Chapter III: Part 3

No, no--no, no! my dear children. So, these poor creatures came flocking to Mr. Pease's shop, _glad_ to work,--glad of a _chance to be honest_,--glad to see somebody, like Mr. Pease, who would reach out his hand and _pull_ them out of this SEA OF SIN, instead of standing on shore, with his hands folded, while they were drowning, reading them a tract. They saw that he was _in earnest_,--they saw that he didn't think himself too good to come right down and _live_ in that dreadful neighborhood, if he only could help them. And then, when he had shown them how to put honest bread in their mouths,--when he had found the way to their hearts, (for these wretched creatures _have_ hearts,)--_then_ he talked to them of God and Heaven, till the tears rained down their cheeks,--then he asked them to promise him to "go and sin no more;" and they have kept their word, too. Isn't that good?

Another good thing Mr. Pease has done: he opened a school in this house of his, for the children in the neighborhood, and I asked him to take me in to see them. So, he opened a door, and there sat the little creatures on low benches;--some black as "Topsy;" some white as you are; some barefoot; some with shoes; some so small that their little feet didn't touch the floor from the low benches; some sickly looking and pallid; some rosy and bright; but all with clean hands and clean faces.

At a signal from the lady teacher, they all began to sing, "A brighter day will dawn to-morrow." I had to cry. I couldn't help it.

Some of the children had such pure, sweet faces, that as they sat there singing, with their soft eyes looking upwards, I felt as if I had almost rather they would die there, than go home through those dreadful streets, into those wretched cellars, and hear the shocking words I had heard, as I passed along through them.

I was so glad to learn from Mr. Pease, that some of these little children, who had no parents, lived there in the house with him, and that he kept the others in the _day time_, giving them their dinners at noon. Poor, little innocent children! I looked at one little face after another, and I _couldn't make it right_ that they should have to live where they can't help sinning,--where they are _taught_ to be wicked,--where they are whipped and beaten for _not_ being wicked,--because rich people love silks and jewels too well, to give Mr. Pease money to find them bread and shelter, and take them away.

Oh, if the rich ladies and gentlemen who live in fine houses, had only seen those poor children as _I_ did, and heard their sweet voices, I can't believe that they would suffer them to remain in such a sinful and wretched condition. Some of them _have_ sent money, which has helped Mr. Pease to buy a place in the country, where he means to carry all the children he can get, away from that vile neighborhood.

Is not that nice? How I should like to see them running over the fields, when work is done; tumbling about under the trees, growing brown and rosy and healthy; listening, not to curses and oaths, but to the warble of some dear little bird, praising God in his own sweet way, for _his_ share of light and air and sunshine!

And now, as you sit in your happy homes, where you hear only kind, good, pure words,--where you never tremble at your father's footfall, or creep under the bed _for fear of your own mother_,--where you are never hungry, or thirsty, or cold,--where you meet only loving smiles, and go to sleep with the hand of blessing on your bright young head,--oh, remember the poor little outcast ones still forced to live at the Five Points; and if you cannot give them money to help them away, fold your hands and pray God every night to "keep them from the evil that is in the world."

HATTY'S MISTAKE.

"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"--and little Hatty tossed off her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who sat making the baby's new red frock,--"I am glad it is Saturday; I don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time, into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.

Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and Hatty said _she_ should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of "_helping_" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her pocket: then she looked up and said,

"Bridget! I wish I were _you_; I should have such a good time tasting the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."

Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her draw a great long sigh.

"What is the matter, Bridget?" said Hatty. "Is your crust heavy?"

"No," said Bridget,--"but my _heart is_. I was thinking how I wished I knew how to read and write. There's Patrick, my brother, way over in Ireland--the last time I saw him I wasn't taller than that butter firkin. Father and mother are dead, and Pat is just the pulse of my heart, Hatty! Well, when he writes me a letter, it's me that can't for the life of me read a word of it; and if I get Honora Donahue to read it, I'm not sure whether she gets the right sense of it; and then a body wants to read a letter more than once, you know; and so I take it up, my darlin', and turn it over and over, and it's nothing but Greek and Latin to poor Bridget. And so many's the time, Hatty, I've cried hours over Pat's letters, for reason of that. Then I can't answer them--cause you know I can't write--and in course I don't want to turn my heart inside out for anybody else to write it to Pat for me; and so you see, my darlin', it's a bother all round entirely,"--and Bridget shut to the oven door, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her check apron.

Hatty was a very warm-hearted little girl, and she couldn't bear to see Bridget cry, so she threw down the bit of paste in her hand; then starting to her feet, as if a sudden thought had struck her, ran quickly up stairs into the parlor, where her mother was sitting, talking with two ladies.

