THE STORY OF A LITTLE LIFE.
“What is your name?” asked the teacher. “Tommy Brown, ma’am,” answered the boy. He was a pathetic little figure, with a thin face, hollow eyes, and pale cheeks, that plainly told of insufficient food. He wore a suit of clothes evidently made for some one else. They were patched in places with cloth of different colors. His shoes were old, his hair cut square in the neck in the unpractised manner in which women sometimes cut boys’ hair. It was a bitter day, yet he wore no overcoat, and his bare hands were red with the cold. “How old are you, Tommy?” “Nine years old come next April. I’ve learned to read at home, and I can cipher a little.” “Well, it is time for you to begin school. Why have you never come before?” The boy fumbled with a cap in his hands, and did not reply at once. It was a ragged cap with frayed edges, and the original color of the fabric no one could tell. Presently he said, “I never went to school ’cause—’cause—well, mother takes in washin’, an’ she couldn’t spare me. But Sissy is big enough now to help, an’ she minds the baby besides.” It was not quite time for school to begin. All around the teacher and the new scholar stood the boys that belonged in the room. While he was making his confused explanation some of the boys laughed, and one of them called out, “Say, Tommy, where are your cuffs and collar?” And another sang, “You must sleep in the rag bag at night by the looks of your clothes!” Before the teacher could quiet them, another boy had volunteered the information that the father of the boy was “old Si Brown, who was always as drunk as a fiddler.” The poor child looked round on his tormentors like a hunted thing. Then, before the teacher could detain him, with a suppressed cry of misery he ran out of the room, out of the building, down the street, and was seen no more. The teacher went to her duties with a troubled heart. All day long the child’s pitiful face haunted her. She could not rid herself of the memory of it. After a little trouble she found the place where he lived, and then two kind ladies went to visit him. It was a dilapidated house. When they first entered they could scarcely discern objects, the room was so filled with steam of the soapsuds. There were two windows, but a tall, brick building adjacent shut out the light. It was a gloomy day, too, with gray, lowering clouds that forbade even the memory of sunshine. A woman stood before a wash-tub. When they entered, she wiped her hands on her apron, and came forward to meet them. Once she had been pretty, but the color and light had gone out of her face, leaving only sharpened outlines and haggardness of expression. She asked them to sit down; then taking a chair herself, she said, “Sissy, give me the baby.” A little girl came forward from a dark corner of the room, carrying a baby that she laid in its mother’s lap, a lean and sickly-looking baby, with the same hollow eyes that Tommy had. “Your baby doesn’t look strong,” said one of the ladies. “No, ma’am, she ain’t very well. I have to work hard, and I expect it affects her.” “Where is your little Tommy?” asked one of the visitors. “He is there in the trundle-bed,” replied the mother. “Yes’m, and the doctor thinks he ain’t going to get well.” At this the tears ran down her thin and faded cheeks. “What is the matter with him?” “He was never very strong, and he’s had to work too hard, carrying water and helping me lift the wash-tubs and things like that. Of late he has been crazy to go to school. I never could spare him till this winter. He thought if he could get a little education he’d be able to take care of Sissy and baby and me. So I fixed up his clothes as well as I could, and last week he started. I was afraid the boys would laugh at him, but he thought he could stand it if they did. I stood at the door and watched him going. I can never forget how the little fellow looked,” she continued, the tears streaming down her face, “his patched-up clothes, his poor little anxious look. He turned around to me as he left the yard, and said, ‘Don’t you worry, mother; I won’t mind what the boys say.’ But he did mind. It wasn’t an hour till he was back again. I believe the child’s heart was just broke. I thought mine was broke years ago. If it was it was broke over again that day. I can stand most anything myself, but oh! I can’t bear to see my children suffer.” Here she broke down in a fit of convulsive weeping.11 The little girl came up to her quietly, and stole a thin little arm around her mother’s neck. “Don’t cry, mother,” she whispered, “don’t cry.” The woman made an effort to check her tears, and she wiped her eyes. As soon as she could speak with any degree of calmness, she continued:— “Poor little Tommy cried all day; I couldn’t comfort him. He said it was no use trying to do anything. Folks would only laugh at him for being a drunkard’s little boy. I tried to comfort him before my husband came home. I told him his father would be mad if he saw him crying. But it wasn’t any use. Seemed like he couldn’t stop. His father came and saw him. He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been drinking. He ain’t a bad man when he is sober. I hate to tell it, but he whipped Tommy, and the child fell and struck his head. I suppose he’d a been sick anyway. But oh! my poor little boy! My sick, suffering child!” she cried. “How can they let men sell a thing that makes the innocent suffer so?” One of the ladies went to the bed. There he lay, poor, little, defenseless victim. He lived in a Christian land, in a country that takes great care to pass laws to protect sheep, and diligently legislates over its game. Would that the children were as precious as brutes and birds! Would that the law was more jealous of little waifs’ rights! His face was flushed and the hollow eyes were bright. There was a long, purple mark on his temple. He put up one little wasted hand to cover it, while he said, “Father wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been drinking.” Then in his queer, piping voice, weak with sickness, he half whispered, “I’m glad I’m going to die. I’m too weak ever to help mother anyhow. Up in heaven the angels ain’t going to call me the drunkard’s child, and make fun of my clothes.” He turned his head feebly on his pillow, and then said, in a lower tone, “Some day—they ain’t going—to let saloons—keep open. But I’m afraid—poor father—will be dead—before then.” Then he shut his eyes from weariness. The next morning the sun shone in on the dead face of little Tommy.—Selected.