The Richmond palladium. [volume] (Richmond, Ind.) 1855-1875, 1870-11-19
OUR SATURDAY NIGHT.
Wanted to be Rich

Again goes a week with its won
drous freight of good and evil-of
Joy and sorrow-of life and death,
as the wall of the newborn and
moan of the dying make the woof
and the warp of the carpet of our
existence.
And what checkered life is this
at best! And how foolish we all
are to SO cling to it's labors end to
dread the coming hour of dissolu-
ton and release from that earthli-
ness which is the prisonage of the
soul.
Tonight a boy came to our
room. A pale faced, studious,
honest looking little fellow OF
twelve years. We were seated at
the desk in our private apart
ments when there came such a
timid knock on the door we hard.
ly noticed it. Thinking perhaps
there might be somebody there, we
arose, walked across the room, and
opened the way.
| Our visitor has gone. and all we
will write about this Saturday night
will be the conversation. And our
little boy friends can read and see
if they would have asked such
/ questions or given such answers.
The one who called on us was
poor boy-a very poor boy. He
worked in a kindling-wood factory
up town. A place where pine
cord-wood is sawed into little
blocks abou. six inches long, then
split up into sticks about an inch
square, tied into little bundles
about large enough to fill the crown
of your hat, and sold to be used ia
kindling coal fires in CRATES where
coal is used for fuel.
His hands were hard-ever SO
much harder than ours-just as
ours were once, years ago, when
We we're poor boy working on a
farm, husking corn for a quarter
of q dollar per day. But those
were happy days, for all we were
but poor boy. They were hap
py, because we tried our best to
| make them so.
His little brown linen pants were
too short and too small for him,
and his shirt, though clean, was
coarse and serviceable. But the
clothes are nothing. They wear
out In thinking of great men we
never stop to wonder how they
were dressed-wc remember them
by their acts; as others will re-
member US and all who read this,
or who do not.
Good evening, my little man.
Will you walk in p
Yes, sir, if you please. Is this
Mr.. Pomeroy, who writes every
Saturday Night ?
'Yes-come in, and be seated,
Take the easy chair, for you look
tired
Thank you, sir, very much
Not at all. What is your name,
and what can l do for you?'
'Ny name is Henry Stevens, and
didn't know but you would talk
with me a few moments to night
/ have all summer wanted to come,
ever since my mother died. And
last night it seemed as if she came
to ne in my dreams and told me to
come to you tonight, and I could
not help coming, sir
You did right. Now what can
l do for you? Perhaps nothing
but we will see-How old are you?'
Twelve years old, SIR
Where do you work. and wha:
do you work at, Henry ?
L pack up kindiing for Mr.,
on Twenty-third street.
How much do you earn2'
-Four dollars q week, SIR
And board yourself p
4 board with my aunt for three
dollars a week and washing
Where is your father2'
He died five years ago
In the army, or where, and how?'
He was hurt in q fight on Bax-
ter street, in a place where men
were talking politics, and lie died.
When did your mother die p
Last winter, sir-the 14th Of
January
Was she poor !?
Yes. sir; she worked by the
day in . laundry
Have you much education P
Not much ; I can read pretty
good, and write and cipher some,
and know = little about geography
That is good. What do you