Hatty forgot that her face, and hands, and check apron, and even her curls, were all over flour, when she burst into the room, saying,

"Oh, Mamma!--Bridget and I have been talking, and Bridget--(_great big_ Bridget!)--don't know how to read and write! and she has nobody to love but Pat--and Pat is in Ireland; and when he writes her a letter she can't read it, and she can't answer him, because she don't know how to write; and she hasn't seen Pat since--since he was as little as a butter firkin--and she is so unhappy--and, Mamma, mayn't I have an A-B-C book, and teach Bridget how to read and how to write?" And little Hatty stopped--not because she had no more to say, but because she was out of breath.

Hatty's mamma smiled, and said, "There was a little girl just your size, in here about an hour ago, who 'didn't see the use of going to school, and wished she might never look into another book so long as she lived.' Have you seen anything of her?"

Hatty blushed and said, "Oh, Mamma, I never will be so foolish again. I see now how bad it is not to learn when one is a little girl."

Well, the A-B-C book was bought, and very funny it was to see little Miss Hatty looking so wise from under her curls, and pointing out the letters to Bridget with a long knitting needle. It was very slow work, to be sure; but then Hatty was patient, for she had a good, kind heart; and how proud she was when Bridget was able to read Pat's letters! and prouder yet when she learned to answer them! and you may be sure that Hatty never was heard to say again that "she didn't see _the use of going to school_."

MIN-YUNG.

Did you ever see a China-man? I used to know one. His head was quite shaved, except a long braid, which hung down below his waist behind. I suppose it wasn't all his own hair; but that's none of my business. He had as much right to tie on a false tail, if he liked, as the gentlemen in Broadway have to wear false whiskers, and false moustaches.

Perched on the top of his head was a little skull-cap, just about big enough to fit your little baby brother. On his feet were wooden shoes, curled up at the toes like the end of an Indian canoe. He also wore blue and white stockings, and a blue Canton-crape wrapper.

Min-Yung (that was his name) had not been a great while in the United States. He was coaxed away from China, with many others of his countrymen, by some Americans, who imagined that they could make money by exhibiting them over here, in their different Chinese dresses, and making them play tricks, like so many monkeys. When they got them here, they found "it didn't pay"; that is, people didn't care to give money to go to see them. So they ran off, and left the poor Chinese, without a cent, to take care of themselves in a strange country. Was not that very mean?

Poor Min-Yung had pawned one of his dresses after another to pay for things he needed, till they were all gone, and he looked quite worn out and miserable. He couldn't speak but a word or two of our language, and I couldn't speak Chinese; but I saw that he was sick and unhappy. So I shook hands with him, and pointed to his forehead, and looked as pitiful as I knew how; and then he nodded his head, and pulled up his sleeve, that I might feel his pulse, and leaned his head on one side, to show me how forlorn and weary he felt.

I thought that, perhaps, he might be faint, and need something to eat, or drink; so I said "_Tea?_" for I knew that a China-man would be sure to understand that word.

You should have seen what a horrid grimace he made, and how he lifted up both his hands, as if to wave off an imaginary cup of tea! I always thought that the tea sent over to this country from China was a miserable humbug; so poor Min-Yung's horror at being asked to drink a cup of it, quite upset me, and I laughed immoderately. Min-Yung laughed, too; and understood by the way I shook my fore-finger at him, just as well as if I had said, "You know very well, my dear Min-Yung, that your countrymen make us swallow and pay for any sort of a mess which they choose to baptize by the name of 'tea.'"

However, Min-Yung ate some nice jelly, without being poisoned, and pocketed some money which was given him by a gentleman present, and then he dropped on one knee very gracefully, and kissed first the gentleman's hand, and then mine; and his little huckleberry eyes twinkled, as much as to say, "You see, I'm very grateful."

With good, careful nursing, Min-Yung got better. I think it made him almost well to speak kindly to him, for he had a good, affectionate heart. When he got quite well and strong, he wanted to "be my servant." I liked Min-Yung, but I had nothing for him to do; beside, I like to be my own servant. It would make me as nervous as a cat in a china closet, to have anybody always standing behind my chair. So, the gentleman who gave him the money, said he was going to California soon, and would like to have Min-Yung go with him, to wait upon him. Wasn't that kind?

It did not take the poor China-man long to pack his trunk, for the very good reason that he had nothing to put in it. So, in less than a week's time, his wooden shoes walked on board the ship "Dolphin," and away he went to California, and I didn't hear of him again for many a long day.

It seems that after his master had got through all his business in California, he asked Min-Yung if he would like to go back to his own country and see his old father and mother, and his sisters, with the twinkling little feet;--and Min-Yung said yes. So the gentleman gave him some money, and he started off, in his little skull cap, for the "Celestial City."

I often used to think of him, and wonder if he found his old father and mother alive; and if they were glad to see him; and often, when I turned out a cup of tea, I laughed aloud to think of poor Min-Yung's horrid grimace, when I offered _him_ some.

One day a huge box came for me, directed "United States of America." I couldn't imagine what was in it. I thought of mummies, and stuffed monkeys, and "infernal machines;" and walked round the box at a respectful distance, with one eye on the door.

