Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1879-12-24
A PaWnbrOker as Santa Claus.
BY HAROLD FREDERIC.

A warm, muggy, dampish day was
that which come before Christmas OF
1873, and Boston is never dingier than
on such days. The common was clad in
a mantle of snow, but it looked moist
and uninviting. The streets all wore
the same livery of chocolate tinted mud,
into which the big wet flakes melted as
they fell. Over this the heavy drays
groaned laborously, and through it the
swift sleighs cut with EXPERIMENTING
clangor Of clashing bells. Now and
then huge mass of snow would come
sliding down from roof. above, with q
great splsshing as it broke upon the
walk. The streets were thronged. One
was conscious of an air of preparation in
everything. The whirling visions of
diverted coachmen, charming female
faces, and dazzling robes, with their
accomplishments of muff1ed hoof- beats
and chime of jingling silver, seemed to
tell of childish glee on the morrow.
The wonderful throngs of people which
poured in ceaseless streams u p and down
the central arteries of the city, bore
with it the inspiration of coming Christ
mas The chimes to the west of the
Garden were ringing out joyous notes.
Butcher boys lodged through the crowd
with suggestive bundles, out of which
protruded long black claws which limited
at toothsome pleasures. There was the
clerk from Milk street with a superb
Longfellow under his arm which had
cost 8 weeks wages, and which was 20
go to serious schoolmistress, who had
written:
Lives of great man all remind us, etc..
on the puce-colored page in his autograph
book; here the CHEEKY mother fastening
for the Brighton car, her arms loaded
with parcels, and her eyes cleaning with
a pleasure not difficult to understand !;
here the pretty schoolgirl, there the
doting Observation-Disclosures faces
upon which the coming day had set its
seal of hope and happiness.
No, not everywhere. Here is q little
girl slowly crossing the Common, upon
whose thin features there rests only the
signet Of sorrow. She is scantily clad.
Her bent, ragged shoes sink into the
drenching snow at every step. Her dress
is old and rent. She is tiny creature,
with face 80 wan and pale that one
sees only two great brown eyes, red and
blurred by tears, and quivering lips
which tell piteous tale. It is lost on
the pagser-by, each esger with thoughts
of what the morrow brings for him.
Though the day is mild, she finds itcold.
Her fingers, as they meet about q bulky
bundle in her arms, 1eok painfully red.
The others have Joys Of their own.
Let US go with the little one. 3g s.,
The cracked bell il Bowdoin Square
rings out ghostly six o'clock as she
comes TO the end of her journey. Our
little one stops in front of tall, dismal
house of dingy brick, with narrow
black door at one side. The rest is given
over to pawnbroker, whose rusty wares
are sprawled. behind the stained and ILL
lighted panes in unattraetive chaos.
She opens the narrow door and is lost in
the darkness of the hallway. Shall we
follow her. ASK a@S --fss
Paint to yourself an attic long, low
and dark, with two small windows which
look out upon dull outline of irregular
roofs, against gray sky. We are in the
tenement part of the city now and the
roofs are hung with squalid garments,
depending straight and motionless in
the wet air. By the aid of a candle
which our little one places upon the
bare table, we can look about. There is
no carpet upon the floor. In one end
stands stove, poor tumble down affair,
into the CRATE of which her numb fing-
ers are laying paper and splinters of
wood from an old barrel stave. There
is big basket of linen, smaller one