Thursday, January 24, 1889
The country schoolhouse is a delightful haven of rest to the footsore and weary pilgrims vulgarly termed “bums.” No matter how inclement the weather may be, nor how inhospitably the housewives may treat their back-door callers, when the shades of night are falling the genius tramp knows where he can pass the night in comfort; where he can hang his hat on a peg, toast his feet by the fire and smoke his pipe in peace. “Love laughs at locksmiths,” and so does the bum at the primitive contrivance, called a lock, on the schoolhouse door. To his untutored mind the four walls of a schoolhouse enclose a luxurious boudoir, and the floor is so soft as a bed of eider down. The schoolhouse in Walter Cox’s neighborhood has been a favorite resort for tramps of late, and a short time since a new lock was placed on the door, but to no purpose. A party of young folks in passing the building one night recently saw a light within, and on looking through a window they beheld nine big lazy bums lounging around the stove, talking, smoking and having a good sociable time in their peculiar way. A newspaper and six feet of floor is as good a bed as the tramp cares for, and he usually gets it.