By and by the lid was knocked off; and now, what do you think I found in it?--a chest of "tea;" none of your sham doses, but tea that a Chinese Mandarin wouldn't have turned up his celestial nose at, and a lovely little Chinese work-box, and a pretty scarlet, Canton-crape scarf, all from that comical, good, affectionate Min-Yung.

Won't you and I call on him, when we go to China?

TOM, THE TAILOR.

Tell you another story, Charley? Bless your blue eyes, how many stories high do you suppose I am?

Who made that jacket for you, hey?

"A tailor."

Do you like to see a _man_ sewing, Charley? I don't. I don't believe that their great muscular arms were intended to wield a needle, especially when so many feminine fingers are forced to be idle for want of employment; so I never like to see a tailor.--Oh, yes, I do, too. I came very near forgetting Tom Willcut.

Who was _he_? I don't know, any more than you do. The first time I saw him, was in an old tumble-down building, where the wind played hide and go seek through the timbers; and where more men, women, dogs and children were huddled together, than four walls of the like size ever held before.

In one of the smallest of these rooms, I first saw Tom; sitting, with a white cotton cap upon his head, cross-legged on the floor, stitching away by the dim light of a tallow candle. A line stretched across the room, on which hung some coarse pea-jackets and trousers which he had finished, while at his side stood a rough table, with the remains of some supper, and two unwashed cups and saucers.

_Two_ cups and saucers, thought I: pray, who shares this little room with that poor, pale tailor?

Ah, I see! In yonder bed, which I had not noticed, lies a woman, and on her breast a little wee baby. Well may Tom sit drawing out his thread, hour after hour, by that dim candle.

1 coughed a little bit. Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, looked up, and invited me in. That was just what I wanted, you know. Then, he dusted off a chair with the tail of his coat, and I sat down.

"Is that your baby?" said I.

"It is _ours_," said he, looking over, with a proud smile, at his wife.

I liked Tom from that very minute. Of course, his wife wanted to own half of such a nice little baby--and the first one, too--and it was very gallant of tailor Tom, to say "_ours_," instead of "mine:" it showed he had a soul above buttons. Ask your mother if it didn't.

Then I asked Tom if he got good pay for making those jackets. He clipped off his thread with his great shears, and, shaking his head, said, "My boss is a Jew, Missis."

What did he mean by that? Why, "boss" means master, and Jew, I am sorry to say, is but another name for a person who gets all the work he can out of poor people, and pays them as little for it as possible.

Tom's answer made me feel very bad,--he said it in such a quiet, uncomplaining way, as if, hard as it was, he had quite made up his mind to it, for the sake of that new baby and its mother.

I wanted to jump right up and take him by the hand, and say, "Tom, you are a hero!" but, I dare say he wouldn't have understood that. Your father, Charley, would probably call him a "philosopher," but you and I, who can't afford to use up the dictionary that way, will say he is a clever, good-hearted fellow.

When Tom was first married, he had a little shop of his own, and was "quite before-hand," as he called it; but one unlucky night it caught on fire, and burned up all his coats, and trousers, and jackets, and all the stuff he had laid in to make them of; and then his wife was taken sick; and, what with doctoring, and one trouble and another, although poor Tom was honest, temperate and industrious, he came down to that poor, miserable little room, after all.

But Tom was not a man to whine about his bad luck. No; he looked at that new baby, and made his fingers fly faster than ever, and wore a cheerful smile for his sick wife, beside. That's why I called him "a hero;" for, Charley, anybody can be courageous and endure a great deal when all the world are looking on and clapping their hands, and admiring them; but it is another thing, in an obscure corner, without food, without friends, without hope, to struggle--struggle--struggle on, fighting off Temptation, fighting off grim Want, day after day, with none to say, "God speed you."

That's why I said the poor tailor had a good, _brave_ heart; that's why I honored him; that's why I prayed God a brighter day might dawn for him.

Did it? Yes! I tell you, Charley, _never despair!_ no matter how dark the cloud is overhead, work on, and look up; the sun will shine through, by and by;--it did for poor Tom.

One day a gentleman called to see him, and asked him to go with him and look at some cloth for making jackets. Tom thought it was very odd;--he didn't remember that anybody ever asked his opinion before;--he didn't know what to make of it. However, he dropped his shears, pulled off his cotton cap, kissed his little baby, and followed the gentleman.

They went along through a great many streets, till they came to the business part of the town. The gentleman opened the door of a small shop, and Tom followed him in. There were cloths of all kinds on the shelves, and the gentleman took some down and asked Tom if they were the right sort for such jackets as he had been making; and Tom said it was "prime cloth."

And then the gentleman showed him a little room, divided off at the end of the shop, and asked Tom if it was light enough to work in, and Tom said it could not be better; and then the gentleman clapped him on the shoulder, and told him to go to work in it as soon as he pleased, for these were his goods, and that was his shop!

Poor Tom looked as if he were dreaming. He tried to speak two or three times, but failed. Then, great tears dropped over his cheeks, and he said, "God bless you, sir, but I don't know what to say."

