The new Northwest. [volume] (Portland, Or.) 1871-1887, 1875-11-05
NUMBER 10.
Plain Tom.


It might have been more than Tom
once, when he was a babe, and had
father and mother, and some one to care
for him, even if they had but little love
for him. After they died-after he was
turned on the wide world to fight his
own way, to hunger for food, to yearn
for sympathy and kind words-his name
was 'rTom." It was name enough for a
waif-a ragged, hungry boy, who re-
eeived more kicks than pennies, and
who used to sit Oh the post Office steps
and try to remember when any one had
spoken kind word to him.
The hoy sometimes wondered and
poudeTed over the words Sympathy"
''mercy,p and. Charity" He heard
people use them-the same people who
cuffed him about and were content to
see him in rags He thought the words
must mean something way of-some-
thing be could not grasp then, but
might approach when he had grown to
mans estate. If Toms voice had sad
ness or sorrow in it as he cried "shinep
or If it had exultation as he shouted
''.morning papers p' no one In ,thesbusy
throng seemed to notice or care. He
realized that he was standing up single
handed to battle against great world,
and sometimes when the world struck
him down the boy ,crept away into an
alley to sorrow and grieve that he had
ever been born.
They found a bundle of rags in a pub
lie hallway yesterday morning. The
old janitor pushed at the bundle with
his broom, and growled and muttered
over its being left there by some va
grant. The bundle OF rags was Tom.
The janitor bent over him, and pushed
at him again, and called to him to rise
up and go about his business. But the
bundle did not move. Tom was dead
Zone arm was thrown around his boot
box, that it might not be stolen while
he slumbered, the other rested on his
breast, fingers tightly clenehed, as if
death had come while the boy was re-
Solving to carry on the unequal battle
against poverty and a cold world to the
bitter end. IN f-.st... -.r.-.-...
There should have been sadness in the
hearts of those who lifted up the body
and sent it away to be buried in Potter's
field; but there was not. They were
men, to be sure, but they could not un-
derstand how it made any difference to
the world whether it had one waif more
or less. They couldn't feel thu heart
aches which Tom had felt--his despera-
tion-his grim despair-his bitter,
crushing, everyday sorrow. They
should have, at least uncovered their
heads as the body was lifted up, and
said to each other: "He was brave to
fight such a battle" But they did not.
There would have been no word, no eu-
logy, had not another waif passed the
door by chance. He saw the body, rec
ognized it, and as he let his box fall to
the flags that he might brush away a
tear from his eye, he whispered:
''f there are angels, Il know that
kTom'll see 'em ~ .. -..-
And no man shall dare to take from OF
add to the simple, fearful eulogy.
There will be a shallow grave, which
will soon sink out of sight aud memory,
and scarce month will pass away be-
fore even the lads name will be forgot
ten by the world-the world which
prides itself on its charity and mercy,
and which let poor Tom stand up alone
in his battle for food and raiment and
place to rest his feet; let him creep of
to die alone in the shadows of midnight,
feeling in his young heart that every
mans hand was turned against him be-
cause he was a waif, ragged, hunger
ing orphan.