BEHIND THE SCENES.
Some children are like little human scrawl-books, blotted all over
with the sins and mistakes of their ancestors.
Monday morning came as mornings do come, bringing to the overworked body
and mind a certain languor difficult to shake off. As I walked down the
dirty little street, with its rows of old-clothes shops, saloons, and
second-hand-furniture stores, I called several of my laggards, and gave
them a friendly warning. "Quarter of nine, Mrs. Finnigan!" "Bless me
soul, darlin'! Well, I will hurry up my childern, that I will; but the
baby was that bad with whoopin'-cough last night that I never got three
winks meself, darlin'!"
"All right; never mind the apron; let Jimmy walk on with me, and I will
give him one at school." Jimmy trots proudly at my side, munching a bit
of baker's pie and carrying my basket. I drop into Mrs. Powers' suite of
apartments in Rosalie Alley, and find Lafayette Powers still in bed. His
twelve-year-old sister and guardian, Hildegarde, has over-slept, as
usual, and breakfast is not in sight. Mrs. Powers goes to a dingy office
up town at eight o'clock, her present mission in life being the healing
of the nations by means of mental science. It is her fourth vocation in
two years, the previous ones being tissue-paper flowers, lustre
painting, and the agency for a high-class stocking supporter. I scold
Hildegarde roundly, and she scrambles sleepily about the room to find a
note that Mrs. Powers has left for me. I rejoin my court in the street,
and open the letter with anticipation.
Miss Kate.
Dear Maddam.--You complane of Lafayette's never getting to school till
eleven o'clock. It is not my affare as Hildegarde has _full charge_ of
him and I _never_ intefear, but I would sujjest that if you _beleeve_ in
him he will do better. Your unbeleef sapps his _will powers_. you have
only reprooved him for being late. why not incurrage him say by _paying_
him 5 cents a morning for a wile to get amung his little maits on the
stroak of nine? "declare for good and good will work for you" is one of
our sayings. I have not time to treet Lafayette myself my busness being
so engroassing but if you would take a few minites each night and _deny
Fear along the 5 avanues_ you could heel him. Say _there is no Time in
the infinnit_ over and over before you go to sleep. This will lift fear
off of Lafayette, fear of being late and he will get there in time.
Yours for Good,
MRS. POWERS,
_Mental Heeler_.
Oh, what a naughty, ignorant, amusing, hypocritical, pathetic world it
is! I tuck the note in my pocket to brighten the day for Helen, and we
pass on.
As we progress we gather into our train Levi, Jacob, David, Moses,
Elias, and the other prophets and patriarchs who belong to our band. We
hasten the steps of the infant Garibaldi, who is devouring refuse fruit
from his mother's store, and stop finally to pluck a small Dennis
Kearney from the coal-hod, where he has been put for safe-keeping. The
day has really begun, and with its first service the hands grow willing
and the heart is filled with sunshine.
As the boys at my side prattle together of the "percession" and the
"sojers" they saw yesterday, I wish longingly that I could be
transported with my tiny hosts to the sunny, quiet country on this
clear, lovely morning.
[Illustration: "THE BOYS AT MY SIDE PRATTLE TOGETHER."]
I think of my own joyous childhood, spent in the sweet companionship of
fishes, brooks, and butterflies, birds, crickets, grasshoppers,
whispering trees and fragrant wild flowers, and the thousand and one
playfellows of Nature which the good God has placed within reach of the
happy country children. I think of the shining eyes of my little Lucys
and Bridgets and Rachels could I turn them loose in a field of golden
buttercups and daisies, with sweet wild strawberries hidden at their
roots; of the merry glee of my dear boisterous little prophets and
patriots, if I could set them catching tadpoles in a clear wayside pool,
or hunting hens' nests in the alder bushes behind the barn, or pulling
yellow cow lilies in the pond, or wading for cat-o'-nine-tails, with
their ragged little trousers tucked above their knees. And oh! hardest
of all to bear, I think of our poor little invalids, so young to
struggle with languor and pain! Just to imagine the joy of my poor, lame
boys and my weary, pale, and peevish children, so different from the
bright-eyed, apple-cheeked darlings of well-to-do parents,--mere babies,
who, from morning till night, seldom or never know what it is to cuddle
down warmly into the natural rest of a mother's loving bosom!