"I'm very glad of it," said the gentleman, smiling; "because I don't want you to say anything; only go home and bring your wife and baby, because there is a nice parlor and bed-room overhead, and I want to see how they look in it."

Well, the amount of it was, that the poor tailor's wife was as crazy as the tailor himself; the baby crowed, and the little terrier dog barked; and, altogether, they had a _moving_ time of it, that day.

I can't tell you the kind gentleman's name, because he never does a charity to have it published; but, sure I am, the recording angel has written it in the "Book of Life."

BETSEY'S DREAM.

It was very weary, lying there so long. Betsey had counted all the squares, and three-cornered pieces, and circles, in the patch-work quilt upon her bed; she knew there were six more red than green ones, and that one of the circles was pieced seven times.

Yes, poor lame Betsey was very tired; not that she was unused to lying there, day after day, while her mother went out washing; but, somehow, _this_ day had seemed longer and more tedious than any which had gone before. To be sure she had last year's almanac, and a torn newspaper, but she knew them both by heart. Betsey wished she "only had a little book," but she knew mother couldn't buy books, when she had not money enough for bread; so she twisted and turned, and rubbed her lame foot, and lay and looked at the mantel with its pewter lamp, and the shelf with its two earthen bowls, and its wooden spoons and platters, and the bench with her mother's wash tub on it and a square of brown soap, and the brown jug full of starch, and the old worn-out broom and mop. Betsey could have seen them just as well had her eyes been shut, she had looked at them so many times.

Did I tell you Betsey was "alone?" Oh no--there were four or five families in the some entry. There was Mrs. O'Flanigan with her six red-headed, quarrelsome children and a drunken husband, who beat her everyday till she screamed with pain; and then the six little Flanigans all screamed, too, till Betsey would put her fingers in her ears to shut out the dreadful sounds.

Then, there was Mrs. Doherty, who had twin babies and one room, and took boarders in the corners. Then, there was black Dinah, who got her living by scraping the gutters, and came home every night with a great tow-cloth bag upon her back, and emptied the old bones and rugs and papers on the floor of her room, and kept a broom handle to whip the little Flanigans, who ran in to steal them, when she went to the pump in the alley to get a drink of water.

Then, there was little Pat Rourke, who lived up the alley, and kept a little black dog named Pompey. When Pat didn't know what else to do, he would open Betsey's door, and put the dog in to worry her cat, and enjoy Betsey's fright.

Pompey would chase Pussy all round the room, and then Pussy would spit at him, and hump up her back and hide behind the wash-tub; and then Pompey would turn over the wash-tub, and seize Pussy by the neck; and then her eyes would turn all green; and then Betsey would scream and beg Pat to drive Pompey off; and then Pat would point to her lame foot and say, "Let's see you do it _yourself_, honey;" and then Betsey would hide her face under the coverlid and cry; and then Pat would run off, leaving the door wide open, and the cold air blowing right upon the bed. Yes, Betsey had all this to amuse her, besides the torn newspaper and the old almanac.

But why _didn't_ her mother come home?--that was the question. It must be late in the afternoon;--Betsey knew _that_, for the sun had crept round to the west window long since. They must have a great wash to do up at the big house. Betsey hoped the lady wouldn't go out to ride in her carriage, and forget, as she sometimes did, to pay her mother; and she hoped the cook would give her some cold tea to warm for their supper, and perhaps a bit of meat, or some potatoes. The lady herself never gave Betsey's mother anything, except an old gauze ball dress "to make over for her little girl," which Betsey's mother sold for twenty-five cents, to buy some tea.

And then Betsey wondered if rich people were always born without hearts, and if her foot would _always_ be lame, and she should never be able to help her mother, but must always be a burden; and then she thought it would be better if she died; and then she thought _not_, because when her mother came home at night ever so weary, she remembered that she always kissed her cheek, and called her "a little darling," and divided her piece of bread with her, and smiled just as sweetly as if she hadn't worked ever since the sun rose, for a mere penny.

Then Betsey was so weary that she fell asleep, and dreamed she was an angel. She was not lame any longer; she had bright wings, and a pure white robe, and a golden harp. There was no misery there, and night and day she sang, "Worthy, worthy, worthy the Lamb!" and thousands of bright winged angels echoed it back; and then--poor little Betsey woke, crying because it was only a dream, and found herself again in the little old room all alone,--all but Pussy, who was rubbing her lank sides against the bed post and the wicker chair, and looking wistfully up into Betsey's face, as much as to say, aint you _very_ hungry, Betsey?

* * *

"Rein up--rein up! Stop your horses, I say! It's no use--she's down." "Move your omnibus,"--"Get out of the way, there,"--"Go ahead"--"What do you block up the street, for?"--"What's to pay?"--"Who's killed?"

"Only a beggar woman," said the omnibus driver, gathering up his reins; "she slipped on the wet pavements, yonder, and the horses went over her, and killed her. Can't be helped, you know,--there's enough beggars left--everybody knows _that_," and he whipped up his horses, and drove on.

