FullReads

“I hope it will be something good to eat,” said Tommy Puffer. Tommy’s body looked for all the world like a pudding-bag. It was an india-rubber pudding-bag, though. I shouldn’t like to say that Tommy was a glutton. But I am sure that no boy of his age could put out of sight, in the same space of time, so many dough-nuts, ginger-snaps, tea-cakes, apple-dumplings, pumpkin-pies, jelly-tarts, puddings, ice-creams, raisins, nuts, and other things of the sort. Other people stared at him in wonder. He was never too full to take anything that was offered him, and at parties his weak and foolish mother was always getting all she could to stuff Tommy with. So when Tommy said he hoped it would be something nice to eat, and rolled his soft lips about, as though he had a cream-tart in his mouth, all the boys laughed, and Mr. Blake smiled. I think even the cane would have smiled if it had thought it polite.

“I hope it’ll be something pleasant,” said Fred Welch.

“So do I,” said stumpy little Tommy Bantam.

“So do I, boys,” said Mr. Blake, as he turned away; and all the way down the block Old Ebony kept calling back, “So do I, boys! so do I!”

Mr. Blake and his friend the cane kept on down the street, until they stood in front of a building that was called “The Yellow Row.” It was a long, two-story frame building, that had once been inhabited by genteel people. Why they ever built it in that shape, or why they daubed it with yellow paint, is more than I can tell. But it had gone out of fashion, and now it was, as the boys expressed it, “seedy.” Old hats and old clothes filled many of the places once filled by glass. Into one room of this row Mr. Blake entered, saying:

“How are you, Aunt Parm’ly?”

“Howd’y, Mr. Blake, howd’y! I know’d you was a-comin’, honey, fer I hyeard the sound of yer cane afore you come in. I’m mis’able these yer days, thank you. I’se got a headache, an’ a backache, and a toothache in de boot.”

I suppose the poor old colored woman meant to say that she had a toothache “to boot.”

“You see, Mr. Blake, Jane’s got a little sumpin to do now, and we can git bread enough, thank the Lord, but as fer coal, that’s the hardest of all. We has to buy it by the bucketful, and that’s mighty high at fifteen cents a bucket. An’ pears like we couldn’t never git nothin’ ahead on account of my roomatiz. Where de coal’s to come from dis ere winter I don’t know, cep de good Lord sends it down out of the sky; and I reckon stone-coal don’t never come dat dar road.”

After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see Peter Sitles, the blind broom-maker.

“I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake,” said Sitles. “That air stick o’ yourn’s better’n a whole rigimint of doctors fer the blues. An’ I’ve been a-havin’ on the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last few days. I remembered what you was a-saying the last time you was here, about trustin’ of the good Lord. But I’ve had a purty consid’able heartache under my jacket fer all that. Now, there’s that Ben of mine,” and here Sitles pointed to a restless little fellow of nine years old, whose pants had been patched and pieced until they had more colors than Joseph’s coat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked hungry, as some poor children always do. Their minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was rocking a baby in an old cradle. “There’s Ben,” continued the blind man, “he’s as peart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn’t orter say it. Bennie hain’t got no clothes. I can’t beg. But Ben orter be in school.” Here Peter Sitles choked a little.