“Go ’way and leave me alone,” she shouted in shrill falsetto. “You have got yourself up to look like my Joe—and that idiotic grin on your homely face is just like my Joe, but no city sharper can fool me, and if you don’t go right along I’ll call for the perlice!” She called for the police, and Uncle Joe had to show a strawberry-mark to prove his identity, before he received recognition. ------------------------------------- To be your brother’s keeper is beautiful if you do not cease to be his friend. BILLY AND THE BOOK One day last Winter in New York I attended a police court on a side street, just off lower Broadway. I was waiting to see my old friend Rosenfeld in the Equitable Life Building, but as his office didn’t open up until nine o’clock, I put in my time at the police court. There was the usual assortment of drunks, petty thieves—male and female, black, white and coffee-colored—disorderlies, vagabonds and a man in full-dress suit and a wide expanse of dull ecru shirt-bosom. The place was stuffy, foul-smelling, and reeked with a stale combination of tobacco and beer and patchouli, and tears, curses, fear and promises unkept. The Judge turned things off, but without haste. He showed more patience and consideration than one usually sees on the bench. His judgments seemed to be gentle and just. The courtroom was clearing, and I started to go. ------------------------------------- As I was passing down the icy steps a piping child’s voice called to me, “Mister, please give me a lift!” There at the foot of the steps, standing in the snow, was a slender slip of a girl, yellow and earnest, say ten years old, with a shawl pinned over her head. She held in her hand a rope, and this rope was tied to a hand-sled. On this sled sat a little boy, shivering, dumpy and depressed, his bare red hands clutching the seat. “Mister, I say, please give me a lift!” “Sure!” I said. It was a funny sight. This girl seemed absolutely unconscious of herself. She was not at all abashed, and very much in earnest about something. Evidently she had watched the people coming out and had waited until one appeared that she thought safe to call on for help. “Of course I’ll give you a lift—what is it you want me to do?” “I’ve got to go inside and see the Judge. It’s about my brudder here. He is six, goin’ on seven, and they sent him home from school ’cause they said he wasn’t old enough. I’m going to have that teacher ’rested. I’ve got the Bible here that says he’s six years old. If you’ll carry the book I’ll bring Billy and the sled!” “Where is the Bible?” I asked. “Billy’s settin’ on it.” It was a big, black, greasy Family Bible, evidently a relic of better days. It had probably been hidden under the bed for safety. The girl grappled the sled with one hand, and with the other Billy’s little red fist. I followed, carrying the big, black, greasy Family Bible.