Then a police-man picked up Betsey's dead mother and carried her to the watch house; while some little Irish boys ran off with her basket and ate up Betsey's supper.

There was nobody to take care of lame Betsey, so she was carried to the poor-house. It didn't matter much to her, when she found her mother was dead, where they took her. She was used to seeing misery; so the groans of the poor creatures on the hospital cots about her was nothing new. But she grew very weak, day by day, and couldn't eat the food they brought her; and one morning the old nurse found her lying with her little cheek in her hand, and a smile upon her face. Betsey's dream had come true: she was an angel!

SCOTT FARM.

What a blessed thing it is to have a good grandmother! Sophy had one. Sophy loved to go and see her.

It was in the country where Grandmother Scott lived, just a pleasant ride from Sophy's home; in a good, old-fashioned farm-house, with green moss growing out of the sloping roof, shaded by trees that looked a century old. It is autumn there now; so you see on the cellar door and under the front windows, crooked necked squashes and round yellow pumpkins, mellowing in the warm sunbeams. Strings of dried apples are festooned from chamber windows; and paper bags of catnip and spearmint and thoroughwort and penny-royal and mullen hang drying on the garret walls.

On "the buttery" shelves are broad pans of fresh, new milk, crusted with cream that would make a New-Yorker stare; and great round cheeses, and little pats of golden butter, stamped with a rose, and jars of pickled cucumbers, and pots of preserved plums, and peaches, and barberries, tied down with tissue brandy papers; and loaves of "riz cake," and plates of doughnuts, and pans of apple dowdy, beside an earthen jar of rich English plum cake.

Then, there's the sitting room, where the bright sun shone in, on a picture of General Washington, and a sampler of Grandma Scott's, representing a woman crying over a tombstone shaded by a pea-green willow; and black profile likenesses of all the Scott family cut by a traveling artist, hanging in spots over the fire place; and an old-fashioned clock, standing guard in the corner, with the picture of the rising sun on it, and Grandpa's spectacles, and loose copies of the "Scott-town Daily Bulletin" tucked in round the wood work at the sides; and great, comfortable-looking arm-chairs, with patch cushions; and a sideboard with a silver pitcher on it, presented to Grandpa Scott by the Agricultural Society and a china mug with a gold rim round it, and "Betsey" on the side, given by the minister to Grandma Scott when she was a little girl, for learning her catechism right; and a great big china closet, with a glass door, to show off the rows of china cups and saucers and flowered plates, all ready if the minister or the President should come to tea.

Then, out of doors, wasn't there a great barn for the children to play in?--with piles of hay, and ladders reaching up to the roof; and old Dobbin nibbling and munching oats in his stall; and Brindle, and her little two-day old, red and white calf cuddled down in a straw bed in the corner; and the little field mice darting over the barn floor; and the swallows twittering overhead among the beams and rafters; and the old grindstone that the children liked to turn; and the scythe and pitchfork that Grandpa charged them "not even to look at;" and the yellow ears of corn peeping out of their dry husks, in a pile in the corner, and the old rooster strutting round it, (followed by his hen wives,) now and then stopping short, with one foot lifted up, and cocking his eye at them from under his red cap, as much as to say, "Stir if you dare, till I give the signal!" Oh, I can tell you, that barn was a grand old place to play in, to frolic in, or to read and think in.

Then, there was the pig-stye under it, with such lazy great pigs, and such frisky little ones, with their tails curled up so tight that they lifted their hind legs right up, jumping round and tumbling heels over head over their mother, who lay half-buried in a mud-puddle, winking her pink eyes at the bright sun, and looking just as happy as if there wasn't a butcher in the world, or as if "the Governor and council" wouldn't sign her little piggies' death warrant with the Thanksgiving proclamation.

Thanksgiving! Oh, wasn't _that_ an affair? Grandma Scott would mount her silver-bowed spectacles, strip her arms to this elbows, tie on a check apron, pin up her cap strings, and stew pumpkins and squashes and apples and quinces, and pound spices, and chop meat and suet, and roll out pie-crust, and heat the oven, and turn out so many pies and tarts and "pan-dowdies," and loaves of cake, that it would make your apron strings grow tight just to look at them!

Then, the first thing the hens in the barn-yard knew, _they didn't know anything_! but lay on the kitchen table with their yellow boots kicked up in the air, waiting to be singed, stuffed, and skewered. Poor things, they had laid their last egg, and swallowed their last kernel of corn, every rooster's daughter of 'em!

What a party of horses stamped their iron shoes in Grandpa Scott's barn on Thanksgiving morning! What a party of little children in bright autumn-leaf dresses and white aprons, went scampering through the house! What a fuss they all made over the littlest baby! What a fire (big enough to roast an ox whole) blazed in the great, wide, sitting-room fireplace!

