The daily morning journal and courier., 1898-12-01
THE BUTToNHoLER's PARTY.

The boys were born of poor but hon. est parents. and they lived in the Pocket of the street.
 They were small and ugly and Irish.
 Some day all the world may see their pictures by going to certain gallery called Rogues, I think-they will be considered very interesting studies in criminology. But that time is long way off.
 You slipped into the Pocket by lit tie narrow neck, opening between two | warehouses. It was quite dark along here, and a little inconvenient-as dress pocket sometimes it-but in second you were in a tiny court, shut in fast by the backs of the high ware houses and on, the other sides by small , shanties.
 | The Pocket was a fine place to live in. The courtyard was bearded over and 1 ahe boards were old and loose When by chance anything was dropped, 1t was sure to roll away into the cracks ! and then there was the exc tement of I ripping up board or two. and seeing | the black beetles and terrible things with many legs scuttle out of your way
 
 1 by the neck at dusk time. and suddenly l springing out at a passer-by, and say "Roo!" at him, and see him jump and then swear at you. But best of all, if you happened to have policeman after 1 you for any cause whatever, you could get out of the way, three times out of ten. by slipping into this Pocket. | Oh, there was no mistake, the Pocket was the prize abode of the street, There was always some one ready to move into one of the shanties when some one in their was obliged to move out for lack of rent,
 | Of course, it grew dark pretty early | in winter time, The high warehouses ! seemed to take all the sunshine. High 1 houses often dc. And there was a damp green mould which grew very well over everything. It was very pret- l ty, this moss-mould All winter the water never stopped dripping off the ends of the houses, and long into the summer you heard it, Drip, drip drip !" There were some clods of earth l turned up in front of one of the shan | ties. Some one had ripped up few of | the boards and attempted garden. It struck full of sticks of varying sizes. | The woman who made buttonholes had planted these sticks. Sometimes her patrons gave her flowers, and she always carefully trimmed off the leaves and planted the stems. They never grew, but then they might any time. You can never tell when plant may take a notion to grow.
 This woman had lived in the country ! and cnoa11 nf tha fresl, | ploughed field-knew the country when May was there, and you could smell the new sweet green things everywhere.
 Nobody ever disturbed her stems they stood through rainy days and summer days upright in the green mould. Sometimes after hard rain when it turned warm quickly, the wooden floor of the Pocket sent UT clouds of vapor.
 "1t's the deevers own as is under us and him hissin' up hot steam," said ore of the Pocket dwellers to little Maggie Tooley, and little Maggie would not cross the court for weeks, save CT the dead run.
 You're another" said another boy Dis ain't hot. Dis ain't steam. If yel tink de deevil can't make anything bu hct steam, yer left. Dis heres colo steam. Like fcg. If fog ain't colo steam, and steam ain't hot fog, liht | to know what is"
 His listeners could not tell him. But oh. you should see the Pocket il the summer time, when the windows were all open and the sewing maehin, belonging to the woman who tcoi il work was buzzing, and the sparrowi were chipping and fuss.ng, and the lit tie woman who made buttcnholes al day hummed to herself It was only little note, like the one "cheep' of tn, sparrow. And when Mrs. Toolel dragged the washtub into her doorwa! and splashed great bubbly suds around and the square of sky over the Pocke was one dazzling blue!
 Oh, you should see it then!
 One of the little buttonholer's should CTS was higher than the other, from al ways sitting one-sided, so as to be clos
 10 the light maybe, and the forsfinge Of her left hand was rough and ugl.