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The day book. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, May 24, 1915, NOON EDITION, Image 30

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1915-05-24/ed-1/seq-30/

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NOBODY CARES ABOUT JIMMY WHO HASN'T
ANY "FADDER OR MUDDER" OR HOME
BYJANEWHITAKER
Last November I first met Jimmy
and told you of him, Jimmy whose
last name is Irish ancT-whose eyes are
Irish blue, Jimmy who is now 19,
whose "fadder and mudder" are long
since dead. Jimmy with the happy-go-lucky
disposition and the bravado
that covers the sometimes ache of a
heart that is lonely and a little bitter
against destiny.
When I first met Jimmy he had
been arrested for sleeping in a barn.
I met him again on Saturday and
once more it was in the boys' court.
He had been arrested for the so-many-times
that I cannot remember
nor can Jimmy, and this time he was
charged with the larceny of a watch
which he said his pal had given to
him and which belonged to his pal's
grandmother. He had been discharg
ed and was in Judge Dolan's cham
bers talking' to Miss Pugate about a
"job."
He was just the sapie Jimmy with
the reckless indifference and the lit
tle ache in his voice, just the same
lad o' the wanderlust, and he grinned
and shook hands with me as we re
newed acquaintance.
"Where have you been, Jimmy?" 1
asked. "Jimmy" is a pet name I
have given him his real name is
James.
"Aw, I bin everywhere. I blew to
Milwaukee, but they wasn't nothin'
doin' there, so I comes back and I
gets nailed as soon as I gets here. De
coppers pinch me whenever dey sees
me. Me pal and me wuz took in last
.Toosday and we bin in jail ever since
"and we didn't do nothin'."
"Jimmy, Jimmy," I said, "why don't
you get work on some farm away
from the city? Don't you know you
will always be in trouble while you
stay here? And don't you know you
just must stop wandering from place
to place and settle down somewhere
if you are ever, ever going to amount
to anything?"
Jimmy looked surprised. I have
never lectured him before because I
know- he doesn't like to be lectured
and it doesn't help him any.
"I tried to get woik, but I just f)
can't." Then he grinned at his paL
"I made up a song about a guy like
me. I can't sing it f er you, me voice
is on de blink.'"
"Tell me the chorus of it, will
you?"
He told me.
This is it:
"On board the eastern train one cold
December day
Every station we passed we could
hear the people say:
'There goes that Boston burglar off
to Joliet for some crime or
other.'
Don't go 'round the streets at night
to break the law of man
You'll surely find yourself like me,
serving twenty-one years in
the penitentiary."
"You see, it's about a swell guy
that comes from Boston and wuz a
boiglar and got pinched and sent
down for 21 years. I often makes
'em up."
"Jimmy, Jimmy," I thought in my
heart, "you with the shabby clothes
and not a penny in your pocket, you
who may not eat again for several
days and who may sleep in an alley
or a barn, Jimmy, what is going to
become of you?
"What are we doing to our little
lads that civilization turns out aA)
product like you? What are we
thinking of that we ca.n talk to you,
listen to your bravado, read beneath
that bravado to the shelterless nights,
to the pangs of hunger, to the feeling
that the world is against you and you
are against the world, to the longing
unexpressed in yqur voice, but gleam
ing through your eyes for just as
jj

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