Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 List of Illustrations
 List of lithograph plates
 Trotty Veck and his daughter...
 Tiny Tim
 Little Dombey
 The runaway couple
 Poor Jo!
 The little Kenwigs
 Little Dorrit
 The toy-maker and his blind...
 Little Nell
 Little David Copperfield
 Jenny Wren
 Pip's adventure
 The child who swallowed a...
 Dick Swiveller and the Marchio...
 The brave and honest boy, Oliver...
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: Beautiful stories about children
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00087387/00001
 Material Information
Title: Beautiful stories about children
Alternate Title: Beautiful stories
Physical Description: 242 p., 12 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.), port. ; 24 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870
Scull, William Ellis, b. 1862 ( Copyright holder )
Dickens, Mary Angela ( Author )
John C. Winston Company ( Publisher )
Publisher: John C. Winston Co.
Place of Publication: Chicago ;
Philadelphia ;
Publication Date: c1898
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1898   ( lcsh )
Juvenile literature -- Illinois -- Chicago -- 1898   ( rbgenr )
Juvenile literature -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia -- 1898   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1898
Genre: Children's stories
Juvenile literature   ( rbgenr )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Illinois -- Chicago
United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
Canada -- Toronto
Citation/Reference: Podeschi, J.B. Dickens,
Statement of Responsibility: by Charles Dickens ; retold by his granddaughter and others ; superbly illustrated with nearly 100 new color plates, half-tones and pen sketches made especially by famous artists for these stories ; this book contains the most charming portrayals of child-character from the immortal works of the great author.
General Note: Fifteen stories adapted from Dickens's works.
General Note: "Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1898 by W.E. Scull"--T.p. verso.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00087387
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002223357
notis - ALG3606
oclc - 54223943

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Page 1
        Page 1a
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Table of Contents
        Page 5
    List of Illustrations
        Page 6
        Page 7
    List of lithograph plates
        Page 8
    Trotty Veck and his daughter Meg
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    Tiny Tim
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
    Little Dombey
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    The runaway couple
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
    Poor Jo!
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
    The little Kenwigs
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
    Little Dorrit
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
    The toy-maker and his blind daughter
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 102a
    Little Nell
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
    Little David Copperfield
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
    Jenny Wren
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
    Pip's adventure
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
    The child who swallowed a necklace
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
    Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
    The brave and honest boy, Oliver Twist
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
    Back Matter
        Page 233
        Page 234
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

[I.- .~












.. -


Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1898, by
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington
All rights reserved.
















14. TODGERS' 182



List of Original Illustrations.

M eg and Lilian................................... ................................ ........... 9
"They broke in like a grace, my dear"........................................................ 11
Mr. Cratchit and Tiny Tim .. ..................................... ............- .. .......... 21
Mr. Cratchit and Mr. .Scrooge...................................... ......................... 28
Little Paul Dombey .. .............. ....................... ............................ 29
Little Dombey and his Sister... .... ..... .. .. ...... .. .. .. ... ...................... 30
Dombey and Sd6n......................... ............................................ 31
Florence and Little Paul...................................................................... 37
Miss Blimber and Paul ................. .. ........................................... 41
"'I don't think I shall like you at all," replied Paul. ................................. ........ 43
Master Harry and Norah arrive at the Holly-Tree Inn ............................................ 45
M aster H arry and Norah ........................... ....................... ...... ........... 47
"And they laid down on a bank of daisies and went to sleep ". ................................... 49
"The lady followed, gallantly escorted by the gentleman "...................................... 52
Jo and the Beadle ..................................... ........................ ........ 55
Jo and his Friend............................................................................ 57
Jo at the Gate of the Churchyard where they Buried his Friend................................. 58
Poor Jo, the Crossing-sweeper .................................................................. 61
Death of Poor Jo...................................... ............................ 70
The Little Kenwigs........................................................... ......... 72
Morleena Kenwigs ................. .... .... ....... .................................... 75
"Thinking of the fields, ain't you? "......................................................... 79
Tip and Little Dorrit......................... ..... ................................... ...... 87
M aggie ................ ......... ......................................... .... ........... 89
Little Nell................................ ....................................................... 103
The Departure of Little Nell and her Grandfather........................................... 105
The Exhibitors of the Punch and Judy Show................................................... 107
"They laid down at night with nothing between them and the sky "............................... 111
"Upon one occasion they met two young people walking on stilts"................................ 115
Mrs. Jarley ...................................... .. ............................. .. 116
"Nell pointed out the figures in the wax-work show to the visitors"............................... 119
Little Nell and her Grandfather in the Churchyard ............................,......, ,,,.... 121


