HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!
By J. O. Beard
THE exclamation almost involuntarily rises from the lips as one reads the terrible accounts of distress that are so frequent this winter. Take for example the two following pictures of horror, which could be many times duplicated, and which, headlines and all, are taken from a political paper, the Independent American, Creston, Iowa:— HELPLESS WOMEN STARVE TO DEATH ON THE STREETS OF CHICAGO.
While Our Plutocrats Roll in Wealth Never Dreamed of by Oriental Princes. DIES ON A NEW YORK STREET.
NEW YORK, Feb. 5.—The first really fierce grip of icy winter that came in the city arrived last night with a suddenness that caused much suffering as well as death. The saddest case was that of a woman found sitting stone dead in a doorway at No. 438 West Fifty-ninth Street, last midnight, by comfortably clad Tom O’Connor, who was hurrying homeward with his head well down in the upturned collar of his big night ulster. The poor woman would have been thinly clad even for June. She had not a shred of underclothing on. Her waist and skirt, of some light, frayed stuff, were of little use toward keeping out cold as keen and searching as that of last night. The only garment that had the least pretension of having been made with an idea of protection from cold was an absurd little jacket with shabby borders of fur about it. The very policemen at the station were moved out of their professional stoicism at the sight of the poor frail creature’s wretched garments and wan, hunger-pinched face. She was, or had been, a very comely woman, of not more than thirty years of age, and there was nothing in her face that told of a life of dissipation, but rather the reverse. There was not a penny of money about her, nor any mark or scrap of any kind to give a clew to her identity. CRUSHED TO DEATH IN CHICAGO.
The Chicago Sentinel records a heart-rending scene in that city:— Crushed to death by a hungry mob, battling for food in the county agent’s office, Mrs. Anna Lindgren’s body lies in the little bare parlor at 66 Marion Street. Literally stricken down, and the life crushed from her frail body, in a struggle for bread, death came as a relief to the hungry and unhappy woman. Her husband sits beside the plain coffin which the county agent furnished, and the mob still battles for places in the long line before the county agent’s window. The one frail form is not missed. It was 1 o’clock yesterday afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Lindgren entered the county agent’s office to ask for assistance. Neither had eaten anything for two days, and the pale, sick woman leaned heavily on the arm of her husband. Within the rooms a mob of men, women, and children literally fought for places in the line before the windows. Every few moments a rush from behind would break the line, and those pushed out of their places would fight to regain them, to save the long wait for food which going to the end would necessitate. Mrs. Lindgren, weak and sick, shrank back in alarm, but food must be had, and she led her weak husband up to a chair near the wall, while she wearily took his place at the end of the line. Slowly those in front presented their tickets and moved away; slowly the line moved forward. Suddenly there was a rush from the rear, the center of the line bowed out, and those nearest the wall fought stubbornly to save themselves from being crushed. Above the other voices sounded a woman’s scream. Then the police pushed their way through the crowd to where Mrs. Lindgren lay, crushed and motionless, upon the floor. She had been carried down in the rush, and her frail hold on life was almost broken. Tenderly and hastily she was raised and borne to an ambulance. Her half-frantic husband followed, and the wagon was quickly driven to the cheerless home, 66 Marion Place. There the county physician made a careful examination and found that her left hip was crushed, and that the resultant internal injuries were serious. For hours the husband sat watching his wife’s life ebb away, until late last night, when death brought her relief from suffering. Meanwhile the county agent’s office had sent food and fuel to the little home, where three children shivered around their mother’s dead body. Read these accounts, and, as you read, think of the four thousand millionaires of the United States, with from $1,000,000 to $150,000,000 each, and of the many thousands more who, while not millionaires, can count up their ill-gotten gains by figures of six places. Then read again James 5:1–8 and ask yourselves if that prophecy for the last days is not literally and emphatically fulfilled. They build great institutes, found mighty universities, give lavishly(?); but no one ever supposes they feel the want of what they give for the support of libraries and museums. But they do not seem to ever think of giving up their unjust methods of getting the money they give so lavishly. But God has spoken, and the days are not far distant when “the mighty man shall cry there bitterly;” and “neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in the day of the Lord’s wrath.” Zeph. 1:14–18. Then those who now carry their heads so haughtily and boast of their wealth will fling these idols away and call upon the rocks and mountains to fall on them and hide them from the face of God, and from the wrath of the Lamb, “for the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?” Isa. 2:19–21; Rev. 6:14–17.