it the
policeman would rouse you and gruffly order you to
move on. You may rest upon the bench, and
benches are few and far between; but if rest means
sleep, on you must go, dragging your tired body
through the endless streets. Should you, in des
perate slyness, seek some forlorn alley or dark pas
sageway and lie down, the omnipresent policeman
will rout you out just the same. It is his business
to rout you out. It is a law of the powers that be
that you shall be routed out.

But when the dawn came, the nightmare over,
you would hale you home to refresh yourself, and
until you died you would tell the story of your ad
venture to groups of admiring friends. It would
grow into a mighty story. Your little eight-hour
night would become an Odyssey and you a Homer.

Not so with these homeless ones who walked to
Poplar Workhouse with me. And there are thirty-
five thousand of them, men and women, in London
Town this night. Please don t remember it as you
go to bed; if you are as soft as you ought to be,

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