he sub-cellars and down
from the garrets of the tenements and I have watched them with my heart
filled with pity and my eyes overflowing with tears. Their very glee
seemed tragic beyond words.

Born within the roar of the ocean their tiny feet are never kissed by
the eager surf, nor their wan cheeks made ruddy by the vitalizing
breezes of the sea.

Not for them--the flotsam and jetsam upon the social tides--are the rosy
hours of babyhood, the sweet, sweet joys of childhood. They are the
heirs of the social filth and disease of capitalism and death marks them
at what should be the dewy dawn of birth, and they wither and
die--without having been born. Their cradle is their coffin and their
birth robe their winding sheet.

The Socialist movement is the first in all history to come to the rescue
of childhood and to set free the millions of little captives. And they
realize it and incarnate the very spirit of the movement and shout aloud
their joy as it marches on to victory.

The little revolutionists in Socialist parades know what they are there
for, and in our audiences they are wide awake to the very last word.
They know, too, when to applaud, and the speaker who fails to enthuse
them is surely lacking in some vital element of his speech.

At the close of a recent meeting in a western state the stage was
crowded with eager comrades shaking hands and offering congratulations.
My hand was suddenly gripped from below. I glanced down and a little
comrade just about big enough to stand alone looked straight up into my
eyes and said with all the frankness and sincerity of a child: "That
was a great speech you made and I love you; keep this to remember me
by." And he handed me a little nickle-plated whistle, his sole tangible
possession, and with it all the wealth of his pure and unpolluted
child-love, which filled my heart and moved me to tears.

In just that moment that tiny proletaire filled my measure to
overflowing and consecrated me with increased strength and devotion to
the great movement that is destined to rescue the countless millions of
disinherited babes and give them the earth and all the fulness thereof
as their patrimony forever.

The sweetest, tenderest, most pregnant words uttered by the proletaire
of Galilee were: "Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come
unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

THE COPPOCK BROTHERS: HEROES OF HARPER'S FERRY.

Appeal to Reason, May 23, 191