Along the gutters, shapeless, fagged, With drooping head and bleeding feet, Throughout the Christmas night he dragged, His care, his woe, and his defeat; Till, gasping hard, with face downward He fell upon the trafficked street. The midnight revelry aloud Cried out its glut of wine and lust The happy, clean, indifferent crowd Passed him in anger and disgust: For--fit or rum--he was a bum, And if he died ’twas nothing lost.[61] In the following poem, by an unknown writer, “The Bum on the Rods and the Bum on the Plush” states the case of labor against capital in the language and accents of the hobo: The bum on the rods is hunted down As the enemy of mankind, The other is driven around to his club Is feted, wined, and dined. And they who curse the bum on the rods As the essence of all that is bad, Will greet the other with a winning smile, And extend the hand so glad. The bum on the rods is a social flea Who gets an occasional bite, The bum on the plush is a social leech, Blood-sucking day and night. The bum on the rod is a load so light That his weight we scarcely feel, But it takes the labor of dozens of men To furnish the other a meal. As long as you sanction the bum on the plush The other will always be there, But rid yourself of the bum on the plush And the other will disappear. Then make an intelligent, organized kick, Get rid of the weights that crush. Don’t worry about the bum on the rods, Get rid of the bum on the plush. The following verses are taken from a selection written by Henry A. White, who is a veteran of the road and for many years connected with the publication of the _Hobo News_. It is entitled “The Hobo Knows.” In it one can detect an unfamiliar note of resignation, the resignation of an old man who has hoped and struggled, and learned. He knows the whirr of the rolling wheels, And their click on the time-worn joints; His ear is attuned to the snap and snarl Of the train, at the rickety points. He knows the camp by the side of the road, And the “java” and “mulligan” too; The siding long, and the water tank Are as home to me and you. He knows the fright of hunger and thirst, And of cold and of rain as well; Of raggedy clothes and out-worn shoes, An awful tale he can tell. He knows what it means to slave all day, And at night eat the vilest of fare; What a tale he can tell of loathsome bunks, Cramped quarters, and noisome air. He knows what the end of it all will be When he crosses the line at the goal; A rough, pine box, and a pauper’s grave And he has paid his toll. THE HOBO’S OBSERVATIONS AND REFLECTIONS ON LIFE