Title: The Story of Patsy
Author: Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith, 1856-1923
Language: English
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THE STORY OF PATSY

by

KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

Author of _The Birds' Christmas Carol_



[Illustration: "PATSY MINDING THE KENNETT BABY."]


[Illustration: VIGNETTE.]



To

H.C.A.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF GLADNESS GIVEN TO SORROWFUL LITTLE LIVES



    "The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
     The young birds are chirping in the nest,
     The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
     The young flowers are blowing toward the west--
     But the young; young children, O my brothers,
         They are weeping bitterly!
     They are weeping in the playtime of the others
         In the country of the free."

MRS. BROWNING.



The original Story of Patsy was written and sold some seven years ago
for the benefit of the Silver Street Free Kindergartens in San
Francisco. Now that it is for the first time placed in the hands of
publishers, I have at their request added new material, so that the
present story is more than double the length of the original brief
sketch.

K.D.W.
New York, March, 1889.



CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

       *       *       *       *       *

          _"Patsy minding the Kennett Baby."_      _Frontispiece_
          _Vignette._                                     _Title_


       I. THE SILVER STREET KINDERGARTEN.

      II. PATSY COMES TO CALL.

          _"Here's an orange I brung yer!"_

     III. TWO 'PRENTICE HANDS AT PHILANTHROPY.

          _Miss Helen._

      IV. BEHIND THE SCENES.

          _"The boys at my side prattle together."_
          _"Here is the hat!"_

       V. I SEEK PATSY, AND MEET THE DUCHESS OF ANNA STREET.

          _"The Story of Victor."_

      VI. A LITTLE "HOODLUM'S" VIRTUE KINDLES AT THE TOUCH OF JOY.

          _Carlotty Griggs "being a Butterfly."_
          _Paulina's "good-mornings to Johnny Cass."_

     VII. PATSY FINDS HIS THREE LOST YEARS.

          _"He sat silently by the window."_
          _Tail Piece._



CHAPTER I.

THE SILVER STREET KINDERGARTEN.

     "It makes a heaven-wide difference whether the soul of the child is
     regarded as a piece of blank paper, to be written upon, or as a
     living power, to be quickened by sympathy, to be educated by
     truth."


It had been a long, wearisome day at the Free Kindergarten, and I was
alone in the silent, deserted room. Gone were all the little heads,
yellow and black, curly and smooth; the dancing, restless, curious eyes;
the too mischievous, naughty, eager hands and noisy feet; the merry
voices that had made the great room human, but now left it quiet and
empty. Eighty pairs of tiny boots had clattered down the stairs; eighty
baby woes had been relieved; eighty little torn coats pulled on with
patient hands; eighty shabby little hats, not one with a "strawberry
mark" to distinguish it from any other, had been distributed with
infinite discrimination among their possessors; numberless sloppy kisses
had been pressed upon a willing cheek or hand, and another day was over.
No,--not quite over, after all. A murderous yell from below brought me
to my feet, and I flew like an anxious hen to my brood. One small
quarrel in the hall; very small, but it must be inquired into on the way
to the greater one. Mercedes McGafferty had taunted Jenny Crawhall with
being Irish. The fact that she herself had been born in Cork about three
years previous did not trouble her in the least. Jenny, in a voice
choked with sobs, and with the stamp of a tiny foot, was announcing
hotly that she was "NOT Irish, no sech a thing,--she was Plesberterian!"
I was not quite clear whether this was a theological or racial
controversy, but I settled it speedily, and they ran off together hand
in hand. I hastened to the steps. The yells had come from Joe Guinee and
Mike Higgins, who were fighting for the possession of a banana; a
banana, too, that should have been fought for, if at all, many days
before,--a banana better suited, in its respectable old age, to peaceful
consumption than the fortunes of war. My unexpected apparition had such
an effect that I might have been an avenging angel. The boys dropped the
banana simultaneously, and it fell to the steps quite exhausted, in such
a condition that whoever proved to be in the right would get but little
enjoyment from it.

"O my boys, my boys!" I exclaimed, "did you forget so soon? What shall
we do? Must Miss Kate follow you everywhere? If that is the only way in
which you can be good, we might as well give up trying. Must I watch you
to the corner every day, no matter how tired I am?"

Two grimy little shirt bosoms heaved with shame and anger; two pairs of
eyes hid themselves under protecting lids; two pairs of moist and
stained hands sought the shelter of charitable pockets,--then the cause
of war was declared by Mike sulkily.

"Joe Guinee hooked my bernanner."

"I never!" said Joe hotly. "I swapped with him f'r a peach, 'n he e't
the peach at noon-time, 'n then wouldn't gimme no bernanner."

"The peach warn't no good," Mike interpolated swiftly, seeing my
expression,--"it warn't no good, Miss Kate. When I come to eat it I had
ter chuck half of it away, 'nd then Joe Guinee went t' my lunch bucket
and hooked my bernanner!"

I sat down on the top step, motioned the culprits to do likewise, and
then began dispensing justice tempered with mercy for the twenty-fifth
time that day. "Mike, you say Joe took your banana?"

"Yes 'm,--he hooked it."

"Same thing. You have your words and I have mine, and I've told you
before that mine mean just as much and sound a little better. But I
thought that you changed that banana for a peach, and ate the peach?"

"I did."

"Then, why wasn't that banana Joe's?--you had taken his peach."

"He hadn't oughter hooked--took it out o' my bucket."

"No, and you ought not to have put it _into_ your bucket."

"He hooked--took what warn't his."

"You _kept_ what wasn't yours. How do you expect to have a good fruit
store, either of you, by and by, and have people buy your things, if you
haven't any idea of making a good square trade? Do try to be honest; and
if you make an exchange stick to it; fighting over a thing never makes
it any better. Look at that banana!--is it any good to either of you
now?" (Pause. The still small voice was busy, but no sound was heard
save the distant whistle of the janitor.)

"I could bring another one to Joe to-morrer," said Mike, looking at his
ragged boot and scratching it along the edge of the step.

"I don't want yer to, 'f the peach was sour 'n you had ter chuck it
away," responded Joe amiably.

