Our party had drifted with the crowd until nearly midnight, when we turned toward Michigan Boulevard and the lake for quiet and fresh air. We were full of the idea that Cuba would be made free, and proud of America for realizing her destiny of being the pioneer in the vanguard of progress toward universal freedom; but we were soon to be called back to facts, and home realities, by a revelation of cruelest neglect that must continue to haunt us until the possibility of such neglect has ceased to exist. Under the shadow of the portal of the Pullman Building, which serves as general offices of the Pullman's Palace Car Company, we met an adventure that showed an appalling contrast to the patriotic enthusiasm that blared in the thoroughfares we had just quitted. We were arrested by the plaintive voice of a child in the toils of a six-foot policeman. "Please, mister," wailed the child, "lemme go. I didn't swipe none ov dem cakes; 'twas me brudder and de odder kids dat swiped 'em; I ain't done nothin', and I won't do nothin' no more if you'll only let me slide; I won't never come out annudder night--honest I won't--if you'll let me go. Me brudder an' de udder kids'll go home widout me an' I don't know de way. Please, mister cop, lemme go; please! please!!--" The child could not have been more than four years of age, but his small vocabulary was as full of the slang of the slums as it was deficient in the terms of childhood and innocence. The policeman was kindly disposed, but felt compelled to administer some sort of correction, and this is how he did it: His reproof was well meant, but oh! how evil was it in its suggestions to a soul just receiving its first impressions of life, and of the world, out of which to build a character. "What's the use of your lyin' to me, yer little monkey? You know you're a thief and the kid of thieves. The gang you trains wid is the toughest in town. Every mother's brat of you'll deckerate a halter one of those days--sooner or later anyhow, an' probably sooner. You're born to it an' can't help it, I s'pose, but if I catches yer 'round here again I'll thump yer on the head wid my club and you'll find that'll hurt wurser'n a lickin'.--Where does yer live, anyhow?" The child answered, giving an indefinite address on the West Side that was undoubtedly false, as charged by the officer, but which was as glibly given as a parrot's favorite phrase.