How Grandpa Scott walked round, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, patting this one on the head, chucking the other under the chin, and tossing a third up to the wall. How he looked all round, with his arms a-kimbo, and said if any grandpa in the United States had a prettier set of grandchildren than that, he'd like to see them; and how Grandma said, "Pshaw! Grandpa," because she was so proud of them herself that she didn't know what else to say!

And how Grandma looked as if she never would grow old, with her nice lace cap, and her own brown hair, with scarce a silver thread in it, curling round her happy face; and how Grandpa would whisper slily to the boys, "After all, your mother is handsomer than any child she ever had!"

How contented and satisfied Grandmamma looked, sitting at the head of her Thanksgiving table; plenty of chickens and turkeys boiled and roasted before her. What a time she had getting all the little Scott-ites seated to her mind, and napkins tucked properly under each chubby chin; how she _would_ carve the turkey herself, because, when Grandpa got busy talking, he cut off the wings before he did the legs!

How she insisted upon "all just tasting some of that chicken-pie," when it was quite impossible to stow away another mouthful, because "she had no idea of making it for nothing."

How she would give the little wee baby a "wish-bone," though it could not hold it one minute in its limpsy little fingers; and how she would keep on passing round nuts, and oranges, and grapes, and apples, and wonder what _had_ become of all their appetites.

And then how all the family would go back into the sitting-room after dinner; and how Tom, the family "Mozart," would sing "Home, Sweet Home;" and how Grandma Scott would rub her eyes with her handkerchief, and declare that the room smoked! And how all the grown-up boys and girls would begin to look hysterical; and how Maggie, who believed in "a time to dance," would jump up and seize sober Uncle Walter by the waist, and waltz round the room with him; and how Grandmamma would smile and say, "Will anything _ever_ tame that girl?" Poor, merry Maggie! she's "tame" enough now, though Grandmamma didn't live to see the sorrow that it took to do it.

And bright-eyed Hal, and golden-haired Letty, and brave, handsome Walter, and cherry-lipped Susy, and dimpled little Benny,--and Grandmamma with her warm, big heart and cheerful smile; and Grandpapa with his silvery locks, and beaming eye, and kindly hand of welcome--oh, where are they all _now_?

Dear children,

"There is a reaper, his name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,
He cuts _the bearded grain at a breath_,
_And the flowers that grow between_."

Yes, other families have "Thanksgiving" now under the mossy eaves of the old farm-house--other strange little voices lisp "Grandpapa," "Grandmamma;" and long graves and short graves are in the old churchyard; and names look you in the face from marble tablets, that were once at Scott Farm--_oh_, such _cherished_ "household words!"

A TRUE STORY.

People say that it is a sign of good luck to tumble up stairs. I am glad of it; for, what with my long skirts, and what with the broken stairway, and the pitch darkness, I did nothing _but_ tumble. However, it's my motto _never to give up_; so, of course I gained the top at last, and, opening a door, found myself in a garret, piled up as high as my waist with old rags, and old papers, and old bits of bones.

"Go down, I say! Don't want you,--don't want anybody. I've got a dreadful pain----. Go down,--there's nothing here;--go down, I say," growled a voice, from a pile of rags in the corner.

I passed by this growling man, without noticing him; for, in the middle of the room was a woman, (oh, so miserable a looking creature!) with her hands crossed hopelessly in her lap, and so buried up in the piles of rags about the floor, that I could see nothing but her head and shoulders.

She was quite young,--not more than twenty. She was not that old man's wife, nor his daughter, nor his sister--but _that was her home_; and every day she went out with him and scraped the gutters, and refuse barrels, for old rags and papers; and then came back and emptied them out upon the garret floor at night, to pick them over. One whole year she had lived in that dirty den. How came she here? Listen, and I will tell you.

Mary once lived in the country, amid sweet, green fields, and clustering vines, and shady trees, and murmuring brooks. Her father was a good old farmer, as happy and contented with his few acres, as if he owned all Great Britain. Mary was his only child. Her mother died when she was a very little girl. Mary could not even remember how she looked; but her father often used to part her hair away from her white forehead, and say, "You are so _like_ your mother, Mary"--and then Mary would run to the little mirror, over the dresser, and see a sweet pair of hazel eyes, and clusters of rich, brown hair falling over rosy cheeks and snowy shoulders; and then she'd toss her curls, and run back again to her father. Mary knew that her mother must have been very pretty.

Mary had an uncle, named Ralph. He was a bad man; but Mary's father was so good and honest himself, that it was hard to make him believe anybody was _dis_-honest. So he lent his brother large sums of money--(Ralph all the while promising to pay him at a certain time.) By and by, Ralph got away all his money, and the old farm, too, with all the cows and horses, and sheep and oxen; and then Mary's father worried so much that it made him very sick, and he soon died, leaving poor Mary without a penny in the world.