"Yes, I think he ought to bring the banana; he made the trade with his
eyes open, and the peach didn't look sour, for I saw you squeezing it
when you ought to have been singing your morning hymn,--I thought you
would get into trouble with it then. Now is it all right, Mike?--that's
good! And Joe, don't go poking into other people's lunch baskets. If you
hadn't done that, you silly boy," I philosophized whimsically for my own
edification, "you would have been a victim; but you descended to the
level of your adversary, and you are now simply another little rascal."

We walked down the quiet, narrow street to the corner,--a proceeding I
had intended to omit that day, as it was always as exciting as an
afternoon tea, and I did not feel equal to the social chats that would
be pressed upon me by the neighborhood "ladies." One of my good
policemen was there as usual, and saluted me profoundly. He had carried
the last baby over the crossing, and guided all the venturesome small
boys through the maze of trucks and horse-cars,--a difficult and
thankless task, as they absolutely courted decapitation,--it being an
unwritten law of conduct that each boy should weave his way through the
horses' legs if practicable, and if not, should see how near he could
come to grazing the wheels. Exactly at twelve o'clock, and again at two
each day, in rain or sunshine, a couple of huge fatherly persons in
brass buttons appeared on that corner and assisted us in getting our
youngsters into streets of safety. Nobody had ever asked them to come,
their chief had not detailed them for that special duty; and I could
never have been bold enough to suggest that a guardian of the peace with
an immaculate uniform should carry to and fro a crowd of small urchins
with dusty boots and sticky hands.

But everybody loved that Silver Street corner, where the quiet little
street met the larger noisy one! Not a horse-car driver but looked at
his brake and glanced up the street before he took his car across. The
truckmen all drove slowly, calling "Hi, there!" genially to any
youngster within half a block.

And it was a pleasant scene enough to one who had a part in it, who was
able to care for simple people, who could be glad to see them happy,
sorry to see them sad, and willing to live among them a part of each
day, and bring a little sunshine and hope into their lives.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Donohue! All safely across?"

"All safe, miss! Sorry you troubled to come down, miss. I can be
depended on for this corner, miss, an' ye niver need bother yerself
about the childern after ye've once turned 'em loose, miss. An' might I
be so bold, seein' as how I might not have a better chance--would ye be
so kind as to favor me with yer last name, miss? the truth bein' that
ivery one calls ye Miss Kate, an' the policemen of this ward is gettin'
up rather a ch'ice thing in Christmas cards to presint to ye, come
Christmas, because, if ye'll excuse the liberty, miss, they do regard
you as belongin' to the special police!"

I laughed, thanked him for the intended honor, which had been mentioned
to me before, and gave him my card, not without a spasm of terror lest
the entire police force should invade my dwelling.

The "baker lady" across the street caught my eye, smiled, and sent over
a hot bun in a brown paper bag. The "grocery lady" called over in a
clear, ringing tone, "Would you be so kind, 'm, as to step inside on
your way 'ome and fetch 'Enry a bit of work, 'm? 'Enry 'as the 'ooping
cough, 'm, and I don't know 'owever I'm goin' to keep 'im at 'ome
another day, 'm, he pines for school so!"

I give a nod which means, Certainly!

Mrs. Weiss appeared at her window above the grocery with a cloth wound
about her head; appeared, and then vanished mysteriously. Very well, Mr.
Weiss,--you know what to expect! I gave you fair warning last time, and
I shall be as good as my word! Good heavens! Is that--it can't be--yes,
it is--a new McDonald baby at the saloon door! And there was such a
superfluity of the McDonald clan before! One more wretched little human
soul precipitated without a welcome into such a family circle as that!
It set me thinking, as I walked slowly back and toiled up the steps. "I
suppose most people would call this a hard and monotonous life," I
mused. "There is an eternal regularity in the succession of amusing and
heart-breaking incidents, but it is not monotonous, for I am too close
to all the problems that bother this workaday world,--so close that they
touch me on every side. No missionary can come so near to these people.
I am so close that I can feel the daily throb of their need, and they
can feel the throb of my sympathy. Oh! it is work fit for a saviour of
men, and what--what can I do with it?"

I sank into my small rocking-chair, and, clasping my arms over my head,
bent it upon the table and closed my eyes.

The dazzling California sunshine streamed in at the western windows,
touched the gold-fish globes with rosy glory, glittered on the brass
bird-cages, flung a splendid halo round the meek head of the Madonna
above my table, and poured a flood of grateful heat over my shoulders.
The clatter of a tin pail outside the door, the uncertain turning of a
knob by a hand too small to grasp it: "I forgitted my lunch bucket, 'n
had to come back five blocks. Good-by, Miss Kate." (Kiss.) "Good-by,
little man; run along." Another step, and a curly little red head pushes
itself apologetically through the open door. "You never dave me back my
string and buzzer, Miss Kate." "Here it is; leave it at home to-morrow
if you can, dear,--will you?"

Silence again, this time continued and profound. Mrs. Weiss was
evidently not coming to-day to ask me if she should give blow for blow
in her next connubial fracas. I was thankful to be spared until the
morrow, when I should perhaps have greater strength to attack Mr. Weiss,
and see what I could do for Mrs. Pulaski's dropsy, and find a mourning
bonnet and shawl for the Gabilondo's funeral and clothes for the new
Higgins twins. (Oh, Mrs. Higgins, would not one have sufficed you?)

The events of the day march through my tired brain; so tired! so tired!
and just a bit discouraged and sad too. Had I been patient enough with
the children? Had I forgiven cheerfully enough the seventy times seven
sins of omission and commission? Had I poured out the love--bountiful,
disinterested, long-suffering--of which God shows us the measure and
fullness? Had I--But the sun dropped lower and lower behind the dull
brown hills, and exhausted nature found a momentary forgetfulness in
sleep.



CHAPTER II.

PATSY COMES TO CALL.

    "When a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
     By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
     Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
     'Tis the puir doited loonie,--the mitherless bairn!"


