“Away back in the early 80’s Union Square in New York was called ‘The Rialto’ agreeable to the fact that it was the theatrical center of America. On the corner of Fourth avenue and Fourteenth street, a very excellent saloon was run by Joe Schmidt and it was kept fairly full from noon to midnight with respectable members of the sock and buskin, and amusement promoters. One Saturday evening in August, 1887, a table in front of the bar was occupied by a bunch of managers. We were combining business with pleasure, booking time and enjoying the very excellent beer and spirits available in those happy days. It was probably about 11 o’clock when a mendicant shambled in and approached our table. With a sad, husky voice, he said, ‘Gentlemen, I want a drink.’ All eyes were turned to the derelict and someone at the table offered one of the untasted glasses of whisky which was quickly swallowed. Joe behind the bar yelled, ‘Get out.’ “The waiter in front quickly seized the beggar and threw him out of the swinging door; to make the situation more dramatic, a rough haired terrier dog named ‘Toby’ and pet of the saloon jumped at the poor devil and fastened on his pants. ‘Toby’ always thought it his duty to chase poor people, and had an innate antipathy to jumpers or pants not duly pressed. “Well, several of the party got up from the table and went out to see what had happened to the poor wretch. He was lying on the sidewalk with his face halfway in the gutter. We gathered him up, brushed him off a little, wiped his face and someone went into the saloon and brought out another drink of whisky. Several coins were carefully dropped into the inside pocket of his coat. This was done surreptitiously so that he would not know the money was there until the tomorrow. As we left him on a door step next door I asked what his trade was and he managed to tell me he was an artist. I held that this man was not a professional beggar, a derelict true, but probably had once been a talented man. The argument was taken up by several other gentlemen in the room and waxed warm until I got angry and with a curt “good night” bolted out of the saloon. On my way home, I determined to write up the story in such a way as would make my argument good and satisfy Joe Schmidt that I was not wholly chicken-hearted. I also was pretty sure of winning the fair hostess to my way of thinking. As I walked along I composed in my mind the first two lines: _“’Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,_ _That well-nigh filled Joe’s bar-room on the corner of the Square.”_