"She would often steal-in church and sit down among the quiet figures carved upon the tombs"...... 125
"Day after day the old man would sit beside her grave"........................................ 128
Little David Copperfield and his Mother ... .................................................. 129
Little David Copperfield and Barkis ................................................................ 145
"Well, if I was you, I should wash him," said Mr. Dick........................................ 159
"Seated on the carpet were two girls". ................ .................................. 163
"Go along with you, you wicked old child ........................ ......... .... ............ ........ 165
"Pip, old chap, you'll do yourself a mischief ............ ........... ........ .......................... 170
Pip and the Convict.. ............... ............... .... ............... ............ 173
The Child who Swallowed a Necklace................... ................................. 180
"I wish they was still abed "................................ ............. .... ... .. 182
"I say-there's fowls to-morrow".................................. ....................... 191
"Oliver rather astonishes Noah" ............................................................. 213





TINY TIM (Lithograph)


"I'M ALWAYS A-MOVING ON" (Lithograph)









. 15






Opposite 103






Trotty Veck and his Daughter Meg.

"TROTTY seems a strange name for an old man, but it was given
1 to Toby Veck because of Lis always going at a trot to do his
errands; for he was a ticket porter, and his office was to tal-
letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to senu
them by the post, which in those days was neither so cheap nor so quick
as it is now. He did not earn very much, and had to be out in all
weathers and all day long. But Toby was of a cheerful disposition, and
looked on the bright side, of. everything, and was grateful for any small
mercies that came in his.way; and so was happier than many people
who never knew what it was to be hungry or in want of comforts. His
2 ,. (9)


greatest joy was his dear, bright, pretty daughter Meg, who loved him
One cold day, near the end of the year, Toby had been waiting a long
time for a job, trotting up and down in his usual place before the church,
and trying hard to keep himself warm, when the bells chimed twelve
o'clock, whicli made Toby think of dinner.
"There's nothing," he remarked, carefully feeling his nose to make
sure it was still there, "more regular in coming round than dinner-time,
and nothing less regular in coming round than dinner. That's the great
difference between 'em." He went on talking to himself, trotting up
and down, and never noticing who was coming near to him.
"Why, father, father," said a pleasant voice, and Toby turned to find
his daughter's sweet, bright eyes close to his.
"Why, pet," said lie, kissing hey and squeezing her blooming face be-
tween his hands, "what's to-do? I didn't expect you to-day, Meg."
"Neither did I expect to come, father," said Meg, nodding and smil-
ing. "But here I am! And not alone, not alone! "
"Why, you don't mean to say," observed Trotty, looking curiously at
the covered basket she carried, that you- "
"Smell it, father dear," said Meg. Only smell it! "
Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when
she gaily interposed her hand.
"No, no, no," said Meg, with the glee of a child. "Lengthen it out
a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just a lit-tie, ti-ny cor-ner, you
know," said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentle-
ness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard
by something inside the basket. There, now; what's that?"
Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and
ntied out in rapture:
"Why, it's hot," he said.
But to Meg's great delight he could not guess what it was that smelt
so good.
"Polonies? Trotters ? Liver? Pettitoes? Sausages ?" he tried one
after the other. At last he exclaimed in triumph, "Why, what am I
a-thinking of? It's tripe?"
And it was.


"And so," said Meg, "I'll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have
brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handker-
chief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and
call it a cloth, there's nobody to prevent me, is there, father ? "
"Not that I know of, my dear," said Toby; "but they're always
a-bringing up some new law or other."
"And according to what I was reading you in-the paper the other day,
father, what the judge said, you know, we poor people are supposed to

know them all. Ha, ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how
clever they think us! "
"Yes, my dear," cried Trotty; "and they'd be very fond of any one
of us that did know 'em all. He'd grow fat upon the work he'd get,
that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighborhood,
Vry much so! "
He'd eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt
like this,'.' said Meg, cheerfully. "Make haste, for there's a hot potato


