“He looked surprised at the first part of my sentence. I think he knew about the last of it. Then he said, ‘Have the children asked for a park?’
“‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘they haven’t.’
“‘Then why give it to them?’ he inquired, mildly.
“‘Does a good father always wait to have his children demand a necessity before he offers it?’ I replied.
“He smiled, and began to play with the paper-knife again.
“‘The children have nowhere to go, sir,’ I went on. ‘The mothers drive them from the dirty houses, the sailors drive them from the wharves, the truck-men drive them from the streets.’
“‘A park might be a good thing,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but there is no money in the treasury.’
“I felt myself growing hot. ‘No money in the treasury, sir, and you can put up a magnificent building like this? Some of this money has been taken from the children.’
“He said the city had its dignity to maintain.
“‘But there is charity, sir, as well as dignity.’