The woman who fell starving, on the street where these richest of men live, was named Mrs. Mary Schrumm. She was young, thinly dressed, and _had not tasted food for two days. The child was nearly famished, almost frozen and had acute bronchitis._ Her husband was out of work; an old woman with whom she had found shelter had been given notice to vacate; and Mrs. Schrumm had gone into the streets to seek refuge in some one of the charitable institutions. _She had been turned away from each of these that she could reach. She had begged that her babe, at least, might be taken in. No; the babe was sick, and_ THEY COULD NOT TAKE IN A SICK CHILD! God! And we talk about _what the heathen need! The hardest-hearted heathen that Jehovah ever made are some of the seared hypocrites who call themselves Christians._ Denied everywhere, poor Mrs. Schrumm wandered about the streets, in the bitterly cold wind, until she fell, completely tired out. _Then_, indeed, charity had to sit up and take notice. The starving woman was put into an ambulance, and carried to a hospital. _She_ will probably recover; her child will probably die. Then, _what moral right_ have you to let such unfortunates as these _fall starving in_ YOUR _streets_, while you are sending _hundreds of millions of dollars abroad to feed, clothe, physic and make fires for the hungry, “thinly clad,” sick and shivering Chinese_? Doesn’t your own “mother wit” tell you that _Foreign Missions could not consume such vast sums of money_, IF THE MISSIONARIES LIMITED THEMSELVES TO PREACHING THE GOSPEL! Put on your think cap, son. In the New York _World_ of December 5, 1908, is reported the case of George Schulze who shot himself to death, in spite of the pleadings of his wife and children, because he was out of work, had tried in vain to secure employment and was in despair. If these were not typical cases, we would not dwell upon them. But they _are_ typical cases, _and you know it_. Treasure Trove The writer of the ballad which the Jeffersonian presents to its readers this month was Clara V. Dargan. She was born near Winnsboro, S. C., the daughter of Dr. K. S. Dargan, descendant of an old Virginia family of the highest standing. Her mother was a native Charlestonian of Huguenot blood, and from her the poetess inherited vivacity, social charm and a love for romance. The Dargan family was wealthy, but lost everything by the war. Miss Dargan published many poems and short prose stories in the periodicals of the time. In 1863, she was the literary editor of the “Edgefield Advertiser.” One of her stories, “Philip, My Son,” was considered by so good an authority as Henry Timrod to be equal to any story published in “Blackwood’s.”