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IS name was Patsey Donahue. He was a typical
product of Slum Street and Back Alley—tall, slim, ungainly, tanned and freckled, curly-haired, and always barefooted. He did, indeed, remember the time when he had possessed for almost a fortnight an apology for a pair of shoes, given him by the Mission Sunday School Superintendent; but they did not last long-some people never give anything to charity unless they have first got all the good out of it themselves. So Patsey didn't put much stock in charity, and as, after all, he preferred barefooted independence to Sunday School obedience, he never went to the Mission again.
He wore the same suit year in and year out, and the long trousers, that had at first trailed in the mud beneath his feet, now lacked a foot of reaching the ground and hung in dirty frills about his equally dirty ankles. The coat that had once been ample for his thin figure now flapped awkwardly to and fro, like a waiter's short jacket, and missed connection with his trousers by several inches of soiled flannel shirt. His picturesquely tattered straw hat hardly shaded his bright blue eyes—his one redeeming feature.
Patsey had no real home-or rather he had many homes. He spent the night in a lodging house in any one of those numberless, nameless courts with which every great city abounds. One of his favorite resorts in summer was the lumber yard down by the river, where he used to lie at night on the lumber piles and look up at the great, bright stars above and wonder if that was where good Sunday School boys went. As for himself, he was a veri. table little heathen-he hardly knew what church meant, felt no compunctions about playing hookey from the school which the truant officer obliged him to attend, smoked cigarette stubs—as constantly as he could find them—and in winter snowballed his deadly foes, the police, and, when arrested, lied about it and was let off.
He used to hang about the People's Dime Museum, whistling to himself, until some compassionate youth, whose pockets were better lined than Patsey's, would take pity upon him and pay his way in. In the Dime Museum Patsey made many friends. The Fat
The Fat Lady became quite confidential with him, and the Strong Man took him every time to see the snakes and tell him how much they grew between performances.
Patsey cordially hated work. There were plenty of people, he knew, that liked it, and he thought there were enough without him. Yet he had to work-generally standing in line to buy tickets for an Irving performance or a Patti concert-and from the billposters he learned to know all the stage celebrities. But on the whole he preferred the dime museum people, they were so open-hearted and kind.
One night Patsey was returning from the theatre where he had been standing for hours in the ticket line. He was walking slowly along the almost deserted mainstreet when he felt a gentle tug at his coat. He turned angrily, but suddenly checked the almost uttered oath. There stood a little girl, not more than four or five years old. She might have been an angel, Patsey thought, she looked so much like the cherubs in the art-store windows. Her dark hair hung in graceful curls, framing her sweet baby face.
“Me wants to go home,” she said, plaintively.
“Where d' yer live, kid ?" asked Patsey, trying to speak gently, and awkwardly putting his dirty hand on her shoulder.
“Me wants my parpar and me wants to go home,” wailed the child, breaking into un-angelic tears.
“Where's yer pa ? Why ain't he here ?"
“ He's goned in there”-she pointed to the swinging doors of a brightly lighted barroom, whence came loud sounds of carousal, and curses of men quarreling.
“ Gone in ter get a drink, I reck’n, an' lef' yer here all alone. Now thet's too damn—" but he stopped short
“ Didn't he know 'ny better'n ter leave yer here? Wot's yer name, kid ?"
M'rie." “Guess yer mean Mary, don't yer? My name's Pat.
In the saloon there was more clinking of glasses, and then fierce oaths and the scraping and scuffling of feet.
Guess theyse be havin' a fight in there,” said Patsey. Just then there was a sharp cry, a dull thud as of a heavy body falling, and a rough-looking man pushed out through the swinging doors and disappeared rapidly down a dark side alley. Marie nestled closer to Patsey's protecting arm.
“Me wants my parpar now.”
"Yer jist wait here, kid, an' I'll find 'im," and Patsey stepped eagerly into the saloon.
