crowded, horrible courts and byways of the cities--

With great trees under which the children could play, and look up into
the blue sky, and breathe the sweet air--she talked about fresh dewey
grass on which they might lay their little hollow cheeks, and which
would cool the fever in them.

She talked about a fountain of pure water down where now wuz filth too
horrible to mention.

She talked _very_ wild--for she talked about them terrible slantin' old
housen bein' torn down to make room for this Paradise of the future.

Had she been older, words might have fallen from her feverish lips of
how the woes, and evils, and crimes of the lower classes always react
upon the upper.

She might have pictured in her dreams the drama that is ever bein'
enacted on the pages of history--of the sorely oppressed masses turnin'
on the oppressors, and drivin' them, with themselves, out to ruin.

Pages smeared with blood might have passed before her, and she might
have dreamed--for she wuz _very_ delerious--she might have dreamed of
the time when our statesmen and lawgivers would pause awhile from their
hard task of punishin' crime, and bend their energies upon avertin' it--

Helpin' the poor to better lives, helpin' them to justice. Takin' the
small hands of the children, and leadin' them away from the overcrowded
prisons and penitentaries toward better lives--