The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1893-04-07

- eHo HodIeSJ dpOJnecdfy, L Sdlu.
The woman looked at me embarrassed.
Can take it to the one on KONG
strasse?" she said.
mo, No!' l cried. SIT requires the
greatest haste. Why will you not 60 to
the apOthecary in this street?"
The woman Redeemed perceptably, in
spite of the charcoal dust. Finally she
stammered: "The apothecary in the
konigstrasse knows me; carry coal
there, and he will perhaps-I have no
money"
A heavy tear dropped on the paper in
her hand.
These people, who can pay no physi-
clan and no druggist" said angrily but
inaudibly. l took out some money and
said aloud: ''There, take that and go
quickly"
The woman kissed the hand of her
child and then, before | could stop her,
she PISSED mine also and fastened away,
l looked around the room for a seat. A
rickety chair, red chest, an old table,
some miserable dishes on a poor cold
oven. which occupied the place of
hearth, comprised all the furniture.
Hanging on wall in a corner was
threadbare wooden garment and a chlld's
cloak and little hat with a ribbon
around it in fingers breadth wide; on
bracket hanging next the little window
was whithered myrtle tree, red ger
anium and hymn book, with disgust
ing yellow edges. That was everything
that the room held,
l sat down beside the littll girl She
was apparently we'll cared for. Her
limbs we're round and pretty, her golden
hair was soft and curly. She was I'M
conscious. Her blnc eyes stared straight
before ner as if she was looking into the
far unknown distant. The room was
cold. / went to the oven and found only
some splinters of wood.
There were so few that l did not at
tempt to build a fire. | sat down and
waited for the woman and the medicine.
Ever and anon my glance would wander
around the miserable room. Here was
poor, hard working woman who carried
charcoal on the street while her child
lay In want and sickness, yet she loved
the child tenderly.
Suddenly the thought shot through me
that | could not save the child. l had
been called too late. l had not resOlu-
ton enough to try any doubtful ener-
getic effort to save her, to snatch her
from the arms of death. My heart was
heavy. Isplang to the door and listened
for the footsteps of the mother. She
came finally; my reproachful eye met her
dOwncast one. "There were so many
people in the store. A woman like my
self does not dare to press forward"
An hour # torment went by. The med
icine awaited nothing. Little Marie
could not swallow it. An operation on
the throat was of no use. The child
died-died before my eyes on the bosom
of the mother, bowed down by her
grief.
She finally looked up in a terrified
manner; tear had fallen on her hand,
but she had not wept.
You are weeping, DOCTOR" she said
softly, 'Ah, don't weep, sir; you will
stand before many a sick bed as you
have here, where the Lord will not help
you"
She looked fixedly at the little corpse.
II have loved her very dearly. / have
done for her what | could in my poverty
Whenever l came home from my work 7
found her so pretty, so charming! For
hours she would lie in bed or on the
floor and play with almost nothing, and
she laughed for Joy when | came home.
God has taken her from me. He loves
her more than do, but, oh, l shall be so
lonesome"
IpTessed the woman's hand, but could
not speak. dropped some money ON
the table and silently went out. At home
laid my instrument case away and sat
down disheartened. l could eat no sup
per. went to bed and tried to get sleep
But the picture of the gloomy attic-of
the dead child-of the submissive and
patient woman, kept me less from sleep
than the tormenting self-reproach with
which l thought over everything that
had done. My first patient! l simply |
groaned, and then the words of the poor
woman came to me again: Don't weep |
doctor, you will stand before many a |
sick bed as you have stood here where |
the Lord will not help"
had been summoned too late; had |
not been able to save the child. "YOu
will stand before many a sick bed as you |
have stood here" / hid my face in the |
pillow. 1t was terrible night; the tor
turing thoughts which made me so rest |
less were very different from the pleas
ant dreams which had encouraged me in
both my waking and sleeping hours.
Early on the following morning an old |
college friend came who had sought me
on his way through the city. He dragged |
me over the crowded streets, into the
into all sorts of restaurants. |
He complained of my taciturnity. l |
feigned a headache and escaped the ne
cessity of having to see a sensational |
play at the Court theatre. Tired and |
worn out went at last alone to my room
On my way there passed the window
of a brightly lighted flower shop. 1
walked in and bought a costly white
and some sweet smelling violets.
went up the five flights to the room of |
the poor woman. found the door un-
locked. 1t was family lighted and a
little coffin stood in the middle of the
room. In it lay the child, dressed in a
white gown. The ribbon on the hat on
the wall had been made into two little |
bows, the myrtle wreath lay on the |
blonde hair and the geranium was laid
upon her breast. On the table stood a
lamp, and the open song book lay near
it,
laid the beautiful white flowers in
the little motionless hand and put the |
bouquet Of violets on the quiet breast;
then looked at the open book. The |
page was turned at an old song which l |
had learned at school and had soon for
gotten.
l laid the book away signing. The
words which had read, the awful still |
the peacefully resting child, oppressed |
my heart; | went home, after asking in |
the house for the hour of the interment. |
l went to bed early. was very tired |
and all dieuuiat loft mo And 90 ~ BALLAD /