I remember someone knocking on our back door in the mid 1930s and asking if we could give him something to eat. Our cook gave him a sandwich of some sort, probably peanut butter.
We had hobos in our little town. Our neighbor fed them.
During the war we lived not too far from a branch of Walter Reed Hospital at Forest Glen, MD. On weekends, as a preteen, I used to bike down and play cards with the wounded soldiers. They seemed to enjoy the company. We plowed and planted an acre as a “victory garden,” raised 500 baby chicks a year for food, built a barn, and bought a milk cow. There’s a good deal of work to do for a kid on a farm.