"The old man leaned upon his spade and looked out across the black peat fields at the lowering skies.

'What is it that I'm wantun ?' he said; then in a deep plaintive tone he continued, more to himself than to me, 'All our brave bhoys and dear gurrls is away an' over the says, an' the agent has taken the pig off me, an' the wet has spiled the praties, an' I'm an owld man, _an' I want the Day av Judgment_.'" The Day of Judgment! More than he want it.

From all the land rises the hunger wail, from Ghetto and countryside, from prison and casual ward, from asylum and workhouse--the cry of the people who have not enough to eat.

Millions of people, men, women, children, little babes, the blind, the deaf, the halt, the sick, vagabonds and toilers, prisoners and paupers, the people of Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales, who have not enough to eat.

And this, in face of the fact that five men can produce bread for a thousand; that one workman can produce cotton cloth for 250 people, woollens for 300, and boots and shoes for 1000.