Suddenly I was awakened by a subdued and apologetic cough. Starting from
my nap, I sat bolt upright in astonishment, for quietly ensconced in a
small red chair by my table, and sitting still as a mouse, was the
weirdest apparition ever seen in human form. A boy, seeming--how many
years old shall I say? for in some ways he might have been a century old
when he was born--looking, in fact, as if he had never been young, and
would never grow older. He had a shrunken, somewhat deformed body, a
curious, melancholy face, and such a head of dust-colored hair that he
might have been shocked for a door-mat. The sole redeemers of the
countenance were two big, pathetic, soft dark eyes, so appealing that
one could hardly meet their glance without feeling instinctively in
one's pocket for a biscuit or a ten-cent piece. But such a face! He had
apparently made an attempt at a toilet without the aid of a mirror, for
there was a clean circle like a race-track round his nose, which member
reared its crest, untouched and grimy, from the centre, like a sort of
judge's stand, while the dusky rim outside represented the space for
audience seats.

I gazed at this astonishing diagram of a countenance for a minute,
spellbound, thinking it resembled nothing so much as a geological map,
marked with coal deposits. And as for his clothes, his jacket was ragged
and arbitrarily docked at the waist, while one of his trousers-legs was
slit up at the side, and flapped hither and thither when he moved, like
a lug-sail in a calm.

"Well, sir," said I at length, waking up to my duties as hostess, "did
you come to see me?"

"Yes, I did."

"Let me think; I don't seem to remember; I am so sleepy. Are you one of
my little friends?"

"No, I hain't yit, but I'm goin' to be."

"That's good, and we'll begin right now, shall we?"

"I knowed yer fur Miss Kate the minute I seen yer."

"How was that, eh?"

"The boys said as how you was a kind o' pretty lady, with towzly hair in
front." (Shades of my cherished curls!)

"I'm very much obliged to the boys."

"Kin yer take me in?"

"What? Here? Into the Kindergarten?"

"Yes; I bin waitin' this yer long whiles fur to git in."

"Why, my dear little boy," gazing dubiously at his contradictory
countenance, "you're too--big, aren't you? We have only tiny little
people here, you know; not six years old. You are more, aren't you?"

"Well, I'm nine by the book; but I ain't more 'n scerce six along o' my
losing them three year."

"What do you mean, child? How could you _lose_ three years?" cried I,
more and more puzzled by my curious visitor.

"I lost 'em on the back stairs, don't yer know. My father he got
fightin' mad when he was drunk, and pitched me down two flights of 'em,
and my back was most clean broke in two, so I couldn't git out o' bed
forever, till just now."

"Why, poor child, who took care of you?"

"Mother she minded me when she warn't out washin'."

"And did she send you here to-day?"

"Well! however could she, bein' as how she's dead? I s'posed you knowed
that. She died after I got well; she only waited for me to git up,
anyhow."

O God! these poor mothers! they bite back the cry of their pain, and
fight death with love so long as they have a shred of strength for the
battle!

"What's your name, dear boy?"

"Patsy."

"Patsy what?"

"Patsy nothin'! just only Patsy; that's all of it. The boys calls me
'Humpty Dumpty' and 'Rags,' but that's sassy."

"But all little boys have another name, Patsy."

"Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it,--it's Dinnis,--but Jim
says 't won't wash; 't ain't no 'count, and I wouldn't tell yer nothin'
but a sure-pop name, and that's Patsy. Jim says lots of other fellers
out to the 'sylum has Dinnis fur names, and they ain't worth shucks,
nuther. Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess."

"Who is Jim?"

"Him and I's brothers, kind o' brothers, not sure 'nuff brothers. Oh, I
dunno how it is 'zactly,--Jim'll tell yer. He dunno as I be, yer know,
'n he dunno _but_ I be, 'n he's afeard to leave go o' me for _fear_ I
be. See?"

"Do you and Jim live together?"

"Yes, we live at Mis' Kennett's. Jim swipes the grub; I build the
fires'n help cook'n wipe dishes for Jim when I ain't sick, 'n I mind
Miss Kennett's babies right along,--she most allers has new ones, 'n she
gives me my lunch for doin' it."

"Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind?"

"O-h, yes; she's orful busy, yer know, 'n won't stand no foolin'."

"Is there a Mr. Kennett?"

"Sometimes there is, 'n most allers there ain't."

My face by this time was an animated interrogation point. My need of
explanation must have been hopelessly evident, for he hastened to add
footnotes to the original text.

"He's allers out o' work, yer know, 'n he don't sleep ter home, 'n if
yer want him yer have to hunt him up. He's real busy now, though,--doin'
fine."

"That's good. What does he do?"

"He marches with the workingmen's percessions 'n holds banners."

"I see." The Labor Problem and the Chinese Question were the great
topics of interest in all grades of California society just then. My
mission in life was to keep the children of these marching and
banner-holding laborers from going to destruction.

"And you haven't any father, poor little man?"

"Yer bet yer life I don't want no more father in mine. He knocked me
down them stairs, and then he went off in a ship, and I don't go a cent
on fathers! Say, is this a 'zamination?"

I was a good deal amused and should have felt a little rebuked, had I
asked a single question from idle curiosity. "Yes, it's a sort of one,
Patsy,--all the kind we have."

"And do I hev to bring any red tape?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, Jim said he bet 't would take an orful lot o' red tape t' git me
in."

Here he withdrew with infinite trouble from his ragged pocket an orange,
or at least the remains of one, which seemed to have been fiercely dealt
with by circumstances.

"Here's an orange I brung yer! It's been skwuz some, but there's more in
it."

[Illustration: "HERE'S AN ORANGE I BRUNG YER."]

"Thank you, Patsy." (Forced expression of radiant gratitude.) "Now, let
us see! You want to come to the Kindergarten, do you, and learn to be a
happy little working boy? But oh, Patsy, I'm like the old woman in the
shoe, I have so many children I don't know what to do."

"Yes, I know. Jim knows a boy what went here wunst. He said yer never
licked the boys; and he said, when the 'nifty' little girls come to git
in, with their white aprons, yer said there warn't no room; but when the
dirty chaps with tored close come, yer said yer'd _make_ room. Jim said
as how yer'd never show _me_ the door, sure." (Bless Jim's heart!)
"P'raps I can't come every day, yer know, 'cos I might have fits."

