The Saint Paul globe., 1899-07-17
CLEANED BY A GIRL.


The morning was bright and warm for
early May, but withal pleasant as a
spring day should be.
[ thought of an old fable I had read
some where, of the wooing Of the earth
by the suns warm Kisses making nature
glad, so that all living things caught the
contagion and were happy.
So it seemed to me as 1 sat looking out
over the green lawn through the open
window. A smOthered cough made me
turn towards the door to see a boy stand
ing there. l recognized him at once as
a pupil of my friend, the school teacher;
for 1 had often visited her little kingdom
and had come to know and love each Of
her small charges. Something in the boys
face caught my attention, for, instead
of the usual expression Of uncomfortable
mischief, his face told me that all was
not well in his little world
paul is dead" he said, without wait
ing for me to speak, land my teacher
wants you to go to his home with her
at noon"
His cap was pulled hastily over his eyes,
and he hurried back to school.
''Paul?" I asked myself when the boy
had gone "and which one was Paul?"
Yes; I remembered we'll the little cripple
of the school, the large, quiet child with
the bent back, the heavy, sad, unchild-
like face, the eyes whose mournful
hunger often haunted me.
Once I had helped with some of the
school exercises, and when I came to
pains and labor, I touched 1t almost re-
verently; and now the poor, tired little
fingers, the dull brain, were at rest.
An unaccustomed hush had fallen over
the children at the noon recess, when
called for their teacher, for they had,
perhaps for the first time, had one of
life's great mysteries confront them
A teachers love is sometimes akin to
mothers. I took my friends hand, but
could say only hackneyed, isn't it
sad?"
''Wen, of course, in a way It is" she
answered briskly, "but then, you see, 1t
is much better so. He was not bright,
and would, perhaps, never be well. His
parents are poor, and have to struggle
hard to maintain their large family; and
of course, 1t is better that he should die"
I wondered If she had not grown to be
more Of a philosopher than 1t Is well for
a woman to be, with her strange utili-
tartan theories.
We walked almost silently along the
sandy road to the outskirts Of the town
where the poor little home stood, built
of rough boards, the crevices filed with
mortar. Ugly and uninviting 1t was on
the outside, but inside desolate bare, re-
pulsive in the poverty Of its comforts
A rough pine table, a few chairs and a
bed were the only articles of furniture in
the room into which we were ushered by
a bare-footed child. And in that room lay
the dead-the child's poor, patient face
looking more wan and pitifuI than ever
In the mansion death Is awe-inspiring,
almost beautiful in its sacred dignity, but
in the hovel, 1t Is gaunt and grim and
fearful a horrible thing that terrorizes
Did the parents. too. say that 1t was
we'll that Paul had passed beyond all their
portion of toll, discomfort and disap-
pointment? Were they glad that their
burden was now liSStened2 Of these
things I thought as we entered the house
But there was one thing in that ugly
death chamber which seemed to redeem
1t from all the horror Of It's meager sur
rouSdgs.
Pie mother stood there weeping bitterly
for the dead child, with as deep and true
a grief as ever David mourned for Absa-
lom. sublime in her sorrow, noble in the
expression Of her mother-love. Far be-
yond worldly consideration she was
sacred in her sorrowful love.
A narrow world she lived in, bounded
By pots and pans pies and puddings,