St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1894-05-06
THE UNLIMITED GUEST

The great hotels in Rome were crowded
with the American and English contingent
that always focked thither to avoid the rigors
of a northern winter. The QuirinaI, liveliest
of all, was in gala attire, for tonight a great
chiIdren's ball was to be given by the rich
American who was trying to win back the
roses to his boys cheeks in this sunny
southern city. Out on the Corso little To-
masso, the flower seller, watched the car
riages hurrying by the brilliant portals, and
his great black eyes grew larger and brighter
as the faint strains of music f1oated out to
him as he stood there in the soft italian twi-
light doing his best to dispose Of the violets
that hadWithered and dropped through their
long exposure to the hot sun. for Tomasso
had not been lucky to-day, the pretty foreign
ladies had not been good customers; and
even as his eyes grew larger as the music
nestled in their very depths, the big tears
dropped one by one on the faded flowers, for
Tomasso was but a hoy-a little boy, tired
and hungry.
Minute by minute the great thoroughfare
grew silent and more silent still. The city of
Rome was at its evening meal, but the boy in
the shadow of the rickety stairs leading up
to the studios above could not even MUNICH on
a meagre crust to satisfy the craving for food
The little brown limbs grew cramped and
stiff with the ecold, for, as night set in, the
chill in the air made the child shiver. s'Why?
oh, wny%' he whispered, s.does that boy up
there have SO much and so little. Every
one bows down to him; his great, strong,
beautiful father worships him with his eyes,
and II could throw myself into the Tiber
and not one person in the whole city would
recognize the bundle of limp rags as Tomasso
the flower seller. Oh, mother! mother! if
you had lived your son would not now be out
under the stars, cold and hungry
'tAh! but am hungry! There is no one
to buy these withered violets-not one to
care whether 1 am tired or SICK" and the
little form in the picturesque, tattered gar
ments crouched out of sight, and from sheer
fatigue was soon lost to all sense of sorrow
or neglect in the sound slumber of innocent
childhood. Up at the hotel the dance music
throbbed and pulsated. Mr. Beecher, NOV
ing among the youthful aristocrats gathered
to do honor to his sons birthday, sighed as
he noted the pale, wistful face of the child
for whom all this gayety had been arranged.
"Aren't you enjoying yourself, Harold?" he
i whispered, as he passed by the chair where
the fragile boy sat enthroned in a
suit of black velvet and rich lace that
served to heighten his interesting blonde
beauty.
sob, yes, father; but somehow feel as
though would like to give Just such party
to those other children who never taste bon
bons, who never see such pretty rooms or
wear fine clothes. The beggars who stand in
the courtyard of st. Peters and the flower
sellers on the Corso and the Piazza
D'Espania."
'Little impostors, every one, my son. If
you were to give them such treat, they
would only steal the knickknacks and would
undoubtedly feel much happier if left alone
to MUNICH their brown bread in the alleys and
byways they call home.''
"But perhaps they haven't any brown
bread to MUNICH. saw little boy no older
than out in the Corso to-day, offering violets
to every one, but nobody would buy, and
where bigger and stronger fellows got lots of
soldi he never received even one. He looked
hungry, father, and I believe he really was, for
Simpson says she saw him tonight in the
same place crying. It is for such children I
would like to give my great, big, grand party,
that they would dream of and talk about long
after have gone to that PARKWAY country
where mother isl
"Hush my boyr' said the father, with a
panied look, "you shall do as you WISH To-
morrow we will hunt up this boy, and he and
you together can invite all the waits in Rome,
even though they loot the premises"
Before the boy had "a chance to answer,
save by the heightened color in his cheeks
and the glad look in his eyes, a eommotion
at the door announced something unusual,
and in another moment Signor Ferecci, the
great artist who was painting Harold's
picture, entered the brilliantly lighted apart
ment bearing in his arms the little Tomasso
still asleep-so sound asleep that few there
were who looked on the pinched and tear
stained face but felt that perhaps this was a
sleep from which there was no awakening on
this earth.
Pardon, signor,' began the artist, as he
noticed the curious look of his host, ssI
know this is an unusual proceeding but
was obliged to bring the child in here my
own studio being too far away on the
Piazza Barberina. just as was passing
near here I spied bundle, over which I
would have stumbled had not just then the
light shown forth and revealed the pale face
of a child in faint. Pardon the transgres-
sion, but saw no other way and he laid
the helpless burden on the couch, ringing for
stimulants directly