PATSY COMES TO CALL.
"When a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie,--the mitherless bairn!"
Suddenly I was awakened by a subdued and apologetic cough. Starting from
my nap, I sat bolt upright in astonishment, for quietly ensconced in a
small red chair by my table, and sitting still as a mouse, was the
weirdest apparition ever seen in human form. A boy, seeming--how many
years old shall I say? for in some ways he might have been a century old
when he was born--looking, in fact, as if he had never been young, and
would never grow older. He had a shrunken, somewhat deformed body, a
curious, melancholy face, and such a head of dust-colored hair that he
might have been shocked for a door-mat. The sole redeemers of the
countenance were two big, pathetic, soft dark eyes, so appealing that
one could hardly meet their glance without feeling instinctively in
one's pocket for a biscuit or a ten-cent piece. But such a face! He had
apparently made an attempt at a toilet without the aid of a mirror, for
there was a clean circle like a race-track round his nose, which member
reared its crest, untouched and grimy, from the centre, like a sort of
judge's stand, while the dusky rim outside represented the space for
audience seats.
I gazed at this astonishing diagram of a countenance for a minute,
spellbound, thinking it resembled nothing so much as a geological map,
marked with coal deposits. And as for his clothes, his jacket was ragged
and arbitrarily docked at the waist, while one of his trousers-legs was
slit up at the side, and flapped hither and thither when he moved, like
a lug-sail in a calm.
"Well, sir," said I at length, waking up to my duties as hostess, "did
you come to see me?"
"Yes, I did."
"Let me think; I don't seem to remember; I am so sleepy. Are you one of
my little friends?"
"No, I hain't yit, but I'm goin' to be."
"That's good, and we'll begin right now, shall we?"
"I knowed yer fur Miss Kate the minute I seen yer."
"How was that, eh?"
"The boys said as how you was a kind o' pretty lady, with towzly hair in
front." (Shades of my cherished curls!)
"I'm very much obliged to the boys."
"Kin yer take me in?"
"What? Here? Into the Kindergarten?"
"Yes; I bin waitin' this yer long whiles fur to git in."
"Why, my dear little boy," gazing dubiously at his contradictory
countenance, "you're too--big, aren't you? We have only tiny little
people here, you know; not six years old. You are more, aren't you?"
"Well, I'm nine by the book; but I ain't more 'n scerce six along o' my
losing them three year."
"What do you mean, child? How could you _lose_ three years?" cried I,
more and more puzzled by my curious visitor.
"I lost 'em on the back stairs, don't yer know. My father he got
fightin' mad when he was drunk, and pitched me down two flights of 'em,
and my back was most clean broke in two, so I couldn't git out o' bed
forever, till just now."
"Why, poor child, who took care of you?"
"Mother she minded me when she warn't out washin'."
"And did she send you here to-day?"
"Well! however could she, bein' as how she's dead? I s'posed you knowed
that. She died after I got well; she only waited for me to git up,
anyhow."
O God! these poor mothers! they bite back the cry of their pain, and
fight death with love so long as they have a shred of strength for the
battle!
"What's your name, dear boy?"
"Patsy."
"Patsy what?"
"Patsy nothin'! just only Patsy; that's all of it. The boys calls me
'Humpty Dumpty' and 'Rags,' but that's sassy."
"But all little boys have another name, Patsy."
"Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it,--it's Dinnis,--but Jim
says 't won't wash; 't ain't no 'count, and I wouldn't tell yer nothin'
but a sure-pop name, and that's Patsy. Jim says lots of other fellers
out to the 'sylum has Dinnis fur names, and they ain't worth shucks,
nuther. Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess."
"Who is Jim?"
"Him and I's brothers, kind o' brothers, not sure 'nuff brothers. Oh, I
dunno how it is 'zactly,--Jim'll tell yer. He dunno as I be, yer know,
'n he dunno _but_ I be, 'n he's afeard to leave go o' me for _fear_ I
be. See?"
"Do you and Jim live together?"
"Yes, we live at Mis' Kennett's. Jim swipes the grub; I build the
fires'n help cook'n wipe dishes for Jim when I ain't sick, 'n I mind
Miss Kennett's babies right along,--she most allers has new ones, 'n she
gives me my lunch for doin' it."
"Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind?"
"O-h, yes; she's orful busy, yer know, 'n won't stand no foolin'."
"Is there a Mr. Kennett?"
"Sometimes there is, 'n most allers there ain't."
My face by this time was an animated interrogation point. My need of
explanation must have been hopelessly evident, for he hastened to add
footnotes to the original text.
"He's allers out o' work, yer know, 'n he don't sleep ter home, 'n if
yer want him yer have to hunt him up. He's real busy now, though,--doin'
fine."
"That's good. What does he do?"
"He marches with the workingmen's percessions 'n holds banners."
"I see." The Labor Problem and the Chinese Question were the great
topics of interest in all grades of California society just then. My
mission in life was to keep the children of these marching and
banner-holding laborers from going to destruction.
"And you haven't any father, poor little man?"
"Yer bet yer life I don't want no more father in mine. He knocked me
down them stairs, and then he went off in a ship, and I don't go a cent
on fathers! Say, is this a 'zamination?"
