The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1902-05-31
little Rodv.

He was a fair, fragile little urchin,
with light curly hair and clear blue
eyes that looked straight at you when
he cried: Buy a paper, sir? Carry
your parcel?"
Yes, Rody was veritable street
arab, with no one to love him, no one
to care for him; poor waif that the
world seemed to imagine was made OF
tougher. stuff than flesh and blood. But
Rody was. not accustomed to think over
his misfortunes, and did not consider
himself ill-used because cold and hum
ger formed a part of daily existence.
When a few crumbs from the rich
mans table fell to his lot he enjoyed
them. and called himself lucky if a
kindly passer-by dropped him a copper.
Eleven was the precise time this small
boy had inhabited our globe, and yet
he had suffered more, much more, than
many of us easy going, well-to-do
worldlings suffer in a lifetime.
There was. a time when Rody was
neither a waif nor an outCast, when he
had a little cot and fond mother who
tucked him away each night in warm
blankets as she kissed him, whispering
softly, God bless my own boy, Rody.
God love my own boy, my own little
Rodyl' That was a long time ago now,
nearly four years, but Rody remem-
bered it well. and often when he felt
cold and miserable it did him good to
think of those far-off days and to pic
ture to himself the cottage where he
had knelt at his mothers knee and
learned the first lessons of piety, truth
and love. Yes, Rody liked to dream of
that happy time and relate to his Won
dering companions how he had once
-, thotnhnd cottage and
gathered 'violets from messy hedges
and cowslips in green fields.
But why did you not always stay
where the trees and flowers were.
Rody?'' some pale-faced mite would
ask That was & question the boy new
er chose to answer. Perhaps he feared
the tears which were so near his eyes
might steal down unawares, and then
Rody considered it unmanly to betray
all he felt for his dear, dead mother.
And yet, all the same, when alone:
"Ah, why had she died and left him.
was the questioning cry of the child's
heart.
1t was only in shadowy, distant
way Rody remembered his father the
tall, strong man who used to lift him
on his shoulder, whistle to him and
kiss him.
one DllleIlN NOtu ASNiN ~
that kind father died, and the doctors
said pneumonia had claimed another
victim as its own. Rody's pretty,
fragile mother never recovered from
the shock of her young husbands
death. She pinned away slowly, and be-
fore two years had passed was laid be-
side him in the churchyard. At that
time Rody had only a vague idea of
death. The poor little fellow cried
when he looked at his mothers pale,
still face and worn. transparent hands
and begged her to speak to him. Kind
friends and neighbors, as is their wont,
took the child from the bedside and
filed his pockets with sweetmeats.
Don't cry, Rody!" they said; your
mother has gone to happy home
above the Skies
why did mother leave me all
alone?" walled the child.
Because God called her, they told
him: land YOU must be good boy and
you'll be with her later on. Your
Uncle Joe or his wife will be coming
for You from Dublin tomorrow, so
don't cry any more.
But Rody was not to be quoted. He
sobbed and sobbed and called:
Muddy, Muddy. your own little
Rody wants you"
Even when the hardfaced. black
eyed woman who called herself Aunt
Ellen lifted him In a third-class car
riage, which was to bring him away
from the sweet, wild country and the
home he loved, TO a crowded tenement
house in a dismal back street in the
Liberties, stiH he cried. However,
young as he was, Rody soon found
there was no good fretting or wailing
for his dead mother. Aunt Ellen, to
say the least of her, was not sympa-
thetic. From the first she regarded the
child as a nuisance He would be the
cause of extra expense and trouble, and
this one fact was quite sufficient to
make BODY Objectionable to his aunt.
Uncle Joe Rody learned to regard in
rather a peculiar light. He was dark,