A Thought for the Discontented.
IN the days of the Old Brewery, at the five points, New York, a woman and her only daughter, a child five years of age, occupied a loathsome corner on the first floor. It was the custom of the mother, after having covered the child with rags which had been collected during the day, to place a few broken boards, dignified by the title of “door,” in such a position as probably kept the horrible place half a degree warmer than it would have been without such a shelter. On one occasion, after the mother had adjusted the boards for the night, the child, probably experiencing some sensation of comfort, said: “Mother, what does poor people do, that’s got no door to cover them?”