He said he would; and so I'm waitin'.'
'Who is Sam?' I asked.
'He's the feller I lives with. I ain't got any folks, and he takes care o' me.'
'Nice care, indeed; leaving a baby like you to wait for him here such a night as this,' I said crossly.
'Oh, he's good to me Sam is, though he does knock me round sometimes, when I ain't spry. The big feller shoves me back, you see; and I gets cold, and can't sing out loud; so I don't sell my papers, and has to work 'em off late.'
'Hear the child talk! One would think he was sixteen, instead of six,' I said, half laughing.
'I'm most ten. Hi! ain't that a oner?' cried the boy, as a gust of sleet slapped him in the face, when he peeped to see if Sam was coming. 'Hullo! the lights is out! Why, the play's done, and the folks gone, and Sam's forgot me.'
It was very evident that Sam had forgotten his little protégé; and a strong desire to shake Sam possessed me.
'No use waitin' any longer; and now my papers is sold, I ain't afraid to go home,' said the boy, stepping down like a little old man with the rheumatism, and preparing to trudge away through the storm.
'Stop a bit, my little Casabianca; a car will be along in fifteen minutes; and while waiting you can warm yourself over there,' said John, with the purple hand in his.
'My name's Jack Hill, not Cassy Banks, please, sir,' said the little party, with dignity.
'Have you had your supper, Mr. Hill?' asked John, laughing.
'I had some peanuts, and two sucks of Joe's orange; but it warn't very fillin',' he said, gravely.
'I should think not. Here! one stew; and be quick, please,' cried John, as we sat down in a warm corner of the confectioner's opposite.
While little Jack shovelled in the hot oysters, with his eyes shutting up now and then in spite of himself, we looked at him and thought again of little Rosy-face at home safe in his warm nest, with mother-love watching over him. Nodding towards the ragged, grimy, forlorn, little creature, dropping asleep over his supper like a tired baby, I said—
'Can you imagine our Freddy out alone at this hour, trying to 'work off' his papers, because afraid to go home till he has?'
'I'd rather not try,' answered brother John, winking hard, as he stroked the little head beside him, which, by the bye, looked very like a ragged, yellow door-mat. I think brother John winked hard, but I can't be sure, for I know I did; and for a minute there seemed to be a dozen little newsboys dancing before my eyes.
'There goes our car; and it's the last,' said John, looking at me.
'Let it go, but don't leave the boy;' and I frowned at John for hinting at such a thing.
'Here is his car. Now, my lad, bolt your last oyster, and come on.'
'Good-night, ma'am! thankee, sir!' croaked the grateful little voice, as the child was caught up in John's strong hands and set down on the car-step.
With a word to the conductor, and a small business transaction, we left Jack coiled up in a corner to finish his nap as tranquilly as if it wasn't midnight, and a 'knocking-round' might not await him at his journey's end.
We didn't mind the storm much as we plodded home; and when I told the story to Rosy-face, next day, his interest quite reconciled me to the sniffs and sneezes of a bad cold.
'If I saw that poor little boy, Aunt Jo, I'd love him lots!' said Freddy, with a world of pity in his beautiful child's eyes.
And, believing that others also would be kind to little Jack, and such as he, I tell the story.
When busy fathers hurry home at night, I hope they'll buy their papers of the small boys, who get 'shoved back;' the feeble ones, who grow hoarse, and can't 'sing out;' the shabby ones, who evidently have only forgetful Sams to care for them; and the hungry-looking ones, who don't get what is 'fillin'.' For love of the little sons and daughters safe at home, say a kind word, buy a paper, even if you don't want it; and never pass by, leaving them to sleep forgotten in the streets at midnight, with no pillow but a stone, no coverlet but the pitiless snow, and not even a tender-hearted robin to drop leaves over them.
PATTY'S PATCHWORK.
'I perfectly hate it! and something dreadful ought to be done to the woman who invented it,' said Patty, in a pet, sending a shower of gay pieces flying over the carpet as if a small whirlwind and a rainbow had got into a quarrel.
Puss did not agree with Patty, for, after a surprised hop when the flurry came, she calmly laid herself down on a red square, purring comfortably and winking her yellow eyes, as if she thanked the little girl for the bright bed that set off her white fur so prettily. This cool performance made Patty laugh, and say more pleasantly—
'Well, it is tiresome, isn't it, Aunt Pen?'
'Sometimes; but we all have to make patchwork, my dear, and do the best we can with the pieces given us.'
'Do we?' and Patty opened her eyes in great astonishment at this new idea.
'Our lives are patchwork, and it depends on us a good deal how the bright and dark bits get put together so that the whole is neat, pretty, and useful when it is done,' said Aunt Pen soberly.
'Deary me, now she is going to preach,' thought Patty; but she rather liked Aunt Pen's preachments, for a good deal of fun got mixed up with the moralising; and she was so good herself that children could never say in their naughty little minds, 'You are just as bad as we, so you needn't talk to us, ma'am.'
'I gave you that patchwork to see what you would make of it, and it is as good as a diary to me, for I can tell by the different squares how you felt when you made them,' continued Aunt Pen, with a twinkle in her eye as she glanced at the many-coloured bits on the carpet.
'Can you truly? just try and see,' and Patty looked interested at once.
Pointing with the yard-measure, Aunt Pen said, tapping a certain dingy, puckered, brown and purple square—
'That is a bad day; don't it look so?'
'Well, it was, I do declare! for that was the Monday piece, when everything went wrong and I didn't care how my work looked,' cried Patty, surprised at Aunt Pen's skill in reading the calico diary.
'This pretty pink and white one so neatly sewed is a good day; this funny mixture of red, blue, and yellow with the big stitches is a merry day; that one with spots on it is one that got cried over; this with the gay flowers is a day full of good little plans and resolutions; and that one made of dainty bits, all stars and dots and tiny leaves, is the one you made when you were thinking about the dear new baby there at home.'
'Why, Aunt Pen, you are a fairy! How did you know? they truly are just as you say, as near as I can remember. I rather like that sort of patchwork,' and Patty sat down upon the floor to collect, examine, and arrange her discarded work with a new interest