"Fits! Good gracious, child! What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I has 'em" (composedly). "I kicks the footboard clean off when I
has 'em bad, all along o' my losin' them three year! Why, yer got an
orgind, hain't yer? Where's the handle fur to make it go? Couldn't I
blow it for yer?"

"It's a piano, not an organ; it doesn't need blowing."

"Oh, yes, I see one in a s'loon; I seen such an orful pretty lady play
on one. She give her silk dress a _swish_ to one side, so! and then she
cocked her head over sideways like a bird, and then her hands, all
jinglin' over with rings, went a-whizzin' up and down them black and
white teeth just like sixty!"

"You know, Patsy, I can't bear to have my little Kindergarten boys stand
around the saloon doors; it isn't a good place, and if you want to be
good men you must learn to be good little boys first, don't you see?"

"Well, I wanted some kind of fun. I seen a cirkis wunst,--that was fun!
I seen it through a hole; it takes four bits to git inside the tent, and
me and another feller found a big hole and went halveys on it. First he
give a peek, and then I give a peek, and he was bigger'n me, and he took
orful long peeks, he did, 'nd when it come my turn the ladies had just
allers jumped _through_ the hoops, or the horses was gone out; 'nd
bimeby he said mebbe we might give the hole a stretch and make it a
little mite bigger, it wouldn't do no harm, 'nd I'd better cut it, 'cos
his fingers was lame; 'nd I just cutted it a little mite, 'n' a cop come
up behind and h'isted us and I never seen no more cirkis; but I went to
Sunday-school wunst, and it warn't so much fun as the cirkis!"

I thought I would not begin moral lectures at once, but seize a more
opportune time to compare the relative claims of Sunday-school and
circus.

"You've got things fixed up mighty handy here, haven't yer? It's most as
good as Woodward's Gardens,--fishes--'nd c'nary birds--'nd flowers--'nd
pictures--is there stories to any of 'em?"

"Stories to every single one, Patsy! We've just turned that corner by
the little girl feeding chickens, and to-morrow we shall begin on that
splendid dog by the window."

Patsy's face was absolutely radiant with excitement. "Jiminy! I'm glad I
got in in time for that!--'nd ain't that a bear by the door thar?"

"Yes; that's a mother bear with cubs."

"Has he got a story too?"

"Everything has a story in this room."

"Jiminy! 'ts lucky I didn't miss that one! There's a splendid bear in a
s'loon on Fourth Street,--mebbe the man would leave him go a spell if
you told him what a nice place you hed up here. Say, them fishes keep it
up lively, don't they?--s'pose they're playin' tag?"

"I shouldn't wonder," I said smilingly; "it looks like it. Now, Patsy, I
must be going home, but you shall come to-morrow, at nine o'clock
surely, remember! and the children will be so glad to have another
little friend. You'll dress yourself nice and clean, won't you?"

"Well, I should smile! but these is the best I got. I got another part
to this hat, though, and another pocket belongs with these britches."
(He alternated the crown and rim of a hat, but was never extravagant
enough to wear them at one time.) "Ain't I clean? I cleaned myself by
the feelin'!"

"Here's a glass, dear; how do you think you succeeded?"

"Jiminy! I didn't get much of a sweep on that, did I now? But don't you
fret, I've got the lay of it now, and I'll just polish her off red-hot
to-morrer, 'n don't you forgit it!"

"Patsy, here's a warm bun and a glass of milk; let's eat and drink
together, because this is the beginning of our friendship; but please
don't talk street words to Miss Kate; she doesn't like them. I'll do
everything I can to make you have a good time, and you'll try to do a
few things to please me, won't you?"

Patsy looked embarrassed, ate his bit of bun in silence, and after
twirling his hat-crown for a few seconds hitched out of the door with a
backward glance and muttered remark which must have been intended for
farewell.



CHAPTER III.

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.]



CHAPTER IV.

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!"]



CHAPTER V.

I SEEK PATSY, AND MEET THE DUCHESS OF ANNA STREET.

     "'Tis pride, rank pride and haughtiness of soul."


I make my way through the streets, drinking in the glorious air,
breathing the perfume of the countless fruit stands and the fragrances
that floated out from the open doors of the little flower stores in
every block, till I left all that was pleasant behind me and turned into
Anna Street.

I soon found Number 32, a dirty, tumble-down, one-story hovel, the
blinds tied together with selvedges of red flannel, and a rickety bell
that gave a certain style to the door, though it had long ceased to
ring.

A knock brought a black-haired, beetle-browed person to the window.

"Does Mrs. Kennett live here?"

"No, she don't. I live here."

"Oh! then you are not Mrs. Kennett?"

"Wall, I ruther guess _not_!" This in a tone of such royal superiority
and disdain that I saw in an instant I had mistaken blue blood for red.

"I must have been misinformed, then. This is Number 32?"

"Can't yer see it on the door?"

"Yes," meekly. "I thought perhaps Anna Street had been numbered over."

"What made yer think Mis' Kennett lived here?"

"A little girl brought me her name written on a card,--Mrs. Kennett, 32
Anna Street."

"There!" triumphantly, "I might 'a knowed that woman 'd play some common
trick like that! Now do you want ter know where Mis' Kennett re'ly doos
live? Wall, _she lives in the rear_! Her number's 32-1/2, 'n I vow she
gits more credit o' livin' in the front house 'n I do, 'n I pay four
dollars more rent! Ever see her? I thought not! I guess 'f you hed you
wouldn't think of her livin' in a house like this!"

"Excuse me. I didn't expect to make any trouble"--

"Oh, I've nothin' agin _you_, but just let me ketch her puttin' on airs
'n pertendin' to live like her betters, that's all! She's done it
before, but I couldn't never ketch her at it. The idee of her keepin' up
a house like this!" and with a superb sniff like that of a battle-horse,
she disappeared from the front window of her ancestral mansion and
sought one at the back which might command a view of my meeting with her
rival.

