of his, for the children in the neighborhood, and I asked him to take
me in to see them. So, he opened a door, and there sat the little
creatures on low benches;--some black as "Topsy;" some white as you
are; some barefoot; some with shoes; some so small that their little
feet didn't touch the floor from the low benches; some sickly looking
and pallid; some rosy and bright; but all with clean hands and clean
faces.
At a signal from the lady teacher, they all began to sing, "A brighter
day will dawn to-morrow." I had to cry. I couldn't help it.
Some of the children had such pure, sweet faces, that as they sat there
singing, with their soft eyes looking upwards, I felt as if I had
almost rather they would die there, than go home through those dreadful
streets, into those wretched cellars, and hear the shocking words I had
heard, as I passed along through them.
I was so glad to learn from Mr. Pease, that some of these little
children, who had no parents, lived there in the house with him, and
that he kept the others in the _day time_, giving them their dinners at
noon. Poor, little innocent children! I looked at one little face after
another, and I _couldn't make it right_ that they should have to live
where they can't help sinning,--where they are _taught_ to be
wicked,--where they are whipped and beaten for _not_ being
wicked,--because rich people love silks and jewels too well, to give
Mr. Pease money to find them bread and shelter, and take them away.
Oh, if the rich ladies and gentlemen who live in fine houses, had only
seen those poor children as _I_ did, and heard their sweet voices, I
can't believe that they would suffer them to remain in such a sinful
and wretched condition. Some of them _have_ sent money, which has
helped Mr. Pease to buy a place in the country, where he means to carry
all the children he can get, away from that vile neighborhood.
Is not that nice? How I should like to see them running over the
fields, when work is done; tumbling about under the trees, growing
brown and rosy and healthy; listening, not to curses and oaths, but to
the warble of some dear little bird, praising God in his own sweet way,
for _his_ share of light and air and sunshine!
And now, as you sit in your happy homes, where you hear only kind,
good, pure words,--where you never tremble at your father's footfall,
or creep under the bed _for fear of your own mother_,--where you are
never hungry, or thirsty, or cold,--where you meet only loving smiles,
and go to sleep with the hand of blessing on your bright young
head,--oh, remember the poor little outcast ones still forced to live
at the Five Points; and if you cannot give them money to help them
away, fold your hands and pray God every night to "keep them from the
evil that is in the world."
HATTY'S MISTAKE.
"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"--and little Hatty tossed off
her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who
sat making the baby's new red frock,--"I am glad it is Saturday; I
don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look
into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time,
into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.
Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and
Hatty said _she_ should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of
"_helping_" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron
round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of
paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty
rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see
how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie
need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with
stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then
she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her
pocket: then she looked up and said,
"Bridget! I wish I were _you_; I should have such a good time tasting
the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go
out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."
Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled
shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her
draw a great long sigh.
"What is the matter, Bridget?" said Hatty. "Is your crust heavy?"
"No," said Bridget,--"but my _heart is_. I was thinking how I wished I
knew how to read and write. There's Patrick, my brother, way over in
Ireland--the last time I saw him I wasn't taller than that butter
firkin. Father and mother are dead, and Pat is just the pulse of my
heart, Hatty! Well, when he writes me a letter, it's me that can't for
the life of me read a word of it; and if I get Honora Donahue to read
it, I'm not sure whether she gets the right sense of it; and then a
body wants to read a letter more than once, you know; and so I take it
up, my darlin', and turn it over and over, and it's nothing but Greek
and Latin to poor Bridget. And so many's the time, Hatty, I've cried
hours over Pat's letters, for reason of that. Then I can't answer
them--cause you know I can't write--and in course I don't want to turn
my heart inside out for anybody else to write it to Pat for me; and so
you see, my darlin', it's a bother all round entirely,"--and Bridget
shut to the oven door, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her check
apron.
Hatty was a very warm-hearted little girl, and she couldn't bear to see
Bridget cry, so she threw down the bit of paste in her hand; then
starting to her feet, as if a sudden thought had struck her, ran
quickly up stairs into the parlor, where her mother was sitting,
talking with two ladies.
