The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1885-05-29

ANY mother!
"No, maam.
ANY father"
eyes, ma'am.
what does your father do for liying?'
"Sings. ma'am.
"Sings!''
son the corner. ma'am; the street
corners
what else does he do.
''Gits drunk, ma fam.
The little mite stood shivcring. white
and pinched and cold, as she answered
these questions.
s'Are you sure you're hungry9"
Il hain't had anything to eat to-day but
a mite of old cake a lady gave me-.
'Do bring the child in said Aunt
Betsy, who usually called such little beg
gars little monsters and horrible nuisances.
| did not know she had heard this dia-
logue at the door. so | brought the child
III.
How the great dark eyes-her only
b~eauty-opened at the sight of the com
fort and luxury within, and how much
bluer and more wizened and starved she
looked in the midst of the light and color
Il think it's a shame and a sin for chill
dren to suffer ike that : said Aunt Bet
sey, ''for want and neglect are written all
over that poor little thing. Tell Bridget
to put something on the table in the
kitchen, and let her eat and be satisfied for
once"
''She's another, is she ?" asked the girl.
Sure an she's hungry, though"
Children in such circumstances do not
generally talk, unless you draw them out.
| noticed that this little one coughed oc-
casionally, and | thought | saw signs of
a fell disease in her eyes and cheeks and
the bloodless appearance of her fingers.
"What did your mother die with - l
asked.
Consumption, ma'am," was the ans
wer. 'She had TO so to the hospital,
cause father got so bad
"And does your father treat you well ?"
She looked up at me. Oh, that hunted,
pitiful look in the eyes of that child : the
look that at once accepts and reveals every
thing. 1t was as patent to me as scars Or
wounds, that she had been beaten all her
life, and felt a choking in my throat when
| saw that she accepted this as her dover,
and looked for nothing but neglect and un-
kindness.
1--WE must see if we can't find you
something warm to wear" said. as |
went rummaging in "A closet where we
kept cast-off articles.
When turned to her again, she was
sitting looking into the fire with something
as near as possible to a smile on her
face.
ITS real warm = she said. and the
words and the voice were proof that she
seldom knew what it was to be anything
like warm.
Don't you have thick bedclethes9' I
asked her.
Sometimes | have fathers coat she
said quietly; "but the windows is broke.
you know, and we don't never have no
coal"
"What do you have, tllen?"
sometimes bits of broken boxes. and
| pick up things, and father brings home
sticks, sometimes; but mostly we don't
have 70 fire at ALL"
"Oh. dear, | haven't got any patience :"
cried Aunt Ie-sey, and her voice was
thick with tears. They'll sell rum to any
miserable creature that has strength enough
left in him to go home and beat his family,
and they wouldn't give that child a penny
to save her life. Where do you live?" she
asked.
''In Skittles Alley" replied tie child.
"Yes, | know where it is: it's a horrible
place, toe. | wish l could keep the child
and make her comfortable for a day or
two"
Il couldn't leave father, ma am. : spoke
up the child, half sadly; she amt got no
body to take care of him"
Il should think he ought to take care
of YOU" said Aunt Betsey, almost
savagely, as the door opened into the dark
street, and the child, with a warmer shawl
upon her shoulders, and thicker stockings
covering her feet set out for home.
Il declare if ! didn't dream about that
girl all night, " said Aunt Betsey. next day
at the breakfast table. Il do hope she'll
never come here again, for We can't help
her while she has such a father
She'll never trouble you again, Aunt
Betsey,' | said, solemnly.
why not ?" she asked. And she looked
at me in silent astonishment. | for answer
took up the morning paper and read the
following:
DRUNKEN FATHER KILLS HIS CHILD
Last night, about eleven O'Clock. the
city, called Sixties Alley, was disturbed
by the pitiful sllrieks of a child. crying
Don't kill me, papa; don't kill met When
the house was entered, it was too late; the
terrible deed was done. A child aged
somewhere about eleven years. was found
quite dead. The man who had done the
deed earned his living by singing on the
streets. and it is said that he was once con-
nected with a respectable concert troupe,
but lost his position through intemperance.
He was committed to Jail
poor little thingr' murmured Aunt
Betsey, with trembling lips. Poor little
80 III - 1891