Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1874-01-01
THE LITTLE HOUSE AT THE CROSS
ING.
BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

1t stood right at the railroad crossing
a small, homely house, with a low IN
painted door and three narrow slips of
windows. ANY one would have called it
ugly in winter, crowded in between its
dingy neighbors and the iron track, along
which the trains went screeching day
and night, sometimes fairly sitting the
house in black, sulphury smoke.
But in summer that was another thing.
The little three-COrnered yard was exactly
filled by three fIower-beds, bordered with
turf and crowded to the very edge with
J0hnnyjump grass pinls, nOne-so-
pretties, four-o clocks, and all manner of
sensible, old fashioned beauties, that grew
without u mite of cOaXing. And the
morning glOries started with the first Of
May, and climbed up in green rows, never
once stopping until they hid all the brown
wall and dangled down from the caves.
Behind the house was another little
wedge Of ground, as full as the flower
garden, only that the borders were of pale
green lettuce and curly cress; while
radishes, onions, peas, and cabbage fairly
elbowed each other for chance at the
mellow soil
AT the end Of this garden was a queer,
low shop-so low you never left off won
dering about it until you CHANGED to see,
standing in his place at the switch, a little
man, hunchback, only four feet high.
The house and the shop and the two gar
dens all belonged to him, Tom Larkin,
the switch-tender. The name was on a
board over the shop door, done in black
letters:
Tom LARKIN. CISTRENS.
You might not see at first Just what was
the matter with the crazy little sign, es-
pecialiy if you were on the express, which
goes by without stopping; and | assure
you it did not make a particle Of differ
ence, for Tom had given up the cistern
business, and only kept the sign because
Maggie painted it and he fancied it
looked respectable.
That reminds me to tell you about
Maggie; for you might pass a great many
times and not see her. But if you
CHANGED on fine day, when the wind
blew the smoke to the west, to come
down on The Cranston mail and wait at
the switch for the express to pass uD,
you'd be pretty sure to hear some one
singing like blackbird, and see small
girl, with an old face, sitting in the door
way busy with straws and ribbons Al
ways busy and always singing, in spite Of
the crutch leaning against her chalr-a
pititul little beggar, that stood there
through the singing, and said as plain as
a battered Old stick could say:
"She's cripple and she sings. They're
as happy as. the day is long, and ones q
cripple and t'other a hunchback. What
do you think of that?"
Well, to be sure, it did seem hard at
first thought; but, when you came to
know all about it. you'd see palmer than
ever how the Lord never forgetS the least
of his little ones, but follows them all
with his tender mercies, and the Lords
tender mercies are good al the way
through.
1t was Christmas Eve when Maggie
came to the little house at the crossing
Tom Larkin sat broOding over his fire.
without so much as a cat or dog to keep
him company Christmas was coming
on Sunday that year, and Tom had been
down to the market to buy his bit of din
ner, and had seen the shops lighted uD,
and the children shouting about the win
dows, and people hurrylng along with all
manner of mysterious bundles; and the
iollity and the merriment made him more
wretched and lonesome than ever. Whv
should he, of all the world, have nothing
for which to be glad Oh Christmas Eve
The very crossing SweeperS danced with
their muddy brooms and ratified the cop
pers in their pockets; but he had not a
soul to wish him well or care if it went i'll
with him. It seemed all the worse be-
cause there had been some one, not so
very long ago.
The wife who loved him, in spite of his
deformitv, had only been dead year
and. though he felt that somewhere and
somehow she was with the blessed, he had
never learned to think of her as Christ
mas angel, singing the old song of peace
and goodwill TO men.
So Tom was lonesome, and he sat by
his fire, waiting until the sound OF hur-
rying steps and noisy voices should cease,
as it did after a while. The lights went
ont. too, from all the houses In the neigh
borhood: and TOMS lantern burned on
until it was time to set the switch Tor the
night express. Then he went out gloom
ily, swinging his lantern, and never once
looking up. He could hear the faint
whistle of the train, three minutes late
that night. He wondered at it as he sci
the switch.