Hatty forgot that her face, and hands, and check apron, and even her
curls, were all over flour, when she burst into the room, saying,
"Oh, Mamma!--Bridget and I have been talking, and Bridget--(_great big_
Bridget!)--don't know how to read and write! and she has nobody to love
but Pat--and Pat is in Ireland; and when he writes her a letter she
can't read it, and she can't answer him, because she don't know how to
write; and she hasn't seen Pat since--since he was as little as a
butter firkin--and she is so unhappy--and, Mamma, mayn't I have an
A-B-C book, and teach Bridget how to read and how to write?" And little
Hatty stopped--not because she had no more to say, but because she was
out of breath.
Hatty's mamma smiled, and said, "There was a little girl just your
size, in here about an hour ago, who 'didn't see the use of going to
school, and wished she might never look into another book so long as
she lived.' Have you seen anything of her?"
[Illustration: HATTY'S MISTAKE.]
Hatty blushed and said, "Oh, Mamma, I never will be so foolish again. I
see now how bad it is not to learn when one is a little girl."
Well, the A-B-C book was bought, and very funny it was to see little
Miss Hatty looking so wise from under her curls, and pointing out the
letters to Bridget with a long knitting needle. It was very slow work,
to be sure; but then Hatty was patient, for she had a good, kind heart;
and how proud she was when Bridget was able to read Pat's letters! and
prouder yet when she learned to answer them! and you may be sure that
Hatty never was heard to say again that "she didn't see _the use of
going to school_."
MIN-YUNG.
Did you ever see a China-man? I used to know one. His head was quite
shaved, except a long braid, which hung down below his waist behind. I
suppose it wasn't all his own hair; but that's none of my business. He
had as much right to tie on a false tail, if he liked, as the gentlemen
in Broadway have to wear false whiskers, and false moustaches.
Perched on the top of his head was a little skull-cap, just about big
enough to fit your little baby brother. On his feet were wooden shoes,
curled up at the toes like the end of an Indian canoe. He also wore
blue and white stockings, and a blue Canton-crape wrapper.
Min-Yung (that was his name) had not been a great while in the United
States. He was coaxed away from China, with many others of his
countrymen, by some Americans, who imagined that they could make money
by exhibiting them over here, in their different Chinese dresses, and
making them play tricks, like so many monkeys. When they got them here,
they found "it didn't pay"; that is, people didn't care to give money
to go to see them. So they ran off, and left the poor Chinese, without
a cent, to take care of themselves in a strange country. Was not that
very mean?
Poor Min-Yung had pawned one of his dresses after another to pay for
things he needed, till they were all gone, and he looked quite worn out
and miserable. He couldn't speak but a word or two of our language, and
I couldn't speak Chinese; but I saw that he was sick and unhappy. So I
shook hands with him, and pointed to his forehead, and looked as
pitiful as I knew how; and then he nodded his head, and pulled up his
sleeve, that I might feel his pulse, and leaned his head on one side,
to show me how forlorn and weary he felt.
I thought that, perhaps, he might be faint, and need something to eat,
or drink; so I said "_Tea?_" for I knew that a China-man would be sure
to understand that word.
You should have seen what a horrid grimace he made, and how he lifted
up both his hands, as if to wave off an imaginary cup of tea! I always
thought that the tea sent over to this country from China was a
miserable humbug; so poor Min-Yung's horror at being asked to drink a
cup of it, quite upset me, and I laughed immoderately. Min-Yung
laughed, too; and understood by the way I shook my fore-finger at him,
just as well as if I had said, "You know very well, my dear Min-Yung,
that your countrymen make us swallow and pay for any sort of a mess
which they choose to baptize by the name of 'tea.'"
However, Min-Yung ate some nice jelly, without being poisoned, and
pocketed some money which was given him by a gentleman present, and
then he dropped on one knee very gracefully, and kissed first the
gentleman's hand, and then mine; and his little huckleberry eyes
twinkled, as much as to say, "You see, I'm very grateful."
With good, careful nursing, Min-Yung got better. I think it made him
almost well to speak kindly to him, for he had a good, affectionate
heart. When he got quite well and strong, he wanted to "be my servant."
