PATHOS AND POVERTY
Dorothy roused the next morning with a sense of great relief after the
strenuous hours of the previous day. At last they were beginning to
accomplish something in the way of straightening out Aunt Winnie's
complicated money matters. It was a decided rest to turn her thoughts to
the poor boy who had spent a little time in their kitchenette--the boy
who just ate what was offered him, and grinned good-naturedly at the
family.
He had evidently considered them all a part of the day's routine, and
accepted the food, and the warmth, and kindness with a hardened
indifference that made Dorothy curious. He had grudgingly given Dorothy
his street and house number. He was so flint-like, and skeptical about
rich people helping poor people, his young life had had such varied
experience with the settlement workers, that he plainly did not wish to
see more of his hostess.
It was an easy matter for Dorothy to just smile and declare she was
"going out." Tavia was curled up in numerous pillows, surrounded by
magazines and boxes of candy, and the boys were going skating. City ice
did not "keep" as did the ice in the country, and the only way to enjoy
it while it lasted, as Ned explained, was to spend every moment skating
madly.
Dorothy read the address, Rivington Street, and wondered as she started
forth what this, her first real glimpse into the life of New York City's
poor, would reveal. She was a bit tremulous, and anxious to reach the
place.
"Where is this number, little boy?" she inquired, of a street urchin.
"Over there," responded a voice buried in the depths of a turned-up
collar. "I know you," it said impudently. One glance into the large,
heavily-lashed eyes made Dorothy smiled. Here was the very same thin boy
upon whom she was going to call.
"Is your mother at home?" she asked.
"Sure," he replied, "so's father." Then he laughed impishly.
"And have you brothers and sisters, too?" said Dorothy.
"Sure." He looked Dorothy over carefully, decided she could keep a
secret, and coming close to her he whispered: "We got the mostest big
family in de street; nobody's got as many childrens as we got!" Then he
stood back proudly.
"I want to see them all," coaxed Dorothy. She hesitated about entering
the tenement to which the thin boy led her. It was tall and dirty and a
series of odors, unknown to Dorothy's well-brought-up nose, rushed to
meet them as the hall door was pushed open. The fire escapes covering the
front of the house were used for back yards--ash heaps and garbage,
bedding and washes, all hung suspended, threatening to topple over on the
heads of the passersby, and the long, dark hall they entered was also
littered with garbage cans, and an accumulation of dirty rags and papers
and children.
Such frowsy-headed, unkempt, ragged little babies! Dorothy's heart went
out to them all--she wanted to take each one and wash the little face,
and smooth the suspicious, sullen brows. The advent of a well-dressed
visitor into the main hall meant the opening of many doors and a
wonderfully frank assortment of remarks as to whom the visitor might be.
Little Tommy, the thin boy, glad of the opportunity to "show off" grandly
led Dorothy up the stairs, making the most of the trip.
"The other day when I was skatin' with you in Central Park," flippantly
fell from Tommy's lips, loud enough for the words to enter bombastically
through the open doors, "I come home and said to the family, I sez,--"
but what Tommy had said to the family never was known, because the
remainder of Tommy's family having heard in advance of Tommy's coming,
rushed pell-mell to meet them, and with various smudgy fingers stuck into
all sizes of mouths, they stared, some through the railings, some over
the railing, more from the top step--the "mostest biggest family"
exhibited no tendency to hang back.
"Come in out of that, you little ones," said a soft, motherly voice, that
sounded clear and sweet in the midst of the tumult of the tenement house,
and Dorothy looked quickly in the direction from whence it came and
beheld Tommy's mother. She was small and dark, and in garments of fashion
would have been dainty. She seemed little older than Tommy, who was nine,
and life in the poorest section of the city, trying to bring up a large
family in three rooms, had left no tragic marks on her smooth brow, and
when she smiled, she dimpled. Dorothy smiled back instantly, the
revelation of this mother was so unexpectedly different from anything
Dorothy had imagined.
"They _will_ run out in the hall," the mother explained, apologetically,
"and they're only half-dressed, and it's so cold that they'll all be down
with sore throats, if they don't mind me. Now come inside, every one of
you!" But not one of the children moved an inch until Dorothy reached the
top landing, then they all backed into the room, which at a glance
Dorothy was unable at first to name. There was a cot in one corner, a
stove, a large table, and sink in another, and one grand easy chair near
a window. Regular chairs there were none, but boxes aplenty, and opening
from this kitchen-bedroom-living-room was an uncarpeted, evil-looking
room, and in the doorway a giant of a man stood, looking in bleary-eyed
bewilderment at Dorothy.
