In the small hut of the peasant there is as little chance to escape close and tainting contact as in the coops and dens of the North End of proud Boston.

In the midst of oceans of land, floods of sunshine and gulfs of verdure, the farmer lives in two or three small rooms.

Poverty's eternal cordon is ever round the poor.
"Ma, why didn't you sleep with Pap last night ?" asked Bob, the seven-year-old, when he saw she was awake at last.

She flushed a dull red.
"You hush, will yeh?
Because--I--it was too warm--and there was a storm comin'.

You never mind askin' such questions.