Jacob A. Riis 1849–1914. The Battle with the Slum. 1902.
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| horses,—which, after lives of toil that deserve a better fate, are sold for a song to drag out a weary existence hauling some huckster’s cart around,—and wishing that they might be pensioned off to live out their years on a farm, with enough to eat and a chance to roll in the grass. He was much interested, and promptly gave me this advice: “I tell you what you do. You go and see Croker. He likes horses.” No wonder the boss believes in himself. He would be less than human if he did not. And he is very human. |
| I had voted on the day of the Greater New York election,—the Tammany election, as we learned to call it afterward,—in my home out in the Borough of Queens, and went over to the depot to catch the train for the city. On the platform were half a dozen of my neighbors, all business men, all “friends of reform.” Some of them were just down from breakfast. One I remember as introducing a resolution, in a meeting we had held, about the discourtesy of local politicians. He looked surprised when reminded that it was election day. “Why, is it today?” he said. “They didn’t send any carriage,” said another regretfully. “I don’t see what’s the use,” said the third; “the roads are just as bad as when we began talking about it.” (We had been trying to mend them.) The fourth yawned and said: “I don’t care. I have my business to attend to.” |