Year: 1862




" 1t must be my child" said the poor
widow, wiping away the tears which trick
led down her wasted cheeks. "There is
no resource, am too sick to work, and
you can not, surely, see me and your little
brother starve. Try and beg a few shil-
liugs and perhaps by the.time it is gone
may be better. Go, Henry, my dear
1 grieve TO send you on such an errand.


The boy, noble-looking little fellow
of about ten years, started up and throw
ing his arms around his mothers neck
left the house without q word. He did
not hear the groan of anguish that was
uttered by that patient mother, as the
door closed behind him-and it was well
that he did not, for his little heart was
ready to burst without it. 1t was in a
busy street in Philadelphia, and as he
walked TO and fro on the sidewalk, he
looked first at one person, and then to
another, as they passed him, but no one
seemed to look kindly on him, and the
longer he waited, the faster his courage
dwindled away and the more difficult it be-
came to muster courage to beg. The
tears were running fast down his cheeks,
but nobody noticed them, or if they did,
nobody seemed to care; for although
clean, Henry looked poor and miserable,
and is common for such to cry.


Everybody seemed in hurry and the
poor boy was quite in despair, when al
last he espied a gentleman who seemed tc
be very leisurely taking morning walk
He was dressed in black, wore n three
cornered hat; and had face that was an
gelic. Somehow when Henry looked al
him he felt all fear vanish at once. The
tears had been flowing so long that his
eyes were quite red and swollen, and his
voice trembled, but that was with weak
ness, for he had not eaten for twenty-foul
hours. As Henry, with low, falterine
voice, begged for little charity, the gen
tleman stopped, and his kind heart melt
ed with compassion rs he looked into the
fair countenanco of the poor boy, and saw
the deep blush which spread over his face,
and listened to the modest humble tone
which accompanied his petition.


"You do not look like a boy that has
been accustomed to beg for Bread" said
he kindly laying his hand on the boys
shoulder, "what has driven you to that
step"


"Indeed," answered Henry, his tears
beginning to flow afresh, "indeed | was
not born in this condition, but the misfor-
tune of my father, and the sickness Of
my mother, have driven me to the neces.
sity now."


"Who is your father?" inquired the
gentleman, still more interested.


"My father was q rich merchant of this
city, but he became a bondsman for q
friend, who soon after failed, and he was
entirely ruined. He could not live after
his loss, and in one month died of grief
and bis death was more dreadful than any
of our trouble. Ny mother my little
brother and myself sank into the loves
depths of poverty. My mother has, un
til now, managed to support herself anC
my little brother by her labor, and | have
earned what / could by shoveling snow
and other work that l could find to do
But night before last, mother was taker
very sick, and she has since become wors'
so that,-here the tears flowed faster thar
ever-I do fear she will die. l canno
think of any way in the world to help her
have not the courage to get to any o
my mothers old acquaintances and tel
them she has come to need charity
l thought you looked like stranger, sir
and something in your face overcame my
shame and gave me courage to speal
to you. O, sir, do pity my poo
mother" The tears and the simple, NOV
ing language of the poor boy, touched I
chord in the breast of the stranger tha
was accustomed to frequent vibrations.


"Where does your mother live, m,
boyG" said he, in husky voice, is j
far from herel"


She lives in the last house on thi
street, sir" replied Henry. "You cal
see it from here, in the third block, anC
on the left hand SIDE"


"Have you sent for physician 2"


"No, sir" said the boy, sorrowfull,
shaking his head. II have no money h