We never could make enough.

How I used to work carrying the bread around in my baker's cart! How often I got stuck in the gutters and in the snow! Sometimes some good soul, seeing me unable to get along, would give me a lift.

I began to work when I was ten and a half years old, and I have been at it ever since." And again, a few days later, as a poor woman carrying a heavy basket passed him in the street, he said to the companion of his walk: "I have had the blood spurt out of my arm carrying bread when I was a baker.

A lady asked me once for a hundred dollars to help her send her only son to college.

I answered her that my mother had four children and got along without begging, and that I would not exchange one year of those I spent working for several at college." Less than a month before his death he fell into conversation with a newsboy on the corner near the Paulist church in Fifty-ninth Street.
"It interested me very much," he said afterwards.