Uncle Ralph told her to go to the city, and he would find employment for her. But, after he got her there, he left her, and ran off; and poor Mary wandered about, quite heart-broken, till finally she found some coarse work to do, for which she was paid a trifle. She worked on with a brave heart, from day to day, for some weeks, till her employer died; and then, poor Mary knew not what to do,--nobody would employ her; and wicked people came and tempted her to sin, but Mary was good, and would not listen to them; and so she had to sell her clothes, one after another, as poor people do, till she had nothing left but the calico dress she had on. Even her under-clothes were gone, to pay the woman where she lived for her lodging. Alas! then poor Mary said, despairingly, "It is of no use for me to try to be honest any longer,"--and wicked people came again and tempted her, and nobody said, "Mary, struggle on, and I will help you; I will give you work to do." No; nobody said _that_; and everything looked dark and gloomy, and she forgot the little prayer she used to say at the old farmhouse, and made her home with wicked people; and the sweet, innocent look faded out from her soft blue eyes, and her heart grew hard--and wrong seemed right to poor Mary.

But sometimes Mary would wake at night, when all was still, and think of her childhood's home, under the linden trees; and of her good old father sitting in the porch, with the Bible on his knee, and the soft wind gently lifting the gray hair from his temples. Then she thought of the old church-yard, where her mother lay buried; and then she would press her hands tightly over her eyes, as if in that way she could shut out the torturing picture.

Mary could not bear such thoughts; they drove her almost wild. So, she drank wine (when she could get it) to drown her misery, and passed from one place of shelter to another, till at last she was glad of a home in the wretched garret where I found her.

When I spoke to Mary, she would not answer me; but looked me in the face as if she had been a stone image. She seemed to be afraid of the old man with whom she lived in the garret. Finding, after many earnest attempts, that I could do Mary no good, I left her; and soon after I heard that the old man had died, and that Mary had found a great many dollars in gold and silver, hid away in the garret, that he had earned picking up old rags.

So, Mary had all the old miser's money. But did it bring back the sweet, innocent look to her eyes? or take the misery out of her heart? No, no. She'd count over her gold, and say, with a horrid laugh, "It comes too late--too late!"

Oh! how I wished that all who give only----_good advice_! to a poor, tempted, starving, fellow creature, could have heard those dreadful words: "Too late,--too late!"

THE LITTLE EMIGRANTS.

Tell you a story, Harry? Do you like to hear about poor people? Well, jump up into my lap. So;--now look straight into my eyes.

Last night I went to see some poor Italian emigrants. I threaded my way through dirty streets and alleys, and up rickety old staircases, where it was so dark that I had to feel my way, and where I coughed and choked at every step, with the tobacco smoke and bad air.

At last I opened the door of a small room, lighted with one window, where were a dozen persons--men, women and children. Some were seated on straw beds, which were lying upon the floor; some were sitting upon old boxes, and others were looking out the window (as if bewildered) upon the strange scenes in the street below.

Crouched upon the hearth, was a very old woman, with thin, gray locks, toothless gums, and bare bosom. She was stretching out her skinny hands over a few shavings that she had kindled into a blaze; while a little baby lay in a shawl beside her, rubbing its eyes, and crying at the smoke that was every instant puffed into its little face. On the opposite side of the hearth, was a little boy and girl, quite naked to the waist from whence hung a little dirty tunic to their bare knees. A tin pan of _raw potatoes_ lay between them, which they were slicing off with a great knife, and greedily devouring, as if they were half-starved.

Harry, what do you think of that? How should _you_ relish a raw potato for supper? How should you like to come from a warm, sunny country, into a cold, chilly climate, and be obliged to go half-naked because you had no money to buy clothes? How should you like not to be able to understand a word anybody there said to you, or not to be able to make _them_ understand _you_? How should you like to have _your_ mother, or _your_ father, go wandering round, day after day, _making signs_ to people, to try to get employment, and have to keep giving away one article of their poor clothing after another for a loaf of bread? How should you like to be turned out (even of that miserable room) into the street, some stormy night, by a cruel landlord? How should you like to see _your mother_ sit down on a door step, in the dark, dark night, and droop her weary head upon her bosom and _die_?

Oh, Harry! all that had happened to the poor little boy and girl who were eating raw potatoes at the hearth. They were poor little orphans, and that old woman was their grandmother. They had all wandered about, from place to place, ever since they left the ship that brought them out.

They were pretty children, with great dark eyes, and curly hair, and such a bright smile when we spoke kindly to them. Their grandmother was all they had now to love; and she, poor woman, couldn't live long to take care of them, for the cold, and exposure, and anxiety, had almost killed her, too. So, she felt very anxious about what would become of little Pietro and Annita, when she was dead; and she kept patting them on the head, as if she was determined to make them as happy as possible while she lived.

Well, do you know, Harry, it struck me that Mrs. ----, who lives in New-York, might like to adopt the little orphans. She has no children of her own, and she loves children. That's why I took her with me to see the poor emigrants last night.

How she _did_ cry when she saw the poor things eating raw potatoes! She turned round to me, and said, "Fanny, I must have those children. I'll take them right home, and I'll ----" then she couldn't stop to tell me the rest, but ran up to the grandmother, and asked her, in Italian, if she might not have Pietro and Annita.

