“WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?”
Berty rose next morning with the firm belief that her wish was to
be granted, though in what way she could not tell. She was not so
unreasonable as to expect the coveted pleasure to fall from the sky
in answer to her prayers, however; and so she could not help feeling
some curiosity about the means by which it was to come to her. Was
it to be given her, or was she to be helped to earn it? The first
plan seemed very unlikely, for she knew no one who had both the means
and the will to do so much for her; and the second seemed, at first
thought, more unlikely still, but she was fain to settle upon it at
last, as being the more probable of the two. Yes: she would be very
diligent in her work; and who knew but she might find something very
valuable in the gutter, or do some great service to the people at
the crossing, and so get money enough.
But how much money would it take, was another question, and a very
puzzling question to poor Bertha, whose acquaintance with the prices
current was very slight indeed. In this emergency she applied once
more to Mrs. Flanagan. “Biddy, how much does a Christmas tree cost?
Do you know?”
“A Christmas tree! Faix, Berty, what a child ye are for axin’
questions’. Sure they don’t be havin’ such toys in ould Ireland; and
I niver bought one. Pounds and pounds, I suppose; but your Dutch
folks be talkin’ of thim so much, they’d be liker to know than I.”
“And how many cents is in a pound, Mrs. Flanagan?”
“How many cints? Sure, child, I niver reckoned. There’s betune four
and five dollars, I know; but I niver could remember rightly how
much, to a penny,—the money’s so bothersome in this counthry.”
“And there’s one hundred cents in a dollar, I know: Tim Daly told
me,” pursued Berty. “Pounds and pounds; and four hundred cents to a
pound. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Mrs. Flanagan, do you think I could ever
earn so much?”
“Hear till the child now! Is she crazy, d’ye think?” cried Biddy, in
amazement. “Sure, you’re niver thinkin’ of buyin’ a Christmas tree!
you, that haven’t shoes to yer feet, nor clothes to yer back, nor
food to yer stomach!”
Poor Berty! the good Irishwoman’s words fell upon her heart with a
heavier weight than even the “pounds and pounds”; but she would not
wait to hear more,—she _would_ not be talked out of her project at
the very beginning,—so she caught up her broom and her basket, and
scampered away as fast as her bare little feet could carry her.
Once safe round the corner, out of reach of Mrs. Flanagan’s
astonished gaze, Bertha began to walk slower, and to revolve again
in her mind that weary question of ways and means, which has puzzled
so many wiser heads than hers. It was so hard to settle what to do;
some adviser she must have; but who? She could not consult with her
little prime minister, Gottlieb, for the project would lose half
its charm if it were not to be a surprise to him. She thought of her
Dutch acquaintance; doubtless they would know all about it; but she
remembered Biddy’s amazement, and she had no mind to encounter a
second edition of that. No; she wanted no prudent old heads shaking
themselves so provokingly over her wild plan. What she wanted, after
all, was some one to sympathize rather than advise.
“The top o’ the morning to ye, Berty,” cried a pleasant, cheery
voice, breaking in upon her meditations; and her heart leapt
within her at the sound of the merry brogue, and the sight of the
round, rosy face of the little speaker. Here was just the adviser
she wanted. Tim Daly, her master in the rag-picker’s arithmetic,
her protector in all her street troubles,—honest, merry, wise,
kind-hearted, blundering Tim, who always looked upon the bright
side of everything, who always had a word of encouragement for
everybody,—who could be a better confidant than he?
So she turned upon the young Irishman a brighter glance of welcome
even than he was accustomed to get. “Oh, I _so_ glad to see you,
Tim!” said she. “You’re just the very one I wanted.”
“Well, it’s good to be welcome, any way,” said Tim, who cared more
for Berty’s smiles than he would have been willing to confess. “It’s
good to be welcome. An’ what were ye wanting of me, Berty?”
“I’ll tell you, Tim,” answered Berty, eagerly. “I’ve got such a
wonderful plan; and I can’t tell Gottlieb, you see, because it’s part
to be for him; and I want somebody to talk it over with; and you’re
better than any one.”
“Am I, though?” asked Tim, straightening himself up grandly. “You’re
the _broth_ of a boy, Berty.” Tim thought it very nice to be better
than any one to Berty, you see; and as for Berty herself, she
seemed quite contented to be called the “broth of a boy,” though it
certainly sounded very much as if Tim was a cannibal, and not a very
good judge of child-soup at that.
“Yes Tim,” said she, “you are,—because you’ve some sense, and you
won’t fly out at one like Mrs. Biddy, I know.”
“I’ll never fly out at you, Berty, that’s sure,” said Tim,
confidently.
“Well, then, you see, it’s just this:—There’s those poor
children,—Lieb, and Lina, and Rose. They were so little when we came
from the old country,—and Fritzy, he wasn’t born,—and none of them
ever saw a Christmas tree in all their lives;”—and Berty held her
breath here, as if she had made a very astonishing statement.
“No more have I,” said Tim; “but that’s nayther here nor there,
Berty. Go on.”
“Didn’t you?” said Berty, casting a pitying glance up at the merry
face beside her, and mentally fastening a present for Tim upon the
green branches of her imaginary tree. “Well, neither did they; and
Madame Hansmann, you see, has told them about it, and their heads
are full of it. I heard them the other night talking, and wishing,
and they said they could not have it because they had no father,
no mother,—nobody but Bert. And oh, Tim, I promised mother to do
_every_thing for those children; and I wish so much, so very much,
to do this. Oh, Tim, do you think I could? and will you help me?”
finished up poor Berty, in a choking voice.
