The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1896-07-07
Written for THE PROGRESSIVE FARMER.l
TRANSPLANTED.
BY r. D WICKER.

1t was the oath of December, 1883,
in the city of New York, the snow fell
in dense but fine flakes, binding the
wayfarer as he wendell his way home
ward through the biting wind; the
street lights, aided by the thousands of
jets in the stores and houses of bust
ness seemed to nod to the vast display
Of toys, CONNECTIONS, and pretty innum-
CRADLES in the windows, extending
a mute invitation to the purchaser
thinly clad children, needless of the
intense cold and their WI wet feet
could be seen with dirty little faces
pressed close to the frosty panes of
glass Of the large windows on the Bow
cry, as they contemplated these, to
them, ~unattainable treasures. But
they were happy in their innocence,
for anything like luxury was unknown
to thoee little street waits. A doll, a
drum, a tin horn, or perhaps a simple
annon cracker, was enough to cause
the little hearts to pitter patter, pitter
patter for hours Afterwards, as they
trudged their way home. NJ! not
home, for many of them could boast of
nothing better than a bare shelter, with
perhaps a hard crust for support-and
to Christmas! What a sad
commentary on the state of society a!
Others reclined on elegant velvet cush
ions, and were conveyed to homes of
comfort and luxury. Bat such is the
way Of the world.
We will follow one Of tnos3 little
waits as she turns from the contem-
plation of q beautiful wax doll. AS the
child turns to depart with a counter,
ance depicted with sadness, we can
plainly see her face, which is a strik
ing one, and one to be remembered,
even it only be that of a little girl of
about eleven years. She has her head
partially covered with an old piece of
wollen comfort, and her shoes are so
worm that they let in the fine snow at
every step, but the bright brown eyes,
peeping out from beneath long, dark
iashes, speak Of a soul undaunted,
while their melancholy sadness is
touching In the extreme. She could
be distinguished from the rest by her
general air Of cleanliness and imperial
carriage. It could be plainly seen that
little Myrtle Bonner was Of a different
mould from a majority OF the children
that crowded the sidewalks on this
Christmas Eve, even though clad In
rags, with a bundle o. papers under her
ragged shawl. AS che turns, a hand
is laid gently on her shoulder. and a
kindly, boyish voice says:
why, hell! Capltola, you don't
seem to have had much luck. How
many papers have you left9'
Ga! out you are mistaken, Phil, for
l have sold more than usual to-day,
but it is because l took out more than
1 generally do, it being Christmas Eve,
ana l only have twenty left. But how
comes it you are not at work? l
thought you told me you were to work
night to night?'
And so l will, Myrtle, but you
know since fathers death l have to act
Claus, aud [ am now down town
20 buy "gOo1Ies." By the way, old
FiInty" called me into the editorial
this evening, after % he 'b0ys''
had been paid IF, and gave me a long
lecture on economy; ne then made me
a present OF this copy of Shakespeare
ami q five dollar bill and since I have
been so bountituily supplied it stands
20 reason that it should be my treat
So no y, little si5, what will you have2
l saw a real Mica pair OF shoes down
here at Morgan's fer only 81 so, and
they will just about f5 you. 1 was so
be would sell them before ]
came back, I just paid him and had
them wrapped up and laid aside"
But l can't take them, Phil; for
mother would never allow it. Gall
do so hate 1t, but l can't"
Yes, l know all about it but you
see l an real rich now. You know
mother got her pension last week, and
my wages will be raised to 81 per week
the first of the year. Besides, if you
don't take them now 1 will lose my
money, for they are now paid for"
Myrtle wes finally persuaded to &C
the shoes, and as they make their
way to Morgan's place it will not be
amiss to introduce her companion to
the reader.
Philip Coleton was the only son of
Widow Coleton, whose husband, Cap
tain CoIeton, lately deceased, was an