I liked Min-Yung, but I had nothing for him to do; beside, I like to be
my own servant. It would make me as nervous as a cat in a china closet,
to have anybody always standing behind my chair. So, the gentleman who
gave him the money, said he was going to California soon, and would
like to have Min-Yung go with him, to wait upon him. Wasn't that kind?
It did not take the poor China-man long to pack his trunk, for the very
good reason that he had nothing to put in it. So, in less than a week's
time, his wooden shoes walked on board the ship "Dolphin," and away he
went to California, and I didn't hear of him again for many a long day.
It seems that after his master had got through all his business in
California, he asked Min-Yung if he would like to go back to his own
country and see his old father and mother, and his sisters, with the
twinkling little feet;--and Min-Yung said yes. So the gentleman gave
him some money, and he started off, in his little skull cap, for the
"Celestial City."
I often used to think of him, and wonder if he found his old father and
mother alive; and if they were glad to see him; and often, when I
turned out a cup of tea, I laughed aloud to think of poor Min-Yung's
horrid grimace, when I offered _him_ some.
One day a huge box came for me, directed "United States of America." I
couldn't imagine what was in it. I thought of mummies, and stuffed
monkeys, and "infernal machines;" and walked round the box at a
respectful distance, with one eye on the door.
By and by the lid was knocked off; and now, what do you think I found
in it?--a chest of "tea;" none of your sham doses, but tea that a
Chinese Mandarin wouldn't have turned up his celestial nose at, and a
lovely little Chinese work-box, and a pretty scarlet, Canton-crape
scarf, all from that comical, good, affectionate Min-Yung.
Won't you and I call on him, when we go to China?
TOM, THE TAILOR.
Tell you another story, Charley? Bless your blue eyes, how many stories
high do you suppose I am?
Who made that jacket for you, hey?
"A tailor."
Do you like to see a _man_ sewing, Charley? I don't. I don't believe
that their great muscular arms were intended to wield a needle,
especially when so many feminine fingers are forced to be idle for want
of employment; so I never like to see a tailor.--Oh, yes, I do, too. I
came very near forgetting Tom Willcut.
Who was _he_? I don't know, any more than you do. The first time I saw
him, was in an old tumble-down building, where the wind played hide and
go seek through the timbers; and where more men, women, dogs and
children were huddled together, than four walls of the like size ever
held before.
In one of the smallest of these rooms, I first saw Tom; sitting, with a
white cotton cap upon his head, cross-legged on the floor, stitching
away by the dim light of a tallow candle. A line stretched across the
room, on which hung some coarse pea-jackets and trousers which he had
finished, while at his side stood a rough table, with the remains of
some supper, and two unwashed cups and saucers.
_Two_ cups and saucers, thought I: pray, who shares this little room
with that poor, pale tailor?
Ah, I see! In yonder bed, which I had not noticed, lies a woman, and on
her breast a little wee baby. Well may Tom sit drawing out his thread,
hour after hour, by that dim candle.
1 coughed a little bit. Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, looked up,
and invited me in. That was just what I wanted, you know. Then, he
dusted off a chair with the tail of his coat, and I sat down.
"Is that your baby?" said I.
"It is _ours_," said he, looking over, with a proud smile, at his wife.
I liked Tom from that very minute. Of course, his wife wanted to own
half of such a nice little baby--and the first one, too--and it was
very gallant of tailor Tom, to say "_ours_," instead of "mine:" it
showed he had a soul above buttons. Ask your mother if it didn't.
Then I asked Tom if he got good pay for making those jackets. He
clipped off his thread with his great shears, and, shaking his head,
said, "My boss is a Jew, Missis."
What did he mean by that? Why, "boss" means master, and Jew, I am sorry
to say, is but another name for a person who gets all the work he can
out of poor people, and pays them as little for it as possible.
Tom's answer made me feel very bad,--he said it in such a quiet,
uncomplaining way, as if, hard as it was, he had quite made up his mind
to it, for the sake of that new baby and its mother.
I wanted to jump right up and take him by the hand, and say, "Tom, you
are a hero!" but, I dare say he wouldn't have understood that. Your
father, Charley, would probably call him a "philosopher," but you and
I, who can't afford to use up the dictionary that way, will say he is a
clever, good-hearted fellow.