"You'll get your rent when I get my pay," he said, with an ill-natured
leer. "So he's sending you around now? Afraid to come himself after the
scare I gave him the last time? D'ye remember the scare I gave him
Nellie?" he turned to the little woman.
With a curious love and pride in this great, helpless giant, his wife
straightened his necktie, that hung limply about the neck of his blue
flannel shirt, and patting his hand said, caressingly:
"Now stop your foolin', she's not from the rent-man, she's a friend of
our Tommy's,--the lady that went skatin' with Tommy in the Park; don't
you know, James?"
James straightened himself against the panels of the door, and stared
down at Dorothy, but his first idea that she was after his week's pay was
evident in his manner.
"You wouldn't of got it if you did come for it," he declared, proudly,
"'cause it ain't so far behind that you could make me pay it."
"It's only when he's gettin' over a sleepless night," explained Tommy's
mother, pathetically, "that he worries so. When he's well," she whispered
to Dorothy, "he don't worry about nothin'; but when his money's all gone
and he ain't well, the way he frets about me and the children is
somethin' awful!" She looked at her husband with wonderful pride and
pleasure in possessing so complicated a man.
Dorothy wondered, in a dazed way, what happened when the entire family
wished to sit down at the same time. She could count just four suitable
seating places, and there were nine members of the family. The smallest
member, a wan, blue-lipped baby in arms, had a look on its face of a wise
old man.
How and where to begin to help, Dorothy could not think. That the baby
was almost starved for proper nourishment and should at once be taken
care of, Dorothy realized. Yet such an air of cheerfulness pervaded the
whole family, it was hard to believe that any of them was starving. The
cheerful poor! Dorothy's heart beat high with hope.
The head of the family made his way to the door opening into the main
hall, and taking his hat from a hook, pulled it over his eyes and put his
hand on the door knob. The little wife, forgetting all else--that Dorothy
was looking on, that her baby was crying, and that something was boiling
over on the stove--threw herself into the giant's arms.
"Don't go out, James!" she cried, pitifully, "don't go away in the cold.
You won't, dearie; I know you won't! Take off your hat, there's a good
man. Don't go, there's no work now." As the man opened the door, "don't
you know how we love you, James? Stay home to-night, dearie, and rest for
to-morrow."
"I'm just goin' down to the steps," replied the man, releasing the
woman's arms from about his neck, "I'll be up in a jiffy. I didn't say I
was goin' out. Who heard me say a word about goin' out?" he appealed to
the numerous children playing about.
"You don't have to," said Tommy, bravely trying to keep his lips from
quivering, "you put on a hat; didn't you? And you opened the door; didn't
you?" and with such proof positive Tommy stood facing his father, but his
lips would quiver in spite of biting them hard with his teeth.
"I'm just goin' down for a breath of air," he explained, as his wife
clung desperately to his arm, "just to get the sleep out o' me eyes, and
I'll run into the grocer's, and come back with--cakes!" he ended,
triumphantly.
Dorothy felt awkward and intrusive. This was a family scene that had
grown wearisome to the children, who took little interest in it, and the
mother of the brood at last fell away, and allowed the man to leave the
room. Then Dorothy saw the tragedy of the little woman's life! Glistening
tears fell thick and fast, and she hugged her baby tightly to her breast,
murmuring softly in its little ears, oblivious to her surroundings.
"I'll buy you food," said Dorothy, the weary voice of the woman bringing
tears to her eyes. "Tommy will come with me and we'll buy everything you
need."
Tommy rushed for his hat, and together they started down the stairs.
Reaching the steps, Dorothy looked about for some sign of Tommy's father,
but he must have been seated on another porch for the breath of air he
was after; the only thing on the front steps was Tommy's yellow dog.
"Did you see my father?" said the boy to the dog. The dog jumped about
madly, licking Tommy's face and hands and barking short, joyful doggie
greetings. "He's seen him, all right," said Tommy.
"Did he go to the grocer's?" he asked of the dog. In answer the dog's
ears and tail drooped sadly, and he licked Tommy's hand with less
joyfulness.
"No," said little Tommy, "he ain't gone to the grocer's, he's always
looking for work now, he says."
"I'll see if I can bring him back," volunteered Dorothy.
The evening crowd on Rivington Street was pouring out of the doorways,
bitter cold did not seem to prevent social gatherings on the corners, and
the small shops were filled to overflowing with loungers. A mission
meeting was in progress on one of the corners, as Dorothy hurried on, and
a sweet, girlish voice was exhorting the shivering crowd to repent and
mend their ways.