By Estred Clemens Miller

IT WAS a Sunday afternoon, December 23, 1934, the day before Christmas Eve. Earlier in the day the children and I had discussed where to go to hear Christmas carols sung the loveliest. We did not seem to agree on any one church; so I finally told them, if they wanted to go to a place where they would feel close to heaven, I knew of no better place than Hull House, in the heart of Chicago. So it was decided to attend the Christmas program at Hull House at four o’clock that afternoon.

I had been there a year or two before, and had been wonderfully inspired by their portrayal of the story of the Christ Child by means of living pictures. Some of the children have never been there, and I felt that I should love to see it again.

It was a dark and gloomy day. The air was raw and chilly and a mist hung over the city. Marie, my daughter’s friend, was to call for us in her car; but at the appointed time, she arrived and informed us that something had gone wrong with the car, and that she was taking it to the garage to be repaired. I said, “Very well, we will take the ‘L’ and meet her at Hull House.”

On the way to the “L” we changed our minds and took the trolley, where we could transfer, and not have so many blocks to walk. The trolley was so slow. There was a constant stream of people coming and going at every stop.

It was getting dark already and I feared we would be late for the program. We had been on the trolley for nearly an hour, when I noticed a man sitting on the opposite side of the car, slightly in back of me.

My first thought was, “There is a man who is very, very poor.”

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