A KNIGHT OF THE SLUMS by Zelia M. Walters

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jun 1, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 22.

A KNIGHT OF THE SLUMS.

By Zelia M. Walters

For some days Joe had been wondering who lived in the garret opposite him. One frosty morning when he got up too late to sell morning papers, he determined to find out. The process was a very simple one. He got out of his window, crossed the angle of the roof, and peeped into the opposite window. A pair of startled eyes met his, and, after the first shock of surprise, he saw that they belonged to a little girl, lying on a rickety old lounge, beside the window.

"Hullo," said Joe.

The little girl said, "Hullo," too, and then they stared at each other for awhile. Then the girl smiled, and Joe smiled.

Joe was quite puzzled as to what he had better say next. Then he suddenly remembered that when little Sandy McGrow was sick, his friends bought oranges for him, so he said:—

"Do you like oranges?"

"O, yes," cried the little girl; "I had some once. A lady from the church brought them. Big, round, yellow balls, and, O, they tasted so nice and cool!"

"I'll get you one," said Joe, and he disappeared as quickly as he had come.

There was five cents in his ragged pocket, left from yesterday's earnings, and Joe darted away to the nearest Italian fruit stand. In a few minutes he was back at the window, and gave the orange to the little invalid.

"O, thank you," she said, "but won't you eat half of it, please?"

"Naw," said Joe, very gruffly, "I don't want it." He was so abashed at being thanked that he didn't know what to say. But he watched her until she had eaten the last morsel. Then saying, "I'll bring you 'nuther one to-morrow," he again abruptly disappeared.

After that Joe made it a rule to take an orange to his invalid neighbor each day. If sales were poor, Joe cut short his own supply of goodies rather than disappoint her. If any one had asked him why he did this, he probably would have answered, "Aw, gwan," for he was a rough little newsboy, who had never been taught anything better.

He learned that the little girl's name was May, and secretly he thought that the prettiest name in the world. He used to look at the nicely-dressed little girls on the street, and think how fine May would look if she could go out walking dressed that way. But, alas! it was three years since poor little May had walked, and in the poisonous air of the crowded tenement she was not likely ever to get any better. Her mother went out to work every day, and May lay on her couch, with only a few old picture papers to amuse her.

"Joe," said May one day, when they were having their talk through the window, "do you ever go to Sunday-school?"

"No," said Joe, "but they've got one down here around the corner. Jim Pike goes."

"I thought maybe you did," said May, with a shade of disappointment in her voice. "I was telling

mother about you last night, and she said she hoped you were a good boy, and I told her I knew you were, because you are so kind."

Not a word did Joe say. It was the first time any one had ever expressed confidence in him. In his heart he knew he wasn't good, and for the first time he wished that he were.

The next Sunday he went to the mission school. To tell the truth, he didn't like it at all, tho the teachers were kind, and the surroundings pleasant. The active street boy found it very hard to sit still, and listen to the lessons and songs that he didn't understand. But he had his reward when he told May about it.

"O," she cried, "did you go to Sunday-school? Tell me what they said, and what songs they sang. I used to go when I was a little girl, and I can remember pretty nearly everything about it."

So Joe continued to go to Sunday-school, and he tried to understand the lessons so that he could tell May about them.

One day in early June, Joe made a call; not by the way of the window, but he came to the door when May's mother was at home, and rapped.

"I say," he began breathlessly, for he felt very queer and awkward, "I've got a chance for May. She kin go to the country and stay two weeks. Our Sunday-school's going to take a lot of kids; and say, sometimes sick folks get well in the country. Our teacher said so."

"But," said Mrs. Abbott, "I thought that outing was for the pupils only."

Then Joe got very red, and looked at the toes of his ragged shoes, and finally stammered out:—

"Aw! Well, they say I could go; but what's the use? I ain't sick. So I asked if May could go, and our teacher, she said, 'Yes.' She's coming to-morrow to tell you when to get ready, and all about it." And then Joe hurried off as fast as he could.

May was wild with delight at the idea of going to the country, where she could see flowers, and hear the birds sing. She felt very sorry, however, to think that Joe had given up his chance for her. But the next day her cup of joy was full, for when the Sunday-school teacher came she said they were going to take Joe, too, tho they hadn't told him about it yet.

What a delightful two weeks that! People who go to the country every year, can not imagine what it means to these poor children who have never before been beyond the hot, dusty city streets. Joe ran about in the meadows, got acquainted with the horses and cows, helped Farmer Watson with the chores, and ended by declaring to the other children that he meant to be a farmer when he grew up.

May lay on a couch on the shady porch, and a beautiful pink color began to steal into her pale cheeks as she breathed in the health-giving air. When it was time for the others to go home, good Mrs. Watson declared that the little sick girl must stay all summer. When she did come home, Joe's generous hopes were realized, and she was able to walk again.—Zelia M. Walters.