Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1882-12-24
TEE STORY OF Two LITTLE FRAMPS.
BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
lChicago Interior.l

lChicagO Interior.
Something wonderful had happened in
the dull, little city of Newburgh.
In the stalls of the market, in the dingy
little shops, in the ill-smelling saloons,
everywhere we're seen small green trees.
Some, very small indeed, set in gayly
painted pots of course earthernware; some,
a little larger. in green boxes, and very
many standing in long rows, or heaped up
in corners.
Every day people were buying thegreen
trees and carrying them away; yet as fast
as they disappeared others took their
places. Was the king coming to New
burgh?
All, yes! the king of the children; the
king of hearts and homes; the king of
merriment and good cheer-king Santa
Claus.
So here and there and everywhere the
green trees multiplied, and one morning,
most marvellous of all. the bare market
place was dotted over with small, green
groves; in the dirty cutters, around the
great pump that shivered in its coating of
ice, clustered about the wooden posts,
gnawed and bitten by the farmers horses,
green trees with feathery branches, ali
sparkling like silver with the starry frost
fakes that had settled down upon them.
Men and women stopped to look at the
pretty sight, and children clapped their
hands, shouting to each other, O look!
look! See there!
Down crowded street that led to the
market square, two boys came briskly
trotting, shivering in the frosty air, and
holding fast by each others hands as if to
keep them from flying to pieces. The
pavements were like ice under their poor
worn shoes, the wind was like an icy
breath as it crept in at the holes and rents
IN their clothing, and nipped their bare,
red fingers. Yet not all the frost in the
world could freeze up their jolly little
hearts, for they chartered as briskly as two
squirrels, and, indeed, their words sounded
very much like squirrel talk to the people
who noticed them, for Carl and Antoine
were Italian boys, and love their own Ian
guage best. They might have been broth
ers, but they were not sure of it; for the
only home they could clearly remember
was with papa Towelli, a dreadful old
man, who kept dozen or more boys in a
miserable cellar, and sent them out day
after day to earn him money by playing
the harp and violin, selling matches, and
little images of plaster, begging, and, 1
am afraid, by stealing also.
Antoine had his violion under his arm.
but little Carl's part was to sing in his
shrill piping voice, such songs as happy
little children sing in the sunshine of his
own far away country; and though they
may be sweet enough there, they sounded
very harsh in the market place of New
burgh, as if the cold had gotten into his
throat, and filled all the tiny pipes with
frost and ice.
But not one of all the fortunate. we'll
dressed children exclaimed with greater
delight at the little groves in the market
place than these shivering beggars. They
ran from one place to another, they
laughed all over their brown faces, they
pointed to the frost stars on the branches,
and they fairly screamed with delight over
some green twigs that they picked up from
the trampled hay behind farmers wagon,
where the horses were eating their break
fast. Then they stood by the door of the
market house and played little, and Carl
croaked out one of his frosty songs, like
little green frog that had walked up too
soon in the spring; but no one seemed to
have time to listen. So because they were
faint and hungry they presently stopped,
and stood looking so longingly at woman
who was buying fat goose, that the burly,
red-faced butcher turned suddenly towards
them, with his great knife in his hand, and
said:
"Here, you little beggars; off with you!"
But when he saw what little fellows they
were, only five and seven years old, if you
can count years for children who have
grown up without any birthdays, he cut
great piece from bologna sausage, and
threw it to them. and the woman who was
buying the goose gave them each roll
from her basket. Their eyes and their
white teeth shone with satisfaction as they
smiled their thanks, for they had no shame
about being called beggars; they may even
have thought it was pet name, like ''dar-
ling" or ''sweetheart," or ''cara mio.''
They went back to their own corner to
eat. 1t was very good seat, close by
grating where little warmth and good
many smells came up fl ON the breakfasts
that were cooking in the Easements below.
While they were eating they talked of the
little green trees.
''Where do they come from, do you think.
Antoine?" asked little Carl.
"From shops, perhaps" said Antoine;
sit must be that men make them some
where"
''Might it not be that they grow" asked
Carl; but Antoine shook his head.
''They are too little; besides, the leaves
that grow fall off from the trees in win
ter; they hate the cold as you and 1 do,
Carl, and they SILVER, and SILVER, and fall
down and die, as think we shall do some
day"
''Smell it," said Carl, putting twig to
Antoine's nose; you can smell the green
paint and the varnish, and here at the end
it is sticky, where the glue is not dry
Presently they saw wagon coming
slowly into the market place, loaded with
more green trees.
''See,'' said Antoine, "there are more and
more of them; let us go, Carl, and find
where they make them"
"But papa Towelli" said little Carl,
with look of terror in his eyes.
'He will not know" said Antoine, des-
perately. ''Seppi says we do not belong
to him, and we will go very far away
where he can never find us. I will play
and you shall sing, and people will give
us bread and sausage, and we will never
come back"
He started up and took Carl by the
hand, but at first the child hung back.