Dr. Roger S. Tracy General Ely Parker (_Chief of the Six Nations_) The Lodging-room at the Leonard Street Police Station The Church Street Station Lodging-room, in which I was robbed The Yellow Newspapers' Contribution The Mulberry Bend as it was "The tenants bolted through the windows" Lodgers at Five Cents a Spot Bandits' Roost--a Mulberry Bend Alley Bottle Alley, Mulberry Bend. Headquarters of the Whyo Gang The Mulberry Bend as it is My Little Ones gathering Daisies for "the Poors" Mr. Lowell's Letter The Boys' "Playground" in an Old-time School Typical East Side Tenement Block (_five hundred babies in it, not one bath-tub_) President Theodore Roosevelt, of the Police Board "One was sitting asleep on a butter-tub" Chief of Police Thomas Byrnes The Mott Street Barracks Gotham Court A Tenement House Air-shaft The School of the New Day The Way to prevent the Manufacture of "Toughs" Ribe, in my Childhood (_seen from Elisabeths Garden_) At Home in the Old Town (_the last time we were all together_) "The 'gossip benches' are filled" The Extinct Chimney-sweep The Ancient Bellwoman The Village Express Holy Andrew's Cross Sir Asker Ryg's Church at Fjennesloevlille "Horse-meat to-day!" The Cross of Dannebrog After Twenty-five Years King Christian as I saw him last The Jacob A. Riis House (_No. 50 Henry Street, New York_) Christmas Eve with the King's Daughters James Tanner "The little ones from Cherry Street" My Silver Bride Here comes the Baby! "That minute I knew" CHAPTER I THE MEETING ON THE LONG BRIDGE [Illustration: Our Stork] On the outskirts of the ancient town of Ribe, on the Danish north seacoast, a wooden bridge spanned the Nibs River when I was a boy--a frail structure, with twin arches like the humps of a dromedary, for boats to go under. Upon it my story begins. The bridge is long since gone. The grass-grown lane that knew our romping feet leads nowhere now. But in my memory it is all as it was that day nearly forty years ago, and it is always summer there. The bees are droning among the forget-me-nots that grow along shore, and the swans arch their necks in the limpid stream. The clatter of the mill-wheel down at the dam comes up with drowsy hum; the sweet smells of meadow and field are in the air. On the bridge a boy and a girl have met. He whistles a tune, boy-fashion, with worsted jacket slung across his arm, on his way home from the carpenter shop to his midday meal. When she has passed he stands looking after her, all the music gone out of him. At the other end of the bridge she turns with the feeling that he is looking, and, when she sees that he is, goes on with a little toss of her pretty head. As she stands one brief moment there with the roguish look, she is to stand in his heart forever--a sweet girlish figure, in jacket of gray, black-embroidered, with schoolbooks and pretty bronzed boots--