I slid meekly through a side gate, every picket of which was decorated
with a small child, stumbled up a dark narrow passage, and found myself
in a square sort of court out of which rose the rear houses so
objectionable to my Duchess in the front row.

It was not plain sailing, by any means, owing to the collection of tin
cans and bottles through which I had to pick my way, but I climbed some
frail wooden steps, and stood at length on the landing of Number 32-1/2.

The door was open, and there sat Patsy, "minding" the Kennett baby, a
dull little lump of humanity, whose brain registered impressions so
slowly that it would play all day long with an old shoe without
exhausting its possibilities.

Patsy himself was dirtier than ever, and much more sullen and gloomy.
The traces of tears on his cheeks made my heart leap into my throat.
"Oh, Patsy," I exclaimed, "I am so glad to find you! We expected you all
day, and were afraid you weren't well."

Not a word of response.

"We have a chair all ready for you; it is standing right under one of
the plant-shelves, and there are three roses in bloom to-day!"

Still not a word.

"And I had to tell the dog story without you!"

The effect of this simple statement was very different from what I had
anticipated. I thought I knew what a child was likely to do under every
conceivable set of circumstances, but Patsy was destined to be more than
once a revelation to me.

He dashed a book of colored advertisements that he held into the
farthest corner of the room, threw himself on the floor at full length
and beat it with his hands, while he burst into a passion of tears.
"There! there!" he cried between his sobs, "I told 'em you'd tell it! I
told 'em you'd tell it! I told 'em you'd--but oh, I thought maybe you
wouldn't!" His wails brought Mrs. Kennett from a back piazza where she
was washing.

"Are you the teacher o' the _Kids Guards_, 'm?"

"Yes." It did not strike me at the time, in my anxiety, what a
sympathetic rendering of the German word this was; but we afterwards
found that "Kindergarten" was thus translated in Anna Street.

"Patsy couldn't go to-day, 'm, on account of him hevin' no good boots,
'm, Jim not bein' paid off till Wednesday, 'n me hevin' no notice he hed
no clean shirt, 'm, this not bein' his clean-shirt week, 'm. He takes it
awful hard about that there story, 'm. I told him as how you'd be after
tellin' another one next week, but it seems nothin' will comfort him."

"Ev'rybuddy's allers lyin' to me," he moaned; "there warn't another dog
picture like that in the hull room!"

"Don't take no notice of him, 'm, an' he'll git over it; he's subjick to
these spells of takin' on like. Set up, Pat, an' act decent! Tell the
lady you'll come when you git your boots."

"Patsy, boy, stop crying a minute and listen to me," I said. "If Mrs.
Kennett is willing, I have some things that will fit you; you shall come
right back with me now,--all the children have gone,--and you and I will
be alone with the sunshine and the birds and the fishes, as we were the
other day, and I will tell you the dog story just as I told it to the
other children this morning."

He got up slowly, rubbed his tattered sleeve across his wet cheek, and
looked at me searchingly to see if I might be trusted; then he limped to
the sink, treated his face and hands to a hasty but energetic scrub,
seized his fragment of a hat, gave his brief trousers a hitch which had
the air of being the last exquisite touch to a faultless toilet, and sat
down on the landing to mend his twine shoe-lace.

"Who is your neighbor in Number 32, Mrs. Kennett?" I asked as I rose to
go. "I went there to find you."

"Did you indeed, 'm? Well, I hope she treated you civil, 'm, though it
don't be much in her line. She's a Mis' Mooney, 'm. I know _her_, but
she don't know _me_ anny more sence she's riz in the wurrld. She moved
out of this house whin I moved into it, but none of us ladies here is
good enough for her to 'sociate with _now_, 'm! You see her husband was
in the rag, sack, and bottle business, 'm, 'n a wealthy gintleman friend
set him up in a fish-cart, an' it's kind of onsettled her, 'm! Some
folks can't stan' prosperity. If 't bed bin grad_joo_al like, she might
have took it more natcheral; but it come all of a suddent, an' she's
that purse-proud now, 'm, that she'll be movin' up on Nob Hill ef she
don't hev no stroke o' bad luck to show 'er her place! Good day, 'm!"

I carved my way through the tin cans and bottles again under the haughty
eye of my Duchess of the fish-cart, and in a few minutes Patsy and I
were again in Silver Street.

When we entered the room he looked about with an expression of entire
content. "It's all here!" he said with a sigh, as if he had feared to
find it a dream.

The chair with its red cushion pleased him greatly; then, after a few
moments' talk to make him feel a little at home, we drew up to the
picture, and I took his cleanest hand in mine, and told him the story of
Victor, the brave St. Bernard dog.

It was an experience never to be repeated and never to be forgotten!

[Illustration: "THE STORY OF VICTOR."]

       *       *       *       *       *

As you sit at twilight in the "sweet safe corner of the household fire,"
the sound of the raindrops on the window-pane mingling with the laughing
treble of childish voices in some distant room, you see certain pictures
in the dying flame,--pictures unspeakably precious to every one who has
lived, or loved, or suffered.

I have my memory-pictures, too; and from the fairest frame of all shines
Patsy's radiant face as it looked into mine long ago when I told him the
story of Victor.



CHAPTER VI.

A LITTLE "HOODLUM'S" VIRTUE KINDLES AT THE TOUCH OF JOY.

     "If you make children happy now, you will make them happy twenty
     years hence by the memory of it."


The next morning when I reached the little tin shop on the corner,--a
blessed trysting-place, forever sacred, where the children waited for me
in sunshine, rain, wind, and storm, unless forbidden,--there on the step
sat faithful Patsy, with a clean and shining morning face, all glowing
with anticipation. How well I remember my poor lad's first day! Where
should I seat him? There was an empty space beside little Mike Higgins,
but Mike's character, obtained from a fond and candid parent, had been
to the effect "that he was in heaven any time if he could jest lay a boy
out flat"! And there was a place by Moses, but he was very much of a fop
just then, owing to a new "second-hand" coat, and might make scathing
allusions to Patsy's abbreviated swallow-tail.

But a pull at my skirt and a whisper from the boy decided me.