“‘Deed an’ I will, Berty,” cried Tim, with an encouraging slap upon
Berty’s shoulder; “and ov course ye can do it. Sure, I’ve got fifty
cints that I was laying by for the winter shoes; but what’s shoes to
a Christmas tree? Sure, we’ll get it betune us, Berty. Don’t ye cry;
we’ll get it, sure as fate.”
This was rather more help than Berty had bargained for. She did not
at all like the notion of robbing Tim of his shoes; for, if the truth
must be told, she was much more tender of Tim’s feet than of her own.
“Oh no, Tim,” said she, earnestly; “I did not mean _that_. I don’t
want you to help me with money, for I mean to earn it all myself;
and I have prayed, and I know that the Christ-child (that’s Jesus,
you know) will help me. I’m going to look sharp in the gutters, and
I shall find heaps of things; or else I shall do something for the
passengers, and they’ll pay me ever so much. I’m not afraid about the
money; but you see I’m not wise,—I can’t count much. Will you help
me count the pennies, when I get them, and keep them for me till we
get enough,—so Lieb shall not guess,—and go with me to buy the tree
and things, so the market-men and the toy-sellers shall not cheat me.
Only there’s one thing I want to buy all myself, and you mustn’t look
then. Will you, Tim?”
“Yes,” said Tim, who had a famous project in his head of counting his
own pennies in with Berty’s, and never telling her; “yes, Berty, I’ll
do everything you ask me,—certain sure.”
“Then it’s all settled,” cried Berty, with a long sigh of
satisfaction, the tapers of her Christmas tree shining brightly in
her mind’s eye as she spoke,—“quite settled at last. And, Tim, here’s
my crossing, and yonder’s yours; and you’ll see—you’ll see what a
pile of pennies I’ll have to-night!”
“Well; good luck to you, Berty,” answered Tim, and scampered off.
If you had been near to watch little Berty that morning, I am sure
you would have thought her the most industrious little rag-picker
in all New York. She turned over very carefully the sweepings of
the shops, ransacked all the rubbish in the gutters, and swept
patiently at her crossing, keeping a sharp eye to the passengers
meanwhile, for any chance to do them service; and yet, when she sat
down, quite tired out, upon the curb-stone to eat her crust at noon,
she had in her basket only the usual amount of cabbagestumps, and
rags, and rusty nails, and in her pocket only the two pennies which
a pleasant-looking gentleman had tossed her as he stepped out of the
stage at the crossing.
It was very discouraging. And Tim, too, who scarcely ever failed to
come round now and then for a bit of friendly chat, had never been
near her all day. Berty was almost glad, since she had nothing to
show him; and yet it gave her a forsaken feeling, which, added to the
discouragement, almost made her cry.
By and by a drizzly rain came on, soaking her thin garments, chilling
her blood, and making the bright tapers of the imaginary tree look
very dim and distant through its dismal mist. Yet Berty would not
allow herself to lose heart entirely: this was a famous time for the
crossing, if only people would not be in such a hurry; for everybody
was crowding to the stages to escape the rain. Perhaps, if she kept
it very neat, so that the ladies should not soil their fine dresses,
nor the gentlemen their shining boots, some of them might be grateful
enough to fling her now and then a penny; and Berty did not think a
penny so small now as she had done in the morning. At any rate she
would try.
So she took her broom and swept away vigorously; and, sure enough,
the pennies did come, one after another, ringing down upon the
clean pavement, till Berty had counted ten; and then along came her
pleasant-looking gentleman of the morning, and he tossed her a dime,
with such a cheery smile, too, that Berty’s heart quite glowed within
her, and the tapers shone out again brighter than ever.
But what was this which came tumbling down upon the pavement as the
loaded stage rolled off,—not ringing at all, but with a heavy thump?
Berty picked it up. A pocket-book of purple Russia leather, very
fat and full. Whose could it be? The pleasant-looking gentleman’s?
Very likely; for Berty remembered that he was the last to step upon
the platform. So she held it up and shouted, and ran after the stage
a moment; but nobody heeded, and she could never overtake it, that
was certain. What should she do? Give it to the policeman? Doubtless
he knew where the gentleman lived; policemen knew everything. Berty
looked round, but, for a wonder, there was no policeman near. What
should she do then? Take it to the station-house, or wait till the
stage came down again and hand it to the conductor? He knew the
gentleman, for she had seen them nod to each other. But what if he
should not give it up; what, if he should keep it?
“_Keep it!_” What was there in that thought to make Berty’s heart
beat so, and her head grow giddy? What was there to make her clinch
the pocket-book tighter, and hide it in her dress, and glance round
to see if any one was looking? Was it a good angel, think you, that
whispered in Berty’s ear at this moment—“_Keep it!_ If any one is to
keep it, why not you? You did not see him lose it; how do you know to
whom it belongs? You found it in the street; and what is found in the
street belongs to the sweepers. And you prayed, too; how can you tell
but this is an answer to your prayer? It is a good fat one. Surely,
it holds enough to buy a Christmas tree. Look at it and see if it
does not.”
It might have been an angel; very likely it was; but, truly, I think
such angels are very poor help in growing Christmas trees.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]