JOE by Miriam D. Rucker

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jun 28, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, No. 26.

JOE.

By Miriam D. Rucker

POOR little Joe! Poor, lonely, friendless Joe! He had been so fond of the dear young mother, and now that they had laid her away to rest, what was he to do? Who was to mend his ragged coat, tie his old shoes on, and help him to count the few pennies he earned by selling the Sun? Above all, who was to give him love and sympathy when he came home tired and cold, and hungry? The thought of his great loss nearly broke his heart.

It was just after Christmas, and very cold weather; but Joe wore a pair of ragged pants and a coat which had been darned and patched with many-hued scraps, till there was little of the original left. These articles, with a pair of old shoes he had found in an alley, and a piece of an old shawl that he wore about his head in lieu of a hat, made up his entire wardrobe.

Can't you imagine how he looked, with his pitiful, pinched little face, and so poorly clad?

Times were unusually dull with Joe the week following his mother's death. He would get his pack of papers, and stand on the street, too cold and hungry and bereaved to try to sell them. One day as he stood on a register trying to warm his poor little feet, he heard an organ. Looking around, he saw Tim, the organ-grinder, not far away, and, with boyish interest in the rude music, he ran to the register nearest Tim. While he stood there warming and listening to the organ, the president of the bank came out and gave Tim some money.

After Tim had gone, Joe gave a timid little knock on the door of the bank. A clerk opened it, and said the president was busy, and that he had no time to fool away on a ragged, dirty boy like Joe. Of course this frightened Joe; but he found courage to say, "Couldn't you please buy a paper? I'm so hungry." With some difficulty he added, "I'm awfully cold, too."

Lake Alta Morris, One of the Small, Picturesque California Lakes in the Lake Tahoe Region of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

"Hungry, are you?" said the clerk scornfully, "Well, I think I'll have to buy one of your papers; hand me one, here's the money." And, looking around at the fireplace, he said, "You had better warm your fingers there. Now don't bother me, I'm busy; and don't you forget to shut the door tight when you go out."

"Yes, sir," said Joe, not feeling quite as welcome as he might have been, had the clerk spoken more kindly. Just then, before he had seated himself, a crowd of men came in to see the clerk, so that gentleman bade Joe go.

Joe went, and he cried too. He felt all alone in the world, and he thought the song, "I'm Nobody's Darling," must have been written for poor little newsboys like him. He felt this more keenly than ever before; for that day it seemed as if every one was cross when he asked them to buy a paper.

It was not four o'clock in the afternoon when Joe quit selling papers; but he had cried so much during the day that he was sick, and he went to his garret and lay down before he said his prayers. Then he asked God to take his life, and end his troubles, and let him be like his mama—dead, till the resurrection day. Then he fell asleep.

Next morning when Joe awoke he was stiff in the joints, and sick, too; but he must try to sell papers to earn money enough to last him the next day; for that would be New Year's Day. He moped along all day, and after receiving plenty of gruff "noes," with seldom a "yes," the poor tired boy strayed off to the potter's field to his mother's grave.

At night, when Joe did not return at the usual time, even the cross landlady who let Joe have her garret, became uneasy about him. But she never said so; for she hated to have people know she was ever troubled about any one, much less Joe. When he did not come at bedtime she said, "I just bet that boy has gone off with one of them good-for-nothing scamps he stays with." That is what she said; but she could not prove that he kept company with any ungentlemanly boy, because, altho he was only ten years old, Joe always shunned evil companions, and lived a Christian life so far as he knew how. If every one would do so, what a different world this would be!

Why didn't some one take Joe and make him a more fit subject for his Father's mansion? If he had had a place to call "home," and some one to encourage him to walk in Jesus' footsteps, perhaps he would not have felt so friendless, and grieved himself to death, but would have lived and been a light in the world to shine for the dear, loving Saviour.

But no, some of Christ's so-called "big ones" could not conceive the idea that a poor, ragged, little newspaper boy like Joe was one of Christ's little ones in deed and in truth, so the glad New Year found poor little Joe lying cold and still by the side of his mother's grave. Indeed his boyish prayer had been answered; for he had fallen asleep, to wake no more till Jesus comes to take him home.

At his burial the angels wept, not with sorrow for Joe's death, but because some one had failed to see a golden opportunity to do a good deed in Christ's name.

MIRIAM D. RUCKER.