"Please can't I set aside o' you, Miss Kate?"

"But, Patsy, the fun of it is I never do sit."

"Why, I thought teachers never done nothin' but set!"

"You don't know much about little boys and girls, that's sure! Well,
suppose you put your chair in front and close to me. Here is Maggie
Bruce on one side. She is a real little Kindergarten mother, and will
show you just how to do everything. Won't you, Maggie?"

We had our morning hymn and our familiar talk, in which we always
"outlined the policy" of the new day; for the children were apt to be
angelic and receptive at nine o'clock in the morning, the unwillingness
of the spirit and weakness of the flesh seldom overtaking them till an
hour or so later. It chanced to be a beautiful day, for Helen and I were
both happy and well, our volunteer helpers were daily growing more
zealous and efficient, and there was no tragedy in the immediate
foreground.

In one of the morning songs, when Paulina went into the circle and threw
good-morning kisses to the rest, she wafted a dozen of them to the
ceiling, a proceeding I could not understand.

"Why did you throw so many of your kisses up in the air, dear?" I asked,
as she ran back to my side.

"Them was good-mornings to Johnny Cass, so 't he wouldn't feel
lonesome," she explained; and the tender bit of remembrance was followed
out by the children for days afterward. Was it not enough to put us in a
gentle humor?

Patsy was not equal to the marching when, later on, the Lilliputian army
formed itself in line and kept step to the music of a lively tune, and
he was far too shy on the first day to join in the play, though he
watched the game of the Butterfly with intense interest from his nook by
the piano.

After the tiny worm had wriggled itself realistically into a cocoon it
went to sleep; and after a moment of dramatic silence, the little one
chosen for the butterfly would separate herself from the still cocoon
and fly about the circle, sipping mimic honey from the child-flowers.

To see Carlotty Griggs "being a butterfly," with utter intensity of joy
and singleness of purpose, was a sight to be remembered. For Carlotty
was a pickaninny four years old, and blacker than the Ace of Spades! Her
purple calico dress, pink apron, and twenty little woolly braids tied
with bits of yellow ribbon made her the most tropical of butterflies;
and the children, having a strong sense of color and hardly any sense of
humor, were always entirely carried away by her antics.

[Illustration: CARLOTTY GRIGGS "BEING A BUTTERFLY."]

Carlotty had huge feet,--indeed, Carlotty "toed in," for that matter;
but her face shone with delight; her eyes glistened, and so did her
teeth; and when she waved her ebony hands and flitted among the
children, she did it as airily as any real butterfly that ever danced
over a field of clover blossoms.

And if Patsy's joy was great in the play, it was greater still in the
work that came afterward. When Helen gave him a scarlet and gold mat to
weave, his fingers trembled with eagerness; and the expression of his
face caused that impulsive young person to fly to my side and whisper,
"Oh, why should one ever 'want to be an angel' when one can be a
Kindergartner!"

       *       *       *       *       *

From this time on, Patsy was the first to come in the morning and the
last to leave at night. He took the whole institution under his
guardianship, and had a watchful eye for everybody and everything
belonging to it.

He soon learned the family history of every child in the school, and
those family histories, I assure you, were of an exciting nature; but so
great were Patsy's prudence and his idea of the proprieties that he
never divulged his knowledge till we were alone. Then his tongue would
be loosed, and he would break into his half-childlike, half-ancient and
reflective conversation.

He had a stormy temper, which, however, he was fast learning to control,
and he was not always kind and gentle with his little playfellows; for
he had been raised in a hard school, and the giving and taking of blows
was a natural matter, to him the only feasible manner of settling a
misunderstanding.

His conduct to me, however, was touching in its devotion and perfect
obedience; and from the first hour he was my poor little knight _sans
peur et sans reproche_.

Meanwhile, though not perfect, he was greatly changed for the better. We
had given him a neat little coat and trousers, his hair was short and
smooth, and his great dark eyes shone with unutterable content. He was
never joyous; born under a cloud, he had lived in its shadow, and sorrow
too early borne had left its indelible impress, to be removed only by
that "undisturbed vision of the Father's face, which is joy
unutterable;" but for the first time in his life he was at peace.

The Duchess of Anna Street had moved into a house a trifle better suited
to her exalted station in life; one where the view was better, and the
society worthy of a fish-peddler's family. Accordingly we transferred
the Kennetts into Number 32, an honor which they took calmly at first,
on account of the odor of fish that pervaded the apartments. The three
and four year old Kennetts were now members of our flock, the dull baby
was cared for daily by the Infant Shelter, and Mrs. Kennett went out
washing; while her spouse upheld the cause of labor by attending
sand-lot meetings in the afternoon and marching in the evening.

So, in the rainy winter afternoons, when the other children had gone,
Patsy and I stayed together and arranged the next day's occupations.
Slang was being gradually eliminated from his conversation; but it is no
small task to correct nine years of bad grammar, and I never succeeded
in doing it. Alas! the time was all too short.

It was Patsy who sorted the wools and threaded the needles, and set
right the sewing-cards of the babies; and only the initiated can
comprehend the labyrinthine maze into which an energetic three-year-old
can transform a bit of sewing. It was he who fished the needles from the
cracks in the floor, rubbed the blackboards, and scrubbed the slates,
talking busily the while.

"Jiminy! (I take that back.) Miss Kate, we can't let Jimmy Buck have no
more needles; he sows 'em thick as seed round his chair. Now, now jis'
look yere! Ef that Battles chap hain't scratched the hull top of this
table with a buzzer! I'd lam him good ef I was you, I would."

"Do you think our Kindergarten would be the pleasant place it is if I
whipped little boys every day?"

"No-o-o! But there is times"--

"Yes, I know, Patsy, but I have never found them."

"Jim's stayin' out nights, this week," said he one day, "'nd I hez to
stay along o' Mis' Kennett till nine o'clock."

"Why, I thought Jim always stayed at home in the evening."

"Yes, he allers used ter; but he's busy now lookin' up a girl, don't yer
know."

"Looking up a girl! What do you mean, Patsy?"

