It was a very small funeral procession that wended its way slowly from
the King's County Hospital to the Holy Cross Cemetery at Flatbush, New
York. There were no handsome carriages, no long string of hacks, only
the hearse containing a small, plain coffin, followed by a solitary
coach. But the mourning was just as sincere as at the largest and most
imposing funeral. And it was not confined to the four boys who
accompanied the body of their dearest friend to its last resting-place.
A hundred hearts were touched by grief. A hundred faces were wet with
tears.
"It's only a newsboy," said a policeman. True, only a newsboy, a waif
from the streets of the great city. But no philanthropist was ever
kinder, no friend more true, no soldier braver, than little Joe
Flanigan. Every newsboy about the offices of New York's great journals
knew and loved him. All owed him a debt of gratitude for the many good
deeds he had done in his humble way.
Little Joe first appeared on the streets of New York two years ago. He
was small and slight, with great brown eyes and pinched lips that always
wore a smile. Where he came from nobody knew and few cared. His parents,
he said, were dead and he had no friends. It was a hard life. Up at four
o'clock in the morning after sleeping in a dry-goods' box or an alley,
he worked steadily till late at night. He was misused at first. Big boys
stole his papers, or crowded him out of a warm place at night, but he
never complained. The tears would well up in his eyes, but were quickly
brushed away and a new start bravely made. Such conduct won him friends,
and after a little no other dared play tricks upon Little Joe. His
friends he remembered and his enemies he forgave. Some days he had
especially good luck. Kind-hearted people pitied the little fellow and
bought papers whether they wanted them or not. But he was too generous
to save money enough for even a night's lodging. Every boy who "got
stuck" knew he was sure to get enough to buy a supper as long as Joe had
a penny.
But the hard work and exposure began to tell on his weak constitution.
He kept growing thinner and thinner, till there was scarcely an ounce of
flesh on his little body. The skin of his face was drawn closer and
closer, but the pleasant look never faded away. He was uncomplaining to
the last. He awoke one morning after working hard selling "extras," to
find himself too weak to move. He tried his best to get upon his feet,
but it was a vain attempt. The vital force was gone.
"Where is Little Joe?" was the universal inquiry. Nobody had seen him
since the previous night. Finally he was found in a secluded corner, and
a good-natured hackman was persuaded to take him to the hospital in
Flatbush, where he said he once lived. Every day one of the boys went to
see him. One Saturday, a newsboy who had abused him at first and learned
to love him afterward, found him sitting up in his cot, his little
blue-veined hand stretched out upon the coverlet.
"I was afraid you wasn't coming, Jerry," he said, with some difficulty,
"and I wanted to see you once more so much. I guess it will be the last
time, Jerry, for I feel awful weak to-day. Now, Jerry, when I die I want
you to be good for my sake. Tell the boys"--
But his message never was completed. Little Joe was dead. His sleep was
calm and beautiful. The trouble and anxiety on his wan face had
disappeared. But the expression was still there. Even in death he
smiled.
It was sad news that Jerry bore back to his friends on that day. They
feared the end was near and were waiting for him with anxious hearts.
When they saw his tear-stained face they knew that Little Joe was dead.
Not a word was said. They felt as if they were in the presence of death
itself. Their hearts were too full to speak.
That night a hundred boys met in front of the City Hall. They felt that
they must express their sense of loss in some way, but how they did not
know. Finally, in accordance with the suggestion of one of the larger
boys, they passed a resolution which read as follows:--
_Resolved_, That we all liked Little Joe, who was the best
newsboy in New York. Everybody is sorry he has died.
A collection was taken up to send delegates to the funeral, and the same
hackman who bore little Joe to the hospital again kindly offered the use
of his carriage. On the coffin was a plate, purchased by the boys, whose
language was expressive from its very simplicity. This was the
inscription:--
LITTLE JOE,
Aged 14.
The Best Newsboy in New York.
WE ALL LIKED HIM.
There were no services, but each boy sent a flower to be placed upon the
coffin of his friend. After all, what did it matter that Little Joe was
dead?
He was only a newsboy.
This is not a fancy sketch. Every word of the above story is true.
* * * * *
OFFICE BOY (to country editor): "A man was in while you were out, who
said he was the genuine John Wilkes Booth."