* * * * *
Monday morning came and went,--Monday afternoon also; it was now two
o'clock, and to my surprise and disappointment Patsy had not appeared.
The new chair with its pretty red cushion stood expectant but empty.
Helen had put a coat of shellac on poor Johnny Cass's table, freshened
up its squared top with new lines of red paint, and placed a little
silver vase of flowers on it. Our Lady Bountiful had come in to pay for
the chair and see the boy, but alas! there was no boy to see. The
children were all ready for him. They knew that he was a sick boy, like
Johnny Cass, tired, and not able to run and jump, and that they must be
good to him as they had been to Johnny. This was the idea of the
majority; but I do not deny that there was a small minority which
professed no interest and promised no virtue. Our four walls contained a
miniature world,--a world with its best foot forward, too, but it was
not heaven.
At quarter past two I went into Helen's little room, where she was
drawing exquisite illustrations on a blackboard for next day's "morning
talk."
"Helen, the children say that a family of Kennetts live at 32 Anna
Street, and I am going to see why Patsy didn't come. Oh yes, I know that
there are boys enough without running after them, but we must have this
particular boy, whether he wants to come or not, for he is _sui
generis_. He shall sit on that cushion
"'And sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries,
Sugar and cream!'"
"I think a taste for martyrdom is just as difficult to eradicate from
the system as a taste for blood," Helen remarked whimsically. "Very
well, run on and I'll 'receive' in your absence. I could say with
Antony, 'Lend me your ears,' for I shall need them. Have you any
commands?"
"Just a few. Please tell Paulina Strozynski's big brother that he _must_
call for her earlier, and not leave her sitting on the steps so long.
Tell Mrs. Hickok that if she sends us another child whom she knows to be
down with the chicken-pox, we won't take in her two youngest when
they're old enough. Don't give Mrs. Slamberg any aprons. She returned
the little undershirts and drawers that I sent her by Julie, and said
'if it was all the same to me, she'd rather have something that would
make a little more show!' And--oh yes, do see if you can find Jacob
Shubener's hat; he is crying down in the yard, and doesn't dare go home
without it."
"Very well. Four cases. Strozynski--steps--cruelty.
Hickok--chicken-pox--ingratitude. Slamberg--aprons--vanity.
Shubener--hat--carelessness. Oh that I could fasten Jacob's hat to his
ear by a steel chain! Has he looked in the sink?"
"Yes."
"Ash-barrel?"
"Certainly."
"Up in the pepper-tree?"
"Of course."
"Then some one has 'chucked' it into the next yard, and the janitor will
have to climb the fence,--at his age! Oh, if I could eliminate the
irregular verb 'to chuck' from the vocabulary of this school, I could
'make out of the broken sounds of life a song, and out of life itself a
melody,'" and she flew down-stairs like a breeze, to find the patient
Mr. Bowker. Mr. Bowker was a nice little man, who had not all his wits
about him, but whose heart was quite intact, and who swept with energy
and washed windows with assiduity. He belonged to the Salvation Army,
and the most striking articles of his attire, when sweeping, were a
flame-colored flannel shirt and a shiny black hat with "Prepare to Meet
Thy God" on the front in large silver letters. The combination of color
was indescribably pictorial, and as lurid and suggestive as an
old-fashioned Orthodox sermon.
As I went through the lower hall, I found Mr. Bowker assisting Helen to
search the coal-bin. "Don't smile," she cried. "Punch says, 'Sometimes
the least likeliest place is more likelier than the most
likeliest,'--and sure enough, here is the hat! I should have been named
Deborah or Miriam,--not Helen!" and she hurried to dry the tears of the
weeping Jacob.
[Illustration: "HERE IS THE HAT!"]