Newspapers / The Orphans’ Friend (Oxford, … / April 5, 1876, edition 1 / Page 1
Part of The Orphans’ Friend (Oxford, N.C.) / About this page
This page has errors
The date, title, or page description is wrong
This page has harmful content
This page contains sensitive or offensive material
XHI3 ASSS-CiJKI. BY LUCY G. MORSE. One bright May morning, a little ash-girl was sitting on the pavement, leaning back against tlie railing of Stuyvesant Square, thinking. A little while before, a lady had appeared at a window in one of the liouses opposite, looked across into the park, and smiled to her children who were playing there. The ash-girl had laughed and blushed, tlirough all the dirt upon her face and under the tangled mass ot hair that hung over it, for she thought the lady had smiled at her too, and she had never before caught a look of so much love from any body. A few minutes afterward, the lady had come out upon the door-step, the children had run to meet her, calling, ‘Mother ! moth er!’ and they had all walked away together. The ash-girl, thinking that the lady would certainly see her and smile again to her, jumped up, stood first on one bare foot, then on the other, clasped and unclasp ed her hands, brushed her hair away from her eyes, pulled off her hood, swung it to and fro, wound the strings around her wrists, and did not know at all what she was about. But the lady had only said, ‘Come, my darlings 1’ to her children, and walked away. So the ash-girl had sat down on the pavement, and was thinking about it all. ‘Mother !’ she muttered. ‘They all said, ‘Mother I’ The little one couldn’t talk plain, but even she said, ‘Muzzer !’ Ha ! ha!’ laughed the ash-girl all to her self, and husa-ina' her knee a little tighter. ‘l)id I ever in my lite see any thing so funny as three childers all running after a woman and callin’, ‘Mother V One on ’em was as big as me, too 1 What’s she want of a mother to be lookin’ out for her all the time ? I’d be ’shamed, if I was her. Ilow’d I look, now, runnin’ after somebo dy—so.’ “She stopped to enjoy the joke for a moment, but suddenly she looked grave and whispered, in a tone of mystery and some awe : ‘I wonder—I wonder what a lady’d say if I wur after her ! It I’d a-run after that mother, now ! I wonder what she’d a-done I I aint so awful diff’rent from them childers, I don’t think. If I was washed, an’ had my hair fixed in curls, an’ a feather down behind —I wmnder if Td look then as if I b’longed to a good, beautiful, reel mother, that’d come to the window an’ see me rollin’ my hoop, an’ look down at me a- smilin’ the beautiful way that la dy did I The ash-girl sat, resting her el bow on her knee and her chin in her hand, for a long time, think ing about all this. After awhile, another thought came. ‘I wish—I wish I had a mother!’ she said at last. ‘I wouldn’t care if Biddy Dolan an’ the others did laugh at me, then ! I wouldn’t care if all the ash-boys an’ rag pickers that ever I seen in my life follered after mo a-mockin’ of me. SJie wouldn’t! My mother wouldn’t laugh at mo ! No, in deed, she wouldn’t. When the others did it, she’d hold out her hand an’ take mine into it, an’ pull me close to her side an’ look down at me an’ say—what that lady did to her childers—she’d say, ‘Come, my darling.’ Oh ! I wonder—I wonder, if I went all over the city, an’ hunted an’ hunted an’ watched in the streets, an’ axed at the doors—I wonder it I could liiid any one that’d be my mother 1 I wont ax that la dy that lives acrost the ivay, ’cause she don’t want me ; slie never looked at me when she came out ag’in.. An’ she’s got all o’ them others, too. But slie’s a reel mother. Slie’s the first reel mother that ever I seen. She come out of a pretty house, too. Tliey’s flowers in the windies, an’ lace curtains all the way up. I guess the best mothers is in tlie beauti- fullest houses. I’ll go to all of them 1 can find. And I’ll go right off, now—^just as soon as I git my basket full and take it to Biddy’s.’ ‘I said I didn’t want a mother like Biddy,’ she said to herself; ‘nor I know my mother wont want a young uu like me, neither I I better fix myself up. I can’t help my clothes, (looking down at her rags, hopelessly), but I’ll wash myself, and my mother’ll put me on a nice, pretty dress and things. Yes, I know she will do that.’ So she pulled off her hood, caught up a basin, and proceeded to wash her face. She wiped it on an old towel, and then, having tried to smooth her hair with a piece of a broken comb, she hur ried awaj’ unobserved. She made her -way as fast as possible to a more decent part of the city, bent upon finding the prettiest houses, and soon reach ed Fifth Avenue. She ivalked slowly along for a number of blocks, looking, not at the base ment doors, as she did on her begging tours, but up at the win dows, trying to decide at which house to try her luck first. But they all looked pretty much alike. After a while, however, she got courage to go into one of the court-yards and pull the servants’ bell. A scowling woman opened the door, and banged it to with out a word. ‘That’s the w-ay they does when I’m a-begging,’ tliought the child. ‘Horv can I let them know I aint? Mebby its the basket. I’ll leave it outside.’ . So she put the basket down, and rang at another door. Prett}^ soon that door opened, and a boy showed himself just long enough to say: Clear out! liaint got nothing and never wnll have. She rang at a good many bells, wdth like results, but she was not to be discouraged. One day, she w'a.s tvandering about Madison Square, when an elegant carriage stopped before a house she w'as passing. The footman, in finest livery, opened the door; a-lady stepped out of it, and Cathern, stopping to look at her, could hear her give the driver an order to come later in the day to drive her to the Park. Turning to go up the steps of the house, she brushed by Cathern, wdio, as she passed, caught at her dress, and for a moment held a fold of the delicate lace shawl she wore, while she looked up at her and said, in a pleading voice : ‘Oh ! please, ma’am, wont ye tell me - ‘Tell you wliat, child V asked the lady, petulantly, and frown ing a little. ‘Let go of my lace ; you will soil it. I have nothing for you,’ ‘I don’t want nothing ; I don’t want nothing at all,’ said Cathern, letting go of the lace and squeez ing her hands together. “I only want to know if—if—they’s an}' lady in that house that wants a little girl for her owm ?” A merry, light laugh rang from the lady as she answered : “No, there isn’t. I can tell you that very decidedly.” And she ran up the steps, laughing still, her lace shawd and the folds of her delicate silk dress fluttering graoefidly, and making- little soft breeze touch the ash- girl’s cheek as she passed. The child watched her waiting- on the step for the servant to open the door, and tlion, when she had disappeared through it looked up at the windows of the house, shad ing her eyes with her hand. Then she turned away ^vith per plexed look, and, after her old way, sat down on the curb-stone to think the whole question over in a new light. ‘It’s queer !’ she said to her self, after thinking a long time. ‘It’s very queer, and it must be all wrong. I guess, after all, that they don’t have no reel mothers at all living in the illegant houses. That must be it! But’—after another pause—“that first mother was in one. How did she come in it, then 1 I wonder how she did ! But they aint no more of ’em, I’ve been everywhores. She was a real mother, too. She was the first one. I don’t believe—I don’t believe that house was her’n. I guess she only come to stay in it, and she lives somewheres else. That’s it!—^that’s it! I’m sure it is. I’v been a-doing it all wrong. I’ll have to begin again.’ She sprang up with new hope at the thought, and was going to hurry away when, looking up again at the house a lad}' had en tered, and seeing a group of chil dren in one of the -n'indows, she stopped. ‘That’s queer, too !’ she thought. ‘I wonder who takes care of the children in the big houses !’ She puzzled over the problem for a moment or two, and then said ; ‘I suppose the ladies does it. The ladies and the uusses, and the servants and the fine waiters! And the childers is like me—they don’t have no reel mothers! Poor little things !—poor 11 ’e things !’ And the ash-girl’s heart was full of tenderness and pity for the rich children as she wont on, slowly repeating, ‘Poor little things I—poor little things !’ One afternoon in the autumn, she was sitting on a door-step idly watching a house opposite, where in the morning she had noticed some black and white ribbons on the bell. The shutters were closed, but she had seen flowers handed in at the door, can-iages collect, something carried out all covered with the flowers, then people get into the carriages and drive away. Now the ribbons had been taken off the bell, and nothing, except the closed blinds, distinguished the house from all the others.. ‘I wonder,’ she was thinking, drawing her rags about her, for it was chilly, ‘if it w'as a boy or a girl !—it w'asn’t very big, tvhich- ever it was,’ when a carriage stoitped at the door, and a lad}-, dressed in black and half covered with a long black veil, was helped out and supported tenderly up the steps and into the house by another lady who was with her. Suddenly', her old fancy took possession of her. She stood up, sat dow'ii again, rubbed her face, tied and untied her hood, and at last, forgetting her basket, darted across the street, up the steps of the house, and rang the bell. She stood there restless and ner vous, for a moment, until the door was opeded by the girl. Then, putting her liands, one on the door and the other on the side, -where it could not shut without crushing her fingers, she said, eagerly': ‘I want to see the missus !’ ‘You can’t,’ answered the girl. ‘She can’t see nobody. What do y'ou want with her ¥ ‘1 want to see her 1 Tell me —toll me if it was a girl; and has she got any others ? Tell -- me that—do, please !’ said Cathern so earnestly, that the woman, at first disposed to send her rudely away, answered ; ‘Yes, it tvas a girl: and she hasn’t ne’er a one left—boy nor girl. Tell me what y'OU want -ivith her.’ ‘No, no; I must see her ! I knows she’ll see me. Do—do tell her !’ cried Cathern, pleading very hard. ‘Who is it. Arm '?’ asked a sweet voice, and the parlor door opened a little way. ‘It’s a poor child, ma’am, says she must see you, and I’m telling her ’ ■ ‘No matter,’ said the lady, opening the door wider, ‘let her come in. Come in. child, and tell me what j'ou want.’ Cathern stood in a pretty, quiet • room, in the glow of a bright fire, squeezing her hands very tight together and looking up at the lady w'ith all tlie yearning of her search in her little pinched face. After a moment, she said, pausing between every few words, her breath coming and going strange ly ‘ ‘I come—'I come—-to ax you, ma’am—oh ! I’ve been a-hunting and a-hunting through the streets —axing at tire houses and every'- wheres for the mothers—because Biddy Dolan don’t want me—and nobody' want me, if —if— And she told me now at the door that it was a girl, and—I found out that y'ou havn’t any—any little girl—and I— Oh, ma’am, don’t —don’t you cry', too ! I—I aint like any nice little girl—I’m only' ugly'. But I wants—oh, I tvants a mother! And they aint any motlier in the world that wants a little girl like me !’ Her hood thrown back,her hands clasped over her face, she stood sobbing and trembling, before the lady, who at first, as the child’s meaning dawned upon her, drew herself away, turned her face to the wall, and bowed her head, W'eeping. But when she turned again saw the -sveak little fi-anie trembling from head to foot, and heard her desolate cry she sud denly knelt down, spread -wide her arms, and cried : ‘Come ! come to me ! It is as if my' child cried out to me from heaven ! Put your little head, so, upon my' breast, and I will be as true—as true a mother to y'ou as I can. Yes, I will my darling !' Nicholas, for April, A -^VISIE AKSWEIt. Some of the fancies of the Jew- ish Talmud are very witty' and neat. Particularly so are“ those short apothegms which illustrate or defend some attribute of God by answering an infidel’s objec tion. The following is a perfect specimen of Oriental retort: A prince once said to Kabbi Gamilie ; “Your God is a thief; lie .sur prised Adam in his sleep, and slold a rib from him.” The Rabbi’s daughter over heard this speech and whispered a word or two in her father’s ear, asking his permission to answ-er this singular opinion herself. lie gave his consent. The girl stepped forward, and feigning terror and dismay', threw her arms aloft in surprise,' and cried out: “My liege, my' liege ! Justice, Revenge!” “What has happened?” asked the prince. “A wicked theft has tiken place,” she' replied. “A robber has secretly ci-ept in our house, carried aw'ay a silver goblet, and left a gold one in its stead.” “What an upright thief!” ex claimed the prince. “Would that such robberies were of more fre quent occurrence !” “Behold, then, sire, the kind of thief that our Creator -was; He stole a rib from Adam, and gave him a beautiful wife instead.” ‘Well said !’ avowed the prince, —Selected. Shortly before his departure for India, the lamented Heber preached a sermon, which con tained. this beautiful sentiment: ‘Life bears us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our boat glides do-wn the narrow channel —through the playful murmuring of the little brook, and the w'ind- ing of its grassy borders. The trees shed their blossoms over our y'omig heads, the flow'ers oii the brink seem to offer themseves to our young hands : we are hap py in hope, and grasp eagerly at the beauties around us—but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty. Our course in y'outh and manhood is along a wider floor, amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated at the tnoving pic tures of enjoyment and industry passing us, we are excited at some short lived disappointment, The stream bears us on, and our joy's and griefs are alike left bg hind us. We may be shipwrec!’,^- ed, we cannot be delayed j y,] otp. er rough or smooth, the river' hastens to its home, till the roar of the ocean is in our ears and! the tossing of the Vvaves is- be neath our feet, and the land less ens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted around us, and we taka our leave of earth and its Inhabit' tants, until of our furtlier vovago there is no witness, save tlie'lnfi uito and Lternal,’
The Orphans’ Friend (Oxford, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
April 5, 1876, edition 1
1
Click "Submit" to request a review of this page. NCDHC staff will check .
0 / 75