The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1915-06-10


 Wishing he'd never been born. No one to whisper a kindly word,
 No one to whom he is dear,
 No one to kiss him or clasp him close
 In the hour temptations near Every one gives him a scOWl or blow,
 God pity and save his heart
 From the hits of the nerciless mob,
 Who knows not it's aches and smartt
 Laura. Jean Libbey.
 When you see a, little newsboy pip ing out his wares in a shri1I voice as he dodges in front of you. earnestly soliciting stray penny from your pIentifu1ly filled purse, do not thrust &im aside with an angry. word or give him @ froWn. You cannot judge from appearances how much a kindly smile may gladden his for1orn little heart or a sheer depress him.
 | You may we'll assume that he has not a comfortable home, or a beaui full spread dinner table, orShe would not be out in the streets in all kinds 1 of weather. A great majority of the little newsboys are orphans Their fathers and mothers have lain down their burdens early and the little brood I IS thrown on the world to live or die as God sees fit. /
 1 Selling papers is the first thought that occurs to the child, and thus the ! struggle of life begins with him. If l great bundle of papers he carries he has earned enough for a bed for the night in the 'sSewsies Home,'' a roll and a cup of hot milk in the morning. Failing in. this, he wanders into some ] hallway or seeks shelter in a drygoods box, where the compassionate angel of sleep finds him, touching his eye l lids till they close against the worlds sorrows in dreamless, untroubled sleep.
 
 1 he sees other lads of his age walking beside strong fathers or holding the hands of loving mothers. His life is too much of a hustle to take time to think long over his misfortune or to be envious. Only when pain comes to him do the tears force themselves down his brave little face, and he l longs for just one kiss. from mothers lips, one touch of a caressing hand and a word of kindness.
 In his strenuous life, he must stand up and battle with the strongest of his kind if he would not be trodden underfoot. He learns to hurl back ltaunts and insults hurled at him. his childish lips 1isping paths that he knows not the meaning of, repea ting the language of the bul1ies of the street.
 He does not understand why the men and women hurrying by frown at him, give him a shove or a cruel word l He keeps back the tears so brave1y that they think he does not care Shivering alone in some narrow hall l way, in which he thinks he has es- caped the keen eye of the policeman. l the little lad of the street looks up at the stars. vaguely wondering why he had no home, no mother or fla ther, no one on earth to whom he is dear or who cares if he lives or starves.
 He is grateful for even the moment ary companionship of a stray dog who ! is friendly, and who seems to want to cling to him and share his fortunes. He is the prey of the older tougher, well-seasoned street gaLdins There is no temptation known to unprotected boy life that he does not face. aye, and make his way through-to fall or live through them. He knows nothing Of the sweet, childish joys of the lads who have homes and are cared for. When he reaches manhood he has gone through the entire schooling of sorrow but, he never forgets the memory of a kind word and smile when life was darkest and hardest. They have often been the turning point in such a lads career the one bright gIeam in a dark, lonely childhood, lighting the lamp of hope in his heart that all peo- pie in this cold world were not heart less