A dozen or more men were gathered about the prostrate form of a drunken reveller.
“Reck'n he's dun fer this time, sure, Bill. He'd oughter git kilt, but I'm sorry fer the little kid o' his 'at he lef' outside in the street," said one of the soberer men of the group. Who was Marie's father? All Patsey's inquiries were vain. Nobody knew-nobody cared-slight
chance that anything could ever be learned about him, and when Patsey offered to see that Marie should be cared for, for the present at least, the men gladly accepted the proposition and gave him the few dollars that were the entire contents of the dead man's
purse. Patsey found Marie wailing piteously, but her baby face brightened when she saw him in a way that touched his heart.
"'s my parpar comin', Patsey ?"
“No, little 'un, not jist yet. He's a-gorn off fer a while. He couldn't help it. I'll take care o’yer till he comes back.”
Marie put her tiny hand in his large, dirty one with touching confidence and walked on beside him toward Mrs. Simpkins' house—the boarding place of the People's Dime Museum Company. Mrs. Simpkins grumbled loudly on being awakened, but her motherly heart warmed as she saw the fair form resting drowsily on Patsey's breast-for Marie's weary little legs had dragged so heavily that Patsey had picked her up, and was carry. ing her in his arms.
It did not take long for Patsey to tell the pitiful little story. “ Yer'll keep her here, won't yer ?” he implored. “ She ain't got no home now, an' she-un's too good fer the Orphuns' Home. She ain't nobody's brat-she's a lady, she is."
“Reck'n she'll be a good-un at actin' an' dancin' in the Meuseum, don't you? She'll be more'n worth her board an' vittles,” rejoined Mrs. Simpkins.
Patsey looked up with surprise and pain. “Yer been't a-goin' ter hev the likes 'f her act'n', are yer? She's a born lady, an'-well, yer know how it gen'rally is with 'em, the pretty uns that dance an' sing an' play. This little-un warn't born ter do thet, even ef her pa was allers drunk. She shan't hev ter do thet ef I hev ter pay for her keepin' myself. An' ef we don't hear nothin' 'bout her pa,
, she'll live here an' you'll tek care of her, 'an whin she's a grown lady she won't be one of thim painted singin' an' actin' women. She'll be happy, an' 'll do what she likes, sure's my name's Patsey.' And for once Patsey kept his word.
George Henry Nettleton.
now, warmed by the fire of suppressed excitement, its
patience was almost exhausted. A faint VICTORIA. tremor went through the throng, like the vibration of water before boiling.
The back rows pushed forward, the front rows bulged out, and some spectators were crowded off into the streets. A moment's calm-and then a more violent quiser, a shock in the crowds massed about Hyde Park gate. There are cries of “ Can you see them? are they coming?" A distant bugie call allays all doubts. Now we can see the brilliant red and white crests of the Horse Guards bobbing up and down about the field of brown and black derbies, like turkeys' heads in a meadow of ripened buckwheat. With flash of swords and cuirasses, with the ring of many hoofs and rumble of wheels, the procession nears and sweeps by. Queen Victoria occupies the seat of honor in the first coach, and rains dignified smiles and lofty bows over her subjects. The outriders are gay in their liveries; the Indian attendants gorgeous in their suits of gold and red; but the solid Scotch footmen surpass all with their plaids and dirks and highly polished knees. All is gone in a moment, like a dream of splendor. Then the crowd breaks up and each one goes his way. A lengthy editorial in the “Times” of the next morning announces the important fact that “ Her Majesty, the Queen, entered London yesterday, by way of Paddington and Hyde Park." *
* Merry June has come. All the flowers are laughing, the birds are singing for very joy, and the Derwentwater is ON COACH
reflecting nature's smile on its dimpled surface. The coach is ready. All aboard !
The whip cracks like a pistol and we are off for Lowood. How lovely the country looks! Westmoreland still breathes the air of poetry. Just see those little hall timber houses, nearly smothered with flowers