When Tom was first married, he had a little shop of his own, and was
"quite before-hand," as he called it; but one unlucky night it caught
on fire, and burned up all his coats, and trousers, and jackets, and
all the stuff he had laid in to make them of; and then his wife was
taken sick; and, what with doctoring, and one trouble and another,
although poor Tom was honest, temperate and industrious, he came down
to that poor, miserable little room, after all.
But Tom was not a man to whine about his bad luck. No; he looked at
that new baby, and made his fingers fly faster than ever, and wore a
cheerful smile for his sick wife, beside. That's why I called him "a
hero;" for, Charley, anybody can be courageous and endure a great deal
when all the world are looking on and clapping their hands, and
admiring them; but it is another thing, in an obscure corner, without
food, without friends, without hope, to struggle--struggle--struggle
on, fighting off Temptation, fighting off grim Want, day after day,
with none to say, "God speed you."
That's why I said the poor tailor had a good, _brave_ heart; that's why
I honored him; that's why I prayed God a brighter day might dawn for
him.
Did it? Yes! I tell you, Charley, _never despair!_ no matter how dark
the cloud is overhead, work on, and look up; the sun will shine
through, by and by;--it did for poor Tom.
One day a gentleman called to see him, and asked him to go with him and
look at some cloth for making jackets. Tom thought it was very odd;--he
didn't remember that anybody ever asked his opinion before;--he didn't
know what to make of it. However, he dropped his shears, pulled off his
cotton cap, kissed his little baby, and followed the gentleman.
They went along through a great many streets, till they came to the
business part of the town. The gentleman opened the door of a small
shop, and Tom followed him in. There were cloths of all kinds on the
shelves, and the gentleman took some down and asked Tom if they were
the right sort for such jackets as he had been making; and Tom said it
was "prime cloth."
And then the gentleman showed him a little room, divided off at the end
of the shop, and asked Tom if it was light enough to work in, and Tom
said it could not be better; and then the gentleman clapped him on the
shoulder, and told him to go to work in it as soon as he pleased, for
these were his goods, and that was his shop!
Poor Tom looked as if he were dreaming. He tried to speak two or three
times, but failed. Then, great tears dropped over his cheeks, and he
said, "God bless you, sir, but I don't know what to say."
"I'm very glad of it," said the gentleman, smiling; "because I don't
want you to say anything; only go home and bring your wife and baby,
because there is a nice parlor and bed-room overhead, and I want to see
how they look in it."
Well, the amount of it was, that the poor tailor's wife was as crazy as
the tailor himself; the baby crowed, and the little terrier dog barked;
and, altogether, they had a _moving_ time of it, that day.
I can't tell you the kind gentleman's name, because he never does a
charity to have it published; but, sure I am, the recording angel has
written it in the "Book of Life."
BETSEY'S DREAM.
It was very weary, lying there so long. Betsey had counted all the
squares, and three-cornered pieces, and circles, in the patch-work
quilt upon her bed; she knew there were six more red than green ones,
and that one of the circles was pieced seven times.
Yes, poor lame Betsey was very tired; not that she was unused to lying
there, day after day, while her mother went out washing; but, somehow,
_this_ day had seemed longer and more tedious than any which had gone
before. To be sure she had last year's almanac, and a torn newspaper,
but she knew them both by heart. Betsey wished she "only had a little
book," but she knew mother couldn't buy books, when she had not money
enough for bread; so she twisted and turned, and rubbed her lame foot,
and lay and looked at the mantel with its pewter lamp, and the shelf
with its two earthen bowls, and its wooden spoons and platters, and the
bench with her mother's wash tub on it and a square of brown soap, and
the brown jug full of starch, and the old worn-out broom and mop.
Betsey could have seen them just as well had her eyes been shut, she
had looked at them so many times.
Did I tell you Betsey was "alone?" Oh no--there were four or five
families in the some entry. There was Mrs. O'Flanigan with her six
red-headed, quarrelsome children and a drunken husband, who beat her
everyday till she screamed with pain; and then the six little Flanigans
all screamed, too, till Betsey would put her fingers in her ears to
shut out the dreadful sounds.
