Gripping stories about the impoverished people of some of the most crime ridden streets and alleys in New York City. The author, an early reformist and champion for the poor wrote many articles and journals exposing the plight of these people, this book being one of them.

I stood, and stared at it. It looked dry, almost withered. Probably it had come a long way. Not much holly grows about Printing-House Square, except in the colored supplements, and that is scarcely of a kind to stir tender memories. Withered and dry, this did. I thought, with a twinge of conscience, of secret little conclaves of my children, of private views of things hidden from mama at the bottom of drawers, of wild flights when papa appeared unbidden in the door, which I had allowed for once to pass unheeded. Absorbed in the business of the office, I had hardly thought of Christmas coming on, until now it was here. And this sprig of holly on the wall that had come to remind me, -- come nobody knew how far, -- did it grow yet in the beech-wood clearings, as it did when I gathered it as a boy, tracking through the snow? "Christ-thorn" we called it in our Danish tongue. The red berries, to our simple faith, were the drops of blood that fell from the Saviour's brow as it drooped under its cruel crown upon the cross.

Includes a biography of the Author

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• Literature & FictionGenre Fiction

• Text-to-Speech: Enabled
• Lending: Disabled
• Print Length: 113 Pages
• File Size: 406 KB