Patsy scratched his head with the "ten-toothed comb of Nature,"--a habit
which prevailed with terrible and suggestive frequency when I first came
"into my kingdom,"--and answered:--

"Lookin' up a girl! Why, I s'posed yer knew that. I dunno 'zackly. Jim
says all the fellers does. He says he hates to git the feed an' wash the
dishes orfly, 'nd girls likes ter do it best of anything."

"Oh!" cried I, light bursting in upon my darkened intellect when
dish-washing was mentioned; "he wants to get married!"

"Well, he has ter look up a girl first, don't yer s'pose?"

"Yes, of course; but I don't see how Jim can get money enough to take
care of a wife. He only has thirty dollars a month."

"Well, he's goin' ter get a girl what'll 'go halveys,' don't yer know,
and pay for her keep. He'd ruther have a 'millingnary' girl--they're the
nicest; but if he can't, he's goin' to try for one out of the box
factory."

"Oh, Patsy! I wish"--

"Why, didn't I ought ter say that?"

"I wish you had a mother, dear."

"If I had, I'd know more 'n I do now," and a great sigh heaved itself
upward from beneath the blue jacket.

"No, you wouldn't know so much, Patsy, or at least you would get the
right end first. Never mind, dear boy, you can't understand."

"Jim says Mis' Kennett 'nd I needn't set such store by you, 'cause the
fust chance you gits you'll git married." (I always did have an elective
antipathy for Jim.) "Shall yer, Miss Kate?"

"Why, dear, I think we are very happy as we are, don't you?"

"Yes, ef I could only stay f'rever, 'nd not go ter the reel school. Jim
says I ought ter be gittin' book learnin' pretty soon."

"Did you tell him that Miss Helen was teaching you to read and write a
little while every afternoon?"

"Yes, I told him. He liked it fust rate. Mis' Kennett said she'd let her
childern stay f'rever with yer, ef they never larned a thing, 'nd so
would I, dear, dear Miss Kate! Oh, I bet God would like to see you in
that pretty blue dress!" and he hung over me with a speechless caress;
his first, and last indeed, for he was shy and reticent in emotion, and
never once showed his affection in the presence of the other children.

[Illustration: PAULINA'S "GOOD-MORNINGS TO JOHNNY CASS."]



CHAPTER VII.

PATSY FINDS HIS THREE LOST YEARS.

    "Now God be thanked for years enwrought
     With love which softens yet.
     Now God he thanked for every thought
     Which is so tender it has caught
     Earth's guerdon of regret."


Well, Jim did not succeed in finding his girl, although he "looked"
industriously. Either the "millingnaries" did not smile upon him and his
slender bank account, or they were not willing to wash the dishes and
halve the financial responsibilities besides; but as the winter days
slipped by, we could not help seeing that Patsy's pale face grew paler
and his soft dark eyes larger and more pathetic. In spite of better care
than he had ever had before, he was often kept at home by suffering all
too intense for a child to bear. It was almost as if a sixth sense came
to him in those days, so full was he of strange thoughts and intuitions.
His eyes followed me wistfully as I passed from one child to another,
and when my glance fell upon him, his loving gaze seemed always waiting
for mine.

When we were alone, as he pored over picture-books, or sat silently by
the window, watching the drops chase each other down the pane, his talk
was often of heaven and the angels.

[Illustration: "HE SAT SILENTLY BY THE WINDOW."]

Daga Ohlsen had left us. Her baby eyes had opened under Norway skies,
but her tongue had learned the trick of our language when her father and
mother could not speak nor understand a word, and so she became a
childish interpreter of manners and customs in general. But we knew that
mothers' hearts are the same the world over, and, lacking the power to
put our sympathy in words, we sent Daga's last bit of sewing to her
mother. Sure enough, no word was needed; the message explained itself;
and when we went to take a last look at the dear child, the scrap of
cardboard lay in the still hand, the needle threaded with yellow wool,
the childish knot, soiled and cumbersome, hanging below the pattern just
as she had left it. It was her only funeral offering, her only funeral
service, and was it not something of a sermon? It told the history of
her industry, her sudden call from earthly things, and her mother's
tender thought. It chanced to be a symbol, too, as things do chance
sometimes, for it was a butterfly dropping its cocoon behind it, and
spreading its wings for flight.

Patsy had been our messenger during Daga's illness, and his mind was
evidently on that mystery which has puzzled souls since the beginning of
time; for no anxious, weary, waiting heart has ever ceased to beat
without its passionate desire to look into the beyond.

"Nixy Jones's mother died yesterday, Miss Kate. They had an orful nice
funeral."

"Yes, I'm sorry for the poor little children; they will miss their
mamma."

"Not 'nuff to hurt 'em! Them Joneses never cared nuthin' for nobody;
they was playing on tin oyster cans the hull blessed ev'nin', till Jim
went 'nd stop't 'em, 'nd told 'em it warn't perlite. Say how dretful it
must be to go down into the cold, dark ground, and be shut up in a tight
box, 'nd want to git out--git out--'nd keep hollerin' 'nd a-hollerin',
and nobody come to fetch yer, cause yer's dead!"

"Oh, Patsy, child, stop such fearful thoughts! I hope people are glad
and willing to stay when they are dead. The part of them that wonders
and thinks and feels and loves and is happy or sad--you know what I
mean, don't you?"

"Yes," he said slowly, leaning his head on his hand.

"God takes care of that part; it is His own, and He makes it all right.
And as for our bodies, Patsy, you don't care about keeping your poor
little aching back, do you? You talk about the cold, dark earth. Why, I
think of it as the tender, warm earth, that holds the little brown acorn
until it begins to grow into a spreading oak-tree, and nurses the little
seeds till they grow into lovely blossoming flowers. Now we must trot
home, Patsy. Wrap this shawl over your shoulders, and come under my
umbrella."

"Oh, I don't need any shawl, please. I'm so orful hot!"

"That's just the reason," I replied, as I looked with anxious eyes at
his flushed cheeks.

I left him at the little door on Anna Street, and persuaded Mrs. Kennett
to give him some hot soup at dinner-time.

