 
suppose we look into one of the slums. 
be a little careful, please! 
the hall is dark, and you might stumble over the children pitching pennies 
back there. 
not that it would hurt them; kicks and cuffs are their daily diet. 
they have little else. 
here where the hall turns and dives into utter darkness is a step, and 
another, another. 
a flight of stairs. 
you can feel your way if you cannot see it. 
close? 
yes! 
what would you have? 
all the fresh air that ever enters these stairs comes from the hall door 
that is forever slamming and from the windows of dark bedrooms that in turn 
receive from the stairs their sole supply of the elements god meant to be free 
but man deals out with such niggardly hand. 
that was a woman filling her pail by the hydrant you just bumped against. 
the sinks are in the hallway, that all the tenants may have access, and all 
be poisoned alike by their summer stenches. 
hear the pump squeak! 
it is the lullaby of tenement house babes. 
in summer, when a thousand thirsty throats pant for a cooling drink in this 
block, it is worked in vain. 
but the saloon, whose open door you passed in the hall, is always there. 
the smell of it has followed you up. 
here is a door. 
listen! 
that short, hacking cough, that tiny, helpless wail, what do they mean? 
they mean that the soiled bow of white you saw on the door downstairs will 
have another story to tell, oh! a sadly familiar story, before the day is at an 
end. 
the child is dying with measles. 
with half a chance it might have lived, but it had none. 
that dark bedroom killed it. 