I was a good deal amused and should have felt a little rebuked, had I
asked a single question from idle curiosity. "Yes, it's a sort of one,
Patsy,--all the kind we have."
"And do I hev to bring any red tape?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, Jim said he bet 't would take an orful lot o' red tape t' git me
in."
Here he withdrew with infinite trouble from his ragged pocket an orange,
or at least the remains of one, which seemed to have been fiercely dealt
with by circumstances.
"Here's an orange I brung yer! It's been skwuz some, but there's more in
it."
[Illustration: "HERE'S AN ORANGE I BRUNG YER."]
"Thank you, Patsy." (Forced expression of radiant gratitude.) "Now, let
us see! You want to come to the Kindergarten, do you, and learn to be a
happy little working boy? But oh, Patsy, I'm like the old woman in the
shoe, I have so many children I don't know what to do."
"Yes, I know. Jim knows a boy what went here wunst. He said yer never
licked the boys; and he said, when the 'nifty' little girls come to git
in, with their white aprons, yer said there warn't no room; but when the
dirty chaps with tored close come, yer said yer'd _make_ room. Jim said
as how yer'd never show _me_ the door, sure." (Bless Jim's heart!)
"P'raps I can't come every day, yer know, 'cos I might have fits."
"Fits! Good gracious, child! What makes you think that?"
"Oh, I has 'em" (composedly). "I kicks the footboard clean off when I
has 'em bad, all along o' my losin' them three year! Why, yer got an
orgind, hain't yer? Where's the handle fur to make it go? Couldn't I
blow it for yer?"
"It's a piano, not an organ; it doesn't need blowing."
"Oh, yes, I see one in a s'loon; I seen such an orful pretty lady play
on one. She give her silk dress a _swish_ to one side, so! and then she
cocked her head over sideways like a bird, and then her hands, all
jinglin' over with rings, went a-whizzin' up and down them black and
white teeth just like sixty!"
"You know, Patsy, I can't bear to have my little Kindergarten boys stand
around the saloon doors; it isn't a good place, and if you want to be
good men you must learn to be good little boys first, don't you see?"
"Well, I wanted some kind of fun. I seen a cirkis wunst,--that was fun!
I seen it through a hole; it takes four bits to git inside the tent, and
me and another feller found a big hole and went halveys on it. First he
give a peek, and then I give a peek, and he was bigger'n me, and he took
orful long peeks, he did, 'nd when it come my turn the ladies had just
allers jumped _through_ the hoops, or the horses was gone out; 'nd
bimeby he said mebbe we might give the hole a stretch and make it a
little mite bigger, it wouldn't do no harm, 'nd I'd better cut it, 'cos
his fingers was lame; 'nd I just cutted it a little mite, 'n' a cop come
up behind and h'isted us and I never seen no more cirkis; but I went to
Sunday-school wunst, and it warn't so much fun as the cirkis!"
I thought I would not begin moral lectures at once, but seize a more
opportune time to compare the relative claims of Sunday-school and
circus.
"You've got things fixed up mighty handy here, haven't yer? It's most as
good as Woodward's Gardens,--fishes--'nd c'nary birds--'nd flowers--'nd
pictures--is there stories to any of 'em?"
"Stories to every single one, Patsy! We've just turned that corner by
the little girl feeding chickens, and to-morrow we shall begin on that
splendid dog by the window."
Patsy's face was absolutely radiant with excitement. "Jiminy! I'm glad I
got in in time for that!--'nd ain't that a bear by the door thar?"
"Yes; that's a mother bear with cubs."
"Has he got a story too?"
"Everything has a story in this room."
"Jiminy! 'ts lucky I didn't miss that one! There's a splendid bear in a
s'loon on Fourth Street,--mebbe the man would leave him go a spell if
you told him what a nice place you hed up here. Say, them fishes keep it
up lively, don't they?--s'pose they're playin' tag?"
"I shouldn't wonder," I said smilingly; "it looks like it. Now, Patsy, I
must be going home, but you shall come to-morrow, at nine o'clock
surely, remember! and the children will be so glad to have another
little friend. You'll dress yourself nice and clean, won't you?"
"Well, I should smile! but these is the best I got. I got another part
to this hat, though, and another pocket belongs with these britches."
(He alternated the crown and rim of a hat, but was never extravagant
enough to wear them at one time.) "Ain't I clean? I cleaned myself by
the feelin'!"
"Here's a glass, dear; how do you think you succeeded?"
"Jiminy! I didn't get much of a sweep on that, did I now? But don't you
fret, I've got the lay of it now, and I'll just polish her off red-hot
to-morrer, 'n don't you forgit it!"
"Patsy, here's a warm bun and a glass of milk; let's eat and drink
together, because this is the beginning of our friendship; but please
don't talk street words to Miss Kate; she doesn't like them. I'll do
everything I can to make you have a good time, and you'll try to do a
few things to please me, won't you?"
Patsy looked embarrassed, ate his bit of bun in silence, and after
twirling his hat-crown for a few seconds hitched out of the door with a
backward glance and muttered remark which must have been intended for
farewell.