The next morning I was startled from a profound sleep by a tremendous
peal of the door-bell. Though only half awakened, my forebodings seemed
realized; and the bell rang "Patsy" in my ears.

I hastily slipped on my dress, and, going to the door, saw just whom I
expected,--Jim.

"What's the matter with Patsy?"

"He's turrible bad, miss; he got took with one o' them fits the worst
kind in the night, and liked ter died. Yer could a heerd him screech a
block off."

"Oh, my poor boy! Have you had a doctor? What did he say?"

"Well, he said he guessed it was the last one, miss, 'nd I'm afraid it
is, sure."

"Who is with him now? Are you going right back?"

"Yes, miss, soon as I go 'nd git leave from the boss. Mis' Kennett's
went to her washin'. She couldn't 'ford ter lose a job. I found Mr.
Kennett, 'nd he's mindin' Patsy. He cries for you; he says he don't want
nothin' but jest Miss Kate, and he's that crazy he wants to git up 'nd
come to the Kindergarten."

"Dear little lad!" I said, trying to keep back the tears. "Here, Jim,
take the school keys to Miss Helen, and ask her to take my place to-day.
I'll start in ten minutes for Patsy."

"Thank yer, miss. I tell yer, he's a crooked little chap, but he's as
smart as they make 'em; 'nd annyhow, he's all the folks I've got in the
world, 'nd I hope we kin pull him through."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Pull him through!" Had years passed over Patsy's head since I saw him
last? He seemed to have grown old with the night's pain, but the eyes
shone out with new lustre and brilliancy, making ready, I thought, to
receive the heavenly visions.

We were alone. I could not bear Mr. Kennett's presence, and had
dispatched him for the doctor. I knelt by the bedside, and took his cold
hand in mine. I could not pray God to spare him, it was so clear that He
had better take him to Himself.

"I knowed you'd come, Miss Kate," he said faintly; "I knowed you'd hurry
up; you's allers hurryin' up for us boys."

Oh, how beautiful, how awesome, it is to be the messenger of peace to an
unhappy soul! So great a joy is it to bear that it is not given to many
twice in a lifetime.

The rain beat upon the frail roof, the wind blew about the little house,
and a darkness of fast-gathering black clouds fell into the room in
place of the morning sunbeams. It was a gloomy day for a journey, but if
one were traveling from shadow into sunshine, I thought, it would not
matter much.

"Mis' Kennett says I must hev a priest, but I don't want no priest but
you," whispered the faint voice as I bent over the pillows. "What does
priests do when folks is sick, Miss Kate?"

"They pray, Patsy."

"What fur?"

I paused, for in my grief I could think of no simple way of telling that
ignorant little child what they did pray for.

"They will pray for you, dear," I said at length, "because they will
want to talk to God about the little boy who is coming to Him; to tell
Him how glad they are that he is to be happy at last, but that they
shall miss him very, very much."

"The priest lives clear out Market Street, 'nd he wouldn't git 'ere
'fore God knew the hull thing 'thout his tellin' of it. You pray, Miss
Kate."

_"O thou dear, loving Father in Heaven, Patsy's Father and mine, who
givest all the little children into their mothers' arms, if one of them
is lost and wandering about the world forlorn and alone, surely Thou
wilt take him to a better home! We send little Patsy to Thee, and pray
that his heart may be fitted with joy and thankfulness when he comes to
live in Thy house."_

"Tell 'im 'bout them three years what I lost, so 't He'll make 'lowance,
jest as you did."

_"O God, who saw fit to lay a heavy burden on Patsy's little shoulders
and take away his three years, make them up to him in his heavenly
life."_

"Yer never said Amen! 'T ain't no good 'thout yer say Amen!"

_"Amen!"_

Silence for many minutes. The brain was alive with thoughts, but the
poor tired body was weakened already with the labor of telling them.
When he spoke again, it was more slowly and with greater difficulty.

"I guess--Heaven--is kind o' like--our Kindergartent--don't you? 'nd
so--I ain't goin' to feel--strange! There'll be beautiful places, with
flowers bloomin' in 'em, 'nd birds 'nd brooks mebbe, like those in the
stories you tell us, and lots of singin' like we have; and the peoples
are good to each other, like our children, 'ceptin' Jimmy Battles,--'nd
they'll do each other's work, 'nd wait on the angels, 'nd run errants
for God, I s'pose--and everybody'll wear clean--white--aprons--like in
the picture-books; but I sha'n't like it much 'thout you git there
pretty quick, Miss Kate;--but I ain't goin' to cry!"

"Oh, Patsy, my boy, it is for those who are left behind to cry. It must
be better to go."

"Well, I'm willin'. I've got enough o' this, I tell yer, with backaches,
'nd fits, 'nd boys callin' sassy names--'nd no gravy ever on my
pertater;--but I hate to go 'way from the Kindergartent--only p'raps
Heaven is just like, only bigger, 'nd more children--'nd no Jimmy
Battleses! Sing about the pleasant mornin' light, will yer, please--Miss
Kate?"

And in a voice choked with tears, as Jim came in and lifted Patsy in his
arms, I sang the hymn that he had sung, with folded hands and reverent
mien, every morning of his life in the Kindergarten:--

    "Father, we thank Thee for the night,
     And for the pleasant morning light;
     For rest and gladness, love and care,
     And all that makes the day so fair!
     Help us to do the things we should:
     To be to others kind and good;
     In all we do, in work or play,
     To grow more loving every day!"

The last lingering, trembling note fell upon the death-like stillness of
the room, as with one sharp, brief struggle, one look of ineffable love
and peace, the tired lids drooped heavily over the eyes never to be
lifted again. Light had gleamed upon the darkened pathway, but the
silent room, the dying fire, the failing light, and the falling rain
were all in fellowship with Death. My blessed boy! God had given him
back his three lost years!

"Oh, it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach,
but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn. When Death
strikes down the innocent and young, from every fragile form from which
he lets the panting spirit free a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of
mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world and bless it. Of every tear
that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born,
some gentler nature comes."

[Illustration: TAIL-PIECE.]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Story of Patsy" ***

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