TWO 'PRENTICE HANDS AT PHILANTHROPY.
"With aching hands and bleeding feet,
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day and wish 't were done.
Not till the hours of light return
All we have built do we discern."
Patsy had scarcely gone when the door opened again the least bit, and a
sunny face looked in, that of my friend and helper.
"Not gone yet, Kate?"
"No, but I thought I sent you away long ago."
"Yes, I know, but I've been to see Danny Kern's mother: there is nothing
to be done; we must do our best and leave it there. Was that a boy I met
on the stairs?"
"Yes,--that is, he is a boy in the sense that he is not a girl. Oh,
Helen, such a story! We must take him!"
She sank helplessly on one of the children's tables. "Now, my dear
guide, philosopher, and friend, did you happen to notice my babies this
morning? They were legion! Our mothers must have heard that the Flower
Mission intended giving us some Thanksgiving dinners, for there were our
five inevitable little cat's-paws,--the identical five that applied just
before the Christmas tree, disappeared in vacation, turned up the day
before we went to the Mechanics' Fair, were lost to sight the day after,
presented themselves previous to the Woodward's Garden expedition, and
then went into retirement till to-day. Where am I going to 'sit' another
child, pray? They were two in a seat and a dozen on the floor this
morning. It isn't fair to them, in one sense, for they don't get half
enough attention."
"You are right, dear; work half done is worse than wasted; but it isn't
fair to this child to leave him where he is."
"Oh, I know. I feel Fridayish, to tell the truth. I shall love humanity
again by Monday. Have we money for more chairs or benches?"
"Certainly not."
"You'll have to print an appeal for chairs; and the children may wear
out the floor sitting on it before the right people read it!"
"Yes; and oh, Helen, a printed appeal is such a dead thing, after all.
If I could only fix on a printed page Danny Kern's smile when he
conquered his temper yesterday, put into type that hand clasp of Mrs.
Finnigan's that sent such a thrill of promise to our hearts, show a
subscriber Mrs. Guinee's quivering lips when she thanked us for the
change in Joe,--why, we shouldn't need money very long."
"That is true. What a week we have had, Kate,--like a little piece of
the millennium!"
"You must not be disappointed if next week isn't as good; that could
hardly be. Let's see,--Mrs. Daniels began it on Monday morning, didn't
she, by giving the caps for the boys?"
"Yes," groaned Helen dismally, "a generous but misguided benefactress!
Forty-three caps precisely alike save as to size! What scenes of carnage
we shall witness when we distribute them three times a day!"
"We must remedy that by sewing labels into the crowns, each marked with
the child's name in indelible ink."
"Exactly,--what a charming task! I shall have to write my cherubs'
names, I suppose,--most of them will take a yard of tape apiece. I
already recall Paulina Strozynski, Mercedes McGafferty, and Sigismund
Braunschweiger."
"And I, Maria Virginia de Rejas Perkins, Halfdan Christiansen, and
Americo Vespucci Garibaldi."
"This is our greatest misfortune since the donation of the thirty-seven
little red plaid shawls. Well, good-night. By the way, what's his name?"
"Patsy Dennis. I shall take him. I'll tell you more on Monday. Please
step into Gilbert's and buy a comfortable little cane-seated armchair,
larger than these, and ask one of your good Samaritans to make a soft
cushion for it. We'll give him the table that we had made for Johnny
Cass. Poor Johnny! I am sorry he has a successor so soon."
In five minutes I was taking my homeward walk, mind and heart full of my
elfish visitor, with his strange and ancient thoughts, his sharp
speeches and queer fancies. Would he ever come back, or would one of
those terrible spasms end his life before I was permitted to help and
ease his crooked body, or pour a bit of mother-love into his starved
little heart?
[Illustration: MISS HELEN.]