The Minneapolis journal., 1901-10-16
by cecily Allen.

Copyright, 1901, by A. s. Richardson.
The entire neighborhood had long since de-
cided that Mrs. Brennan's youngest hopeful
would close his earthly career through the
unwelcome attentions of the proverbial hang
man. Maggie Brennan, aged IS, was popu-
lar employe at Johnsons cigar factory.
. Young Dan was district messenger boy, and
even little Jennie earned odd pennies by
caring for the neighbors' children when the
latter were called away to christenings, fun
erals and weddings
But from the day that the ''Kid," at the
tender age of months, had fallen from the
fire escape to the area way, striking three
clothes lines en- route, and had sat up howl
ing vigorously, but unhurt, his young life
had been marked by a succession of stirring
and nerve distracting events Even his good
natured Irish mother had begun to regard
him as hopeless, and his one friend was
pretty Miss Harris, whose pink and blue
shirt waists and daintily embroidered skirts
decorated the Brennan clothes horse each
ironing day. Meta Harris always declared
that the kid" was particularly intelligent,
and some day would perform great deed.
On this afternoon the kid, - having reached
the age of 3, and having acquired sufficient
wisdom to snatch a stick of licorice from
weaker and meeker playmate in the gutter,
had wandered far from home
An overdose of licorice on this hot, sultry
day had affected the kid as nothing had
ever done before. He yearned for the narrow,
dim court and the towering tenement, to say
nothing of drink and his mothers restfuI
bosom. But all around him was mud, the
thick, yellow mud Of a newly opened street,
and beyond disgustingly new cottages painted
in aesthetic tints and surrounded by gardens
laid out in geometrical flower and lawn pat
terms That 10 oil 1oid
one. 1t was overgrown with weeds, which
had choked out the flowers planted there
early in the spring.
A young man, in natty flannel suit, had
paused at the gate and was surveying, with
a clouded brow, the scene of desolaton. 1t
hardly seemed possible that just four months
previous he and she had planted those flowers,
coming up each evening to water them, pick
out the weeds and Put finishing touches with
in doors.
The parlor furniture had been put in place,
even some Of the shining tinware had found
its way to the small pantry, when the quar-
rel came.
He had done his best to smooth over the
difficulty, brit finally one afternoon he had
walked over to the little cottage, which rep
| resented his savings of two hard years, closed
and barred the windows and doors, and with
a heavy heart had walked out through the
small gate. Never again had he been near the
burial ground Of his high hopes-until this
evening, Vaguely he had felt lately that
something ought to be done with the place
The frown deepened as he turned away
and marched resolutely down the street. He
would see real estate man at once and offer
the place at any sacrifice Then he'd try
his luck in South America. The papers all
said there were great openings down there
for clever fellows from the states.
"Mama Map
Jack Griswold stopped communing with the
disagreeable past and stared down upon a
bedraggled, forlorn bit of humanity
Hello, old chap, are you black white?'
The 'old chap resented the familiar ad-
dress, fell to weeping Justify and rolled dis
consolately in the soft mud.
''Oh, say exclaimed Jack, bending over
the little fellow, you mustn't do that! You'll
be a sight. Guess your lost"
| Griswold glanced helplessly at the neat
cottages and then at the child Of the slums.
How ever did the youngster get way out
here? And his sobs were actually pitiful.
Jack thought of a policeman, but such off,
cials were seldom needed in this quiet neigh
borhood.
Finally pity oyercame discretion. and Jack