At first, the poor old grandmother looked at them both, and said she couldn't give them up. Then she looked round that dismal room, and drew her torn shawl up over her shoulders; and then she called them both to her, and hugged and kissed them; and then, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, she took them by the hand and led them up to Mrs. ----, and told her to be "a kind mamma to them."

But poor little Pietro and Annita clung to their grandmother, and kissed her wrinkled face, and hung round her neck, and hid their little curly heads in her lap, for they had seen so many strange faces, and so much misery, that it had made them as shy as little rabbits, and they were afraid to venture away from grandmother. Mrs. ---- spoke to them in Italian, and tried to coax them with promises of all sorts of pretty things. But it was of no use; they only shook their little curly heads, and ran back to their dear old grandma, who patted them both, and laughed and cried together.

Then, Mrs. ---- said "she would take grandma, too:" and that she should help her to take care of Annita and Pietro. When the little rogues heard this, they wiped away their tears, and smiled, and showed their little white, glittering teeth, and kissed Mrs. ----'s hands, and said, "We will go."

So, we got a carriage, and took them all in, to Mrs. ----'s house in Fourth street, where they were washed, and dressed, and ate some nice hot supper; and before I came away, they were asleep in a cunning little trundle-bed, with their little curly heads nestled on the same pillow, and their little cheeks close together, and just as rosy as if they had never shivered, half naked, in that old smoky room.

And Mrs. ----'s husband, who is an artist, stood there over them, with his pencil in his fingers, taking a sketch of their little Italian faces; and by and by he will finish a beautiful picture of Pietro and Annita, in the old ragged dresses in which they were found; and if he paints their little dimpled shoulders and cunning little legs and feet half as pretty as they really are, I know you will say with me, that the "Little Emigrants" are worth looking at, and _worth loving_.

ALL ABOUT THE DOLANS.

Tobacco! tobacco! If there's anything I hate worse than a dandy, it is tobacco. Such a headache as I have this morning, all for that vile pipe that Bridget Dolan's husband was smoking, when I went over to see her.

Charley, I believe if an Irishman hadn't a potato to put in his blarney-ing mouth, he would own a pipe and a puppy. Jim Dolan had both.

Now, Bridget Dolan was full clever enough to have been a born Yankee, and, of course, was a great deal too good for Jim Dolan. She had more children than you could count, if you were in a hurry, and a baby in her arms, year in and year out. For all that, she is never out of patience trying to keep their elbows and knees and toes in, and make up for what Jim wastes in smoking and drinking. I verily believe Bridget would fight anybody who said he was not the best husband in the world,--black and blue spots on her arms to the contrary. Well, if she has patience to put up with it, it is no affair of yours or mine; all I have to say is, that her name ought to be Job, instead of Dolan.

Last night I thought I would go over to see her; so, I lifted up my dress and waded through the alley, and after getting away from a drunken woman, who insisted upon having my bonnet, I reached Bridget's door in safety.

There they were, all in a heap, as usual,--Michael and Johnny, and Sammy and Pat, and Fanny and Katy, and Mike and the baby. Bridget's face shone like a new milk-pan, when I opened the door (she knows I pity her); she flew round and got me a wooden chair, scrubbed the baby's face with her apron, put one hand on Mike's hair to make it lie down, sent Snip, the dog, yelping under the bed, and asked me how I did; while Jim knocked the ashes out of his pipe, twitched a lock of hair that hung over his forehead, and scraped out his hind foot, by way of a bow.

Presently Johnny began to whisper to Sammy, and Sammy whispered to Mike, and Mike whispered to his mother; and then his mother got up and gave them something out of the closet, which they came and laid in my lap, with their eyes shining like a cat's in the dark. And when I held it up to the light, it turned out to be two new jackets, one for Sammy and one for Johnny, that their good, thrifty mother had made out of an old coat that somebody had given her.

Of course, I admired them; and of course, I buttoned the little boys up in them; and of course, they strutted round, as smart as little corporals; and Sammy shook his red head, and said he would "like to hear Brian Doherty call him a beggar _now_!"

Bridget smiled, and said, "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy;" and then, Johnny pulled at my gown again, and pointed up in the corner, and right between the windows, where nearly every pane of glass was broken out, stood a brand new cooking stove, with all its shining pots and pans and kettles, set in order on the top, as if the most magnificent dinner that ever was dreamed of, was hissing and stewing and broiling and baking and roasting inside.

As to Sammy, he lifted up all the lids, and poked his nose in, as if he could already smell the dinner. Mike spread out his little blue hands, as if _some time or other_ they would get warm over it; Johnny shouldered the poker and showed me how they were going to rattle the coal out when somebody should give mother work enough to earn money to buy it, and the baby got well enough to let her do it. Then Sammy held the light, and we all walked in a procession, round and round the stove, and voted it a most magnificent affair.