Mother was usually ready with a sandwich for the hobos who came up to our house from the nearby railroad tracks. Daddy sometimes took the hoboes up on their offer to mow the grass in return. "See the Hobo's own story below the next picture!"

To Mother’s displeasure, my sister Georgia would listen to the hobos tell their stories—they had some good ones like the one a hobo told her of trying to hop off a fast freight with his buddy before the train reached the security yard. He related, “My foot came short of the step, and fell, and, still clinging to the handle-bar, I was dragged several yards before I let go. And there I lay for several minutes shaken, while the train passed swiftly on into the darkness . . . At length I attempted to climb to my feet, and only then to discover that my right foot had been cut off just above the ankle. But it was worse for my buddy, Joe; he was sucked under the train and severed completely at the waist. I crawled over to his top half and asked if there was anything I could do for him. I’ll always remember his final words. He said, “Please hand me my ass so I can take one last shit.”

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