Year: 1875

Plain Tom. 1t might have been more
than Tom once, when he was babe, and
had father and mother-some one to
care for him, even if they had but little
love for him. After they died, after he
was turned out on the wide world to
fight his own way, to hunger for food, to
yearn for sympathy and kind words, his
name was "Tom." 1t was name enough
for waif-a ragged, hungry boy who re-
ceived more kicks than pennies, and who
used to sit on the post Office steps and
try to remember when anyone had said
a kind word to him.


The boy sometimes wondered and pom
dered over the words sympathy"
"mercy," and "charity" He heard
people use them-the same people who
cuffed him about and were content to see
him in rags. He thought the words
must mean something way off-some-
thing he could not grasp then, but might
approach W en he had grown to mans
estate. If Toms voice had sadness and
sorrow in it as he cried shine" or if it
had exultation as he shouted morning
papers !" no one in the busy thrOng
seemed to notice or care. He realized
that he was standing up single-handed to
battle against great world, and some
times when the world struck him down
the boy crept away into an alley to sor-
row and grieve that he had ever been
born.


They found a bundle of rags in pub
lie hallway yesterday morning. The old
janitor pushed at the bundle with his
broom, and growled and muttered over
its being left there by some vagrant.
The bundle of rags was Tom. The jan
tor bent over him and pushed at him
again, and called to him to rise up and
60 about his business, but the bundle
did not move. Tom was dead. One
arm was thrown around his boot-box,
that it might not stolen while he
slumbered; the other rested on his
breast, fingers tightly clenched, as if
death had come while the boy was re-
solving to carry on the unequal battle
against poverty and cold world to the
bitter end.


There should have been sadness in the
hearts of those who lifted up the body
and sent it away to be buried in Potter's
Field. but there was not. They were
men, to be sure, but they could not un-
derstan6 how it made any difference to
the world whether it had one waif more
or less. They couldn't feel the heart
aches which Tom had felt-his despera-
tion--his grim despair-his bitter, crush
ing, everyday sorrows. They could
have at least uncovered their heads as
the body was lifted up and said to each
other, He was brave to fight such
BATTLE" But they did not. There
would have been no word, no eulogy,
had not another waif passed the door by
chance. He saw the body, recognized it,
and as he let his box fall to the flags that
he might brush tear from his eye, he
whispered:


eff there are angels I know that
Tom'll see 'em 7"


And no man shall dare to take from or
edd to the simple, fearful eulogy. There
will be shallow grave which will soon
sink out of sight and memory, and scarce
a month will pass away before even the
lads name will be forgotten by the
world-the world which prides itself on
its charity and mercy, and which let
poor Tom stand dp alone nshis, battle
for food and raiment and place to rest
his feet; let him creep off to die alone in
the shadows of midnight, feeling in his
young heart that every mans hand was
against him because he was a waif,
ragged, hungering orphan.