Then, there was Mrs. Doherty, who had twin babies and one room, and
took boarders in the corners. Then, there was black Dinah, who got her
living by scraping the gutters, and came home every night with a great
tow-cloth bag upon her back, and emptied the old bones and rugs and
papers on the floor of her room, and kept a broom handle to whip the
little Flanigans, who ran in to steal them, when she went to the pump
in the alley to get a drink of water.
Then, there was little Pat Rourke, who lived up the alley, and kept a
little black dog named Pompey. When Pat didn't know what else to do, he
would open Betsey's door, and put the dog in to worry her cat, and
enjoy Betsey's fright.
Pompey would chase Pussy all round the room, and then Pussy would spit
at him, and hump up her back and hide behind the wash-tub; and then
Pompey would turn over the wash-tub, and seize Pussy by the neck; and
then her eyes would turn all green; and then Betsey would scream and
beg Pat to drive Pompey off; and then Pat would point to her lame foot
and say, "Let's see you do it _yourself_, honey;" and then Betsey would
hide her face under the coverlid and cry; and then Pat would run off,
leaving the door wide open, and the cold air blowing right upon the
bed. Yes, Betsey had all this to amuse her, besides the torn newspaper
and the old almanac.
But why _didn't_ her mother come home?--that was the question. It must
be late in the afternoon;--Betsey knew _that_, for the sun had crept
round to the west window long since. They must have a great wash to do
up at the big house. Betsey hoped the lady wouldn't go out to ride in
her carriage, and forget, as she sometimes did, to pay her mother; and
she hoped the cook would give her some cold tea to warm for their
supper, and perhaps a bit of meat, or some potatoes. The lady herself
never gave Betsey's mother anything, except an old gauze ball dress "to
make over for her little girl," which Betsey's mother sold for
twenty-five cents, to buy some tea.
And then Betsey wondered if rich people were always born without
hearts, and if her foot would _always_ be lame, and she should never be
able to help her mother, but must always be a burden; and then she
thought it would be better if she died; and then she thought _not_,
because when her mother came home at night ever so weary, she
remembered that she always kissed her cheek, and called her "a little
darling," and divided her piece of bread with her, and smiled just as
sweetly as if she hadn't worked ever since the sun rose, for a mere
penny.
Then Betsey was so weary that she fell asleep, and dreamed she was an
angel. She was not lame any longer; she had bright wings, and a pure
white robe, and a golden harp. There was no misery there, and night and
day she sang, "Worthy, worthy, worthy the Lamb!" and thousands of
bright winged angels echoed it back; and then--poor little Betsey woke,
crying because it was only a dream, and found herself again in the
little old room all alone,--all but Pussy, who was rubbing her lank
sides against the bed post and the wicker chair, and looking wistfully
up into Betsey's face, as much as to say, aint you _very_ hungry,
Betsey?
* * *
"Rein up--rein up! Stop your horses, I say! It's no use--she's down."
"Move your omnibus,"--"Get out of the way, there,"--"Go ahead"--"What
do you block up the street, for?"--"What's to pay?"--"Who's killed?"
"Only a beggar woman," said the omnibus driver, gathering up his reins;
"she slipped on the wet pavements, yonder, and the horses went over
her, and killed her. Can't be helped, you know,--there's enough beggars
left--everybody knows _that_," and he whipped up his horses, and drove
on.
Then a police-man picked up Betsey's dead mother and carried her to the
watch house; while some little Irish boys ran off with her basket and
ate up Betsey's supper.
There was nobody to take care of lame Betsey, so she was carried to the
poor-house. It didn't matter much to her, when she found her mother was
dead, where they took her. She was used to seeing misery; so the groans
of the poor creatures on the hospital cots about her was nothing new.
But she grew very weak, day by day, and couldn't eat the food they
brought her; and one morning the old nurse found her lying with her
little cheek in her hand, and a smile upon her face. Betsey's dream had
come true: she was an angel!
SCOTT FARM.
What a blessed thing it is to have a good grandmother! Sophy had one.
Sophy loved to go and see her.