Middletown transcript., 1903-01-03
r was q bare, desolate room
in q tenement house in .
Southern city. On 0 rick

stood a broken vase, whlcl
still showed remnants of its pris
tine beauty as the light OF stra.
sunbeam shone through its rub.
depths. A long-stemmed, with
cred rose which it held was doubt
less q reminder of some happle.
hour. Thsoccupants Of thereon
were a mother and her three chill
dren, . puny babe, 9 little girl
perhaps three years of age,' ant
q boy about seven years her sen
ior. There was nothing about
the room to suggest that the fam
lily had ever been comfortably
placed as regards this world s
goods, save the broken Venetian
vase, but the face of the mother
as she bent over her wailing
babe, trying to soothe and still
its cries, bore the traces OF what
had once been the most refined
type Of beauty.
Only one short year ago, Mary
erwent and her little family had
cen living in comparative com
fort, but suddenly her husband
lost his position as head clerk in
a large estab ablishment which, ow.
ing to the pressure of the times,
had failed. Unfortunately, he fell
seriously Ill of a fever which COM
pletely prostrated him. By de-
grees their small savings were
expended, then the best of the
furniture was sold, for they we're
too proud to ask help, and SO they
went from bad to worse, until they
only had the poor bed, the stove,
table and two chairs, which now
furnished in scant measure the
little room in the tenement they
called home.
Hugh had been out since early
morning hunting for work, and
his wife was growing momentar-
lily more anxious about his pro-
longed absence. What could
keep hims It began to grow dark.
Pressing her pale face against
the panes, she peered out into
the street.
"Mamma, / am so hungry,
pleaded a weak little voice from
the bed. "Can't I have some
thing?"
"Oh, Harry, what shall we do?
Sister wants something to eat"
cried Mrs. Derwent, putting her
arms around her boys neck.
Mamma, don't cry, I will go|
out again; perhaps I'll get some
thing this time, and perhaps I'll |
meet Papa. I won't come back |
without something this time,"
cried Harry. "Now, see, Mamma, |
If 7 do. Please do not cry"
"Oh, where will you 60, my
poor little darling, where will you
60? Your clothes are too thin to
60 out in this wind. l cannot,
cannot let you co."
But Harry was off; he had no
time to lose. He had no time to
lose, indeed, if he meant to reat b
the great publishing house in
Broad Street. It was fully five
o'clock and he must be there be-
fore six, and it was such a long,
weary walk for q little fellow.
Poor child, he was old for his
years. The trouble he had seen
about him for the past year had
taken all the childishness out Of
him, and now he had but one Z
thought, and that was how he '
should help along in their great I
trouble. Little Mary must have !
bread, and 50 must Mamma and 9
poor Papa, who had been out all !
day. As for himself, so excited
was he in the new resolve that 7
had taken possession of him, that !
he forgot how faint and hungry 1
he was. On and on the little fell I
low trudged; the crowds were Q
surging past him, for it was the t
holiday time, but he needed them u
not. He couldn't help taking a
little look in passing the windows a
Of the shops, which were now all a
aglow with electric lights, and d
gay with the colors of their tempt il
ing wares. He was an earnest il
little lad, SO he scarcely needed p
the temptation to linger which n
would have been SO strong for t
most little boys. On and on he T.
sped toward the great building
in which was centered his hope Il
for relief for poor Mamma. Yes, n
he felt sure he should take back o
more than bread to little Mary s
and Mamma. He wondered Ii
whether Papa was home, and
whether he had found any work, E
and so on and on through the
crowded streets he proceeded, l.
little minding cold or fatigue SO Q
/ L 4 |