Near the small town of Millbank, and just outside the great city of
London, there is a little street called Church Street, and a little
square called Smith Square, and where this street and square come
together there is a row of houses, rented very cheap, and in one of them
lived the little girl whose story I shall try to tell you.
She was about fourteen years old at the time I speak of, and her real
name was Fanny Cleaver; but her back was so weak, one of her short legs
being shorter than the other, and she was so very little--not having
grown any since she was seven years old--that she had given herself the
name of Jenny Wren, and by this name every one knew her. The queer
little figure, as it hopped about, and the queer but not ugly little
face, with its bright gray eyes, made her seem wonderfully like the
cheerful, quick, tiny brown bird whose name she had chosen.
Jenny's mother was dead, and Jenny's father was a drunkard. If you do
not know what misery comes into a home, whether it is a rich or humble
one, when the father has the evil habit of drink, then you can hardly
understand what a great trouble little Jenny had to bear, and all alone,
too, for her bright mind, her true heart, and her skillful little hands
were all the friends Jenny had. What could such a little creature do?
She printed the words "Room to Let" with a stubbed pen on a piece of
white card-board, and hung it in the window; and it had not hung there
many hours before there came a knock at the door. The door flew open by
a spring which had been touched inside. Across the narrow entry the
parlor door stood open, and showed Jenny Wren sitting in a low,
old-fashioned arm-chair, which had a kind of work-bench before it. Jenny
looked at the handsome young lady standing on the door-step.
"I can't get up," said she, "because my back's bad and my legs are
queer, but I'm the person of the house, miss, and won't you come in?"
"You have a room to let?" said the young lady. "My name is Lizzie Hexam,
and I want to hire a room."
"Um-m," said Jenny; she was pressing bits of card-board between her
teeth. "Take a seat--but would you please to shut the door first? I
can't do it very well myself, because my back's so bad and my legs are
so queer."
Lizzie Hexam closed the door, and sat down. She looked kindly at the
very little creature, who went on with her work a few moments in
silence, gumming together with a camel's-hair brush pieces of card-board
and thin wood, which had first been cut out in different shapes. There
were scissors and small sharp knives, and bright scraps of velvet,
silks, and ribbon, lying on the bench.
"You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound," said the little
creature, with a quick bird-like glance at her visitor.
"You make pincushions?"