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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.”

“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?”