He tore down them crazy, slantin', rotten old housen, and made a park of
that filthy hole, a lovely little park, with fresh green grass, a
fountain of pure water, where the birds come to slake their little
thirsts.

He sot out big trees (money will move a four-foot ellum). There is
green, rustlin' boughs for the birds to build their nests in. Cool green
leaves to wave over the heads of the children.

They lay their pale faces on the grass, they throw their happy little
hearts onto the kind, patient heart of their first mother, Nature, and
she soothes the fever in their little breasts, and gives 'em new and
saner idees.

They hold their little hands under the crystal water droppin' forever
from the outspread wings of a dove. They find insensibly the grime
washed away by these pure drops, their hands are less inclined to clasp
round murderous weepons and turn them towards the lofty abodes of the
rich.

They do not hate the rich so badly, for it is a rich man who has done
all this for them.

The high walls of the prison that used to loom up so hugely and
threatingly in front of the bare old tenement housen--the harsh glare
of them walls seem further away, hidden from them by the gracious green
of the blossoming trees.

The sunshine lays between them and its rough walls--they follow the
glint of the sunbeams up into the Heavens.