"Mother," said little Frank, "I saw a man walking along the street
to-day with a bundle of brushes in his hand, and such a black face. I
was careful not to touch him as I passed, he looked so dirty--quite a
'blackamoor'"!
"Ah!" said his mother, "that was a chimney-sweep; he cannot =help= being
dirty, and my little boy ought to feel very kindly to him, for we should
be badly off without such men."
Not many days afterwards there was a storm. How the wind blew and
roared! All through the night it rattled the windows and whistled in the
chimney. Frank's mother went downstairs early in the morning to make a
fire, but as soon as she lighted it, puff! the smoke came down the
chimney, and filled the room, and she was obliged to let the fire go
out.
Down came the children for breakfast, and Frank cried: "Is the fire not
lighted, mother? I am so cold; and oh! the house =is= smoky."
"I have tried to light a fire," said his mother, "but the smoke blows
down the chimney. I think it needs sweeping; I shall have to give you
milk for breakfast; there is no nice, hot coffee for you, because the
fire will not burn."
After breakfast Frank's brother went to fetch the chimney-sweep, who
soon came, and with his long brushes brought down all the soot, which he
carried away in a bag. Then the fire burned merrily, making the room
look quite bright and cheerful, and Frank said: "Thank you, Mr.
Chimney-sweep, for your good work. I will never call you 'blackamoor'
again; and when I meet you in the street, I will not think you are too
dirty to speak to."