Their thoughts we may not fathom, in their eyes One seems to sense a vision, as though fate Had let one little glimpse of fairer skies Brighten their souls before she closed the gate. Yet have they hopes and dreams which bring them peace, Adding to life’s flat liquor just the blend Called courage, that their efforts may not cease To seek the gold, hid at the rainbow’s end. “The Wanderer” is from the pen of Charles Ashleigh. It is said to have been written in jail. It is a justification, not complete, of the hobo principle of living for the day and by the day, of enjoying the sweets of life, if they can be secured, and of avoiding its problems. Is there no voice to speak for these, our kin; The strange, wild sorrows for the wanderer’s soul; The shining comradeship we sometimes win When on our wilful way to visioned goals? We are the ones to whom the forests speak, For whom the little by-streets run awry; Ships are our mistresses, and vaulted peaks Draw us unconquered to the tyrant sky. And what if we in sordid corners sink, Or perish in the crash of lawless fight; Our souls have had the wine of life to drink, We’ve had our blazing day. Let come the night. The hobo characterizes the district where the employment agencies are located as the “slave market.” Louis Melis, prominent in Hobohemia as a soap-boxer, has written a poem entitled “The Slave Market” from which the following verses have been taken: THE SLAVE MARKET This is the city of lost dreams and defeated hopes; Always you are the mecca of the Jobless, The seekers after life and the sweet illusions of happiness. Within your walls there are the consuming Fires of pain, sorrow and eternal regrets. Roses never bloom here; silken petals Cannot be defiled. Streets in ragged attire, sang-froid in their violence; Years come and go; still your hideousness goes on And mute outcasts garnish Your every rendezvous. Blind pigs, reeking with a nauseous smell everywhere; The so-called “flops,” the lousy beds Where slaves of mill and mine and rail and shop Curl up and drop away unconscious, In fair pretense of sleep. Employment sharks entrapping men, Human vultures in benign disguise, Auctioning labor at a pittance per day. And it’s always “What will you give?” “What will you take?” The pocketing of fat commissions; Old men, young men, tramps, bums, hobos, Laborers seeking jobs or charity Each visioning happiness from afar. They swarm the city streets, these slaves, For all must live and strive, And always the elusive job sign Greets their contemplative glance. A job--food, clothing, shelter; Wage slaves selling their power; Oh, you Slave Market, I know you!