FullReads

‘I had some peanuts, and two sucks of Joe’s orange; but it warn’t very fillin’,’ he said, gravely.

‘I should think not. Here! one stew; and be quick, please,’ cried John, as we sat down in a warm corner of the confectioner’s opposite.

While little Jack shovelled in the hot oysters, with his eyes shutting up now and then in spite of himself, we looked at him and thought again of little Rosy-face at home safe in his warm nest, with mother-love watching over him. Nodding towards the ragged, grimy, forlorn, little creature, dropping asleep over his supper like a tired baby, I said,–

‘Can you imagine our Freddy out alone at this hour, trying to ‘work off’ his papers, because afraid to go home till he has?’

‘I’d rather not try,’ answered brother John, winking hard, as he stroked the little head beside him, which, by the bye, looked very like a ragged, yellow door-mat. I think brother John winked hard, but I can’t be sure, for I know I did; and for a minute there seemed to be a dozen little newsboys dancing before my eyes.

‘There goes our car; and it’s the last,’ said John, looking at me.

‘Let it go, but don’t leave the boy;’ and I frowned at John for hinting at such a thing.

‘Here is his car. Now, my lad, bolt your last oyster, and come on.’

‘Good-night, ma’am! thankee, sir!’ croaked the grateful little voice, as the child was caught up in John’s strong hands and set down on the car-step.

With a word to the conductor, and a small business transaction, we left Jack coiled up in a corner to finish his nap as tranquilly as if it wasn’t midnight, and a ‘knocking-round’ might not await him at his journey’s end.

We didn’t mind the storm much as we plodded home; and when I told the story to Rosy-face, next day, his interest quite reconciled me to the sniffs and sneezes of a bad cold.

‘If I saw that poor little boy, Aunt Jo, I’d love him lots!’ said Freddy, with a world of pity in his beautiful child’s eyes.

And, believing that others also would be kind to little Jack, and such as he, I tell the story.

When busy fathers hurry home at night, I hope they’ll buy their papers of the small boys, who get ‘shoved back;’ the feeble ones, who grow hoarse, and can’t ‘sing out;’ the shabby ones, who evidently have only forgetful Sams to care for them; and the hungry-looking ones, who don’t get what is ‘fillin’.’ For love of the little sons and daughters safe at home, say a kind word, buy a paper, even if you don’t want it; and never pass by, leaving them to sleep forgotten in the streets at midnight, with no pillow but a stone, no coverlet but the pitiless snow, and not even a tender-hearted robin to drop leaves over them.