I can heart the trumpet call. It calling—ME!
I can hear the cries of women and children trodden down by the brute heel of the invaders. I can hear the kings blaspheme as their thrones totter and fail.
Calling—calling to—ME!
I can hear the voice of humanity who speaks? Who tells me to turn a deaf ear? Who tells me I am a coward?
I hear you calling and a fool? Think you I have no marmory within me? Think you I am weal-ung or knave? Think you I have neither a human heart nor soul—nor even a glimmer of reason within me?
Mother of men.
Unfortunate Youth Has Real Hard Luck Story
ELD up and robbed of all his clothing and then arrested himself as a burglar was the experience of a certain youth of the capital recently.
Wraped in a woolen blanket, his feet bare and his knees trembling, he told detectives at police headquarters, where he was held on a charge of breaking and entering in the night time, that two men attacked him.
Wrobbed him of his money and jewelry and then stripped him of all his clothes, save an undershirt, from which the bandits took pains to tear off the buttons.
His face bespattered with mud, the multi-colored blanket draped in Indian fashion on his slender frame and handcuffed lest he should protest violently against a "spin" in the chilly morning air, he was seated in the police station.  After being taken to the first precinct station, where he managed, between fits of sneezing and coughing, to tell the story of his misfortune. 