The Toledo chronicle. [volume] (Toledo, Tama County, Iowa) 1873-1924, 1874-10-22

they were not there. On and on she
went, turning corners and crossing streets,
jostled by the crowds, till her feet ached
SO, and she was so out of breath she had
to stand still a moment to rest. Poor
little Blanche! She knew now that she
was lost. What could she do9 Oh, per-
haps she might find her home, and be
there when her mamma camel That
would be so nice!
So she hurried on again, going up long
shaded streets, past brown-stone houses
that looked like her home; but not one
of them was, after all. At last she found
herself in the strangest street she had
ever seen. 1t was very narrow, the
houses looked poor, and some of them
seemed ready to topple over The peo-
pie looked poor too. They were almost
all ragged and dirty, and some of the
men and women had rough, wicked
looking faces. Blanche walked faster
than everslow, for she was frightened,
and her heart beat so she could scarcely
breathe.
Some boys were snow-balling on
corner. She thought they looked like
naughty boys, and was sure they were
when they called out, Halo, Snow
bird" So she ran, and, perhaps for fun,
they ran after her.
Painting, stumbling, she slipped on the
wet pavement and rolled into the miry
gutter. When she got up, nobody would
have known her. Her hat had flown off,
her shoes and stockings, the white
sacque, even her face and hands, were
begrimed with the black mire, and her
dress was torn in two or three places
The boys must have been very naughty
indeed, for they snatched the bill she
had dropped, and ran away.
As Blanche stood, holding the forlorn
little hat with it's draggled plume, and
sobbing, partly because the boys were
so naughty, and partly because she was
hurt and lost, and dirty, and ragged, and
miserable, an old woman hobbled toward
her. She had a great bag on her bent
over shoulders, and in her hand long
stick with a hook at the end of it, She
looked all wrinkled and brown, just like
Il witch in one of her story-books,
Blanche thought. But she seemed kind,
for she asked, "Whats the matter,
dearyg" and patted Blanche's curls with
her bony fingers. Blanche told her only
about the boys teasing her, and about
her fall, for she somehow felt half afraid
of her.
"Poor little deary," said the old
woman, "your things bent fit for ye
now" Then she put the little hat into
the bag, unfastened the sacque and
crammed that in too, then, tying a tat
tered handkerchief over her head, she
patted her shoulders and said
Now, deary, ye're more decent. Run
home and don't spake to any policeman,
or he'll carry ye off, maybe"
Then the cunning old ragpicker hob
bled away, and Blanche hurried on
again. Poor child she hardly knew her
self now, but telt as if she were in some
dreadful dream and couldn't wake up.
Would she ever be Blanche Irvine again,
was growing cold, so cold-snowing, too,
over her bare neck and arms that the
ragged handkerchief didn't half cover.
The cold wind cut her face like a knife,
her feet were numb, and her fingers felt
like icicles.
1t was growing dark now, and the
street lamps were being lighted Peo-
pie were hurrying by, but no one noticed
her. Ragged little waits were plenty in
that street If she saw "a policeman she
would run for fear he would take her to
some dreadful place.
At last she came to the end of the
street close by the dark river, with its
wharves, and vessels and ferry boats.
She couldn't go any farther now, so she
leaned against a lamp post and when she
saw a kind-looking man would put out
her little hands and say, "Please take
me home" But everybody seemed in
too great a hurry to stop; once some
body put some pennies into her hands,
but most pushed her away.
1t grew colder and colder. Blanche
felt as if she were going to sleep, when
all at once a face that she had seen be.
fore seemed to float by among the snow
flakes Quick, quick, before it should
vanish, She tried to run, calling "Oh,
please take me home" and sank down
in the snow. The gentleman passing
raised the little bundle in his arms, and
to his great wonder saw the face OF the
child he had often petted at her fathers
house.
When Blanche opened her eyes an
hour later she was in her own little bed,
so warm and comfortable, with her ma
ma and papa beside her. And oh! how
they cried over her and kissed her as she
told her sad little story.
Mrs. Irvine never sends the poor away
from her door now. They are let In,
warmed, fed and clothed. She stops
her carriage to inquire into the wants OF
the ragged children she meets and finds
her way to their wretchcd homes.
Blanche loves such visiting dearly She
has her own little purse well filled week
ly by papa, for poor children, and IS
never SO happy as when helping them.
"'Cause l know 'zactly how it feels"
she says, "to be little beddar dirl
most f'wozen."-Chicngo Standard.