besides, and half- a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where will
you dine, father-on the post or on the .steps? Dear,"dear, how grand
we are! Two places to choose from,!"
"The steps to-day, my pet," said Trotty. "Steps in dry weather,
post in wet. There's greater conveniency in the steps at all times, be-
cause of the sitting down; but they're rheumatic in the damp."
".Then, here," said Meg, clapping her hands after a moment's
bustle; "here it is all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father.
Come !"
And just as Toby was about to sit down to his dinner on the door-
steps of a big house close by, the chimes rang out again, and Toby took
off hib hat and said, "Amen,"
"Amen to the bells, father ?"
"They broke in like a grace, my dear," said Trotty; "they'd say a
good one if they could, I'm sure. Many's the kind thing they say to me.
How often have I heard them bells say, Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a
good heart, Toby!' A million times? More!"
"Well, I never!" cried Meg.
"When things is very bad, then it's 'Toby Veck, Toby -eck, job com-
ing soon, Toby !' "
"And it comes-at last, father," said Meg, with a touch of sadness in
her pleasant voice.
"Always," answered Toby. "Never fails."
While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in hie attack
upon the savory meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank,
and cut and chewed, and dodged about from tripe to hot potato, and
from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unctuous and unflagging
relish, But happening now to look all round the street-in case any-
body should be beckoning from any door or window for a porter-jhis
eyes, in coming back again, encountered Meg sitting opposite him, with
her arms folded, and only busy in watching his progress with a smile of
"Why, Lord forgive me!" said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork.
"My dove! Meg! why didn't you tell me what a beast I was ?"
"Father ?"
"Sitting here," said Trotty, in penitent explanation, "cramming, and


stuffing, and gorging myself, and you before me there, never so much as
breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when -"
"But I have broken it, father," interposed his daughter, laughing,
"all to bits. I have had my dinner."
"Nonsense," said Trotty. "Two dinners in one day! It ain't possi-
ble! You might as well tell me that two New Year's days.will come
together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never
changed it."
"I have had my dinner, father, for all that," said Meg, coming nearer
to him. "And if you will go on with yours, I'll tell you how and where,
and how your dinner came to be brought, and-and something else be-
Toby still appeared incredulous; but she looked into his face with her
clear eyes, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go
on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork again
and went to work, but much more slowly than before, and shaking his
head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself.
"I had my dinner, father," said Meg, after a little hesitation, "with-
with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his din-
ner with,him when he came to see me, we-we had it together, father."
Trotty took a little beer and smacked his lips. Then he said Oh I"
because she waited.
"And Richard says, father----" Meg resumed, then stopped.
"What does Richard say, Meg?" asked Toby.
"Richard says, father-" Another stoppage.
"Richard's a long time saying it," said Toby.
"He says, then, father," Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last,
and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly, another year is nearly
gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so
unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now ? He says we are
poor now, father, and we shall be poor then; but we are young now, and
years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait,
people in our condition, until we see our way quite clearly, the way will
be a narrow one indeed-the common way-the grave, father."
A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his
boldness largely to deny it. Trotty held his peace.


"And how hard, father, to grow old and die, and think we might have
cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each
other, and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing
old and gray. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I
never could), oh, father, dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine
is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without the
recollection of one happy moment of a woman's life to stay behind and
comfort me and make me better!"
Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily-that
is to say, with here a laugh and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob
So Richard says, father, as his work was yesterday made certain for
some time to come, and as I love him and have loved him full three
years-ah, longer than that, if he knew it!-will I marry him on New
Year's Day ?"
Just then Richard himself came up to persuade Toby to agree to their
plan; and, almost at the same moment, a footman came out of the house
and ordered them all off the steps, and some gentlemen came out who
called up Trotty, and asked a great many questions, and found a good
deal of fault, telling Richard he was very foolish to want to get married,
which made Toby feel very unhappy, and Richard very angry. So the
lovers went off together sadly; Richard looking gloomy and downcast,
-and Meg in tears. Toby, who had a letter given him to carry, and a
sixpence, trotted off in rather low spirits to a very grand house, where
he was told to take the letter in to the gentleman. While he was wait-
ing, he heard the letter read. It was from Alderman Cute, to tell Sir
Joseph Bowley that one of his tenants named Will Fern, who had come
to London to try and get work, had been brought before him charged
with sleeping in a shed, and asking if Sir Joseph wished him to be dealt
leniently with or otherwise. To Toby's great disappointment, for Sir
Joseph had talked a great deal about being a friend to the poor, the
answer was given that Will Fern might be sent to prison as a vagabond,
and made an example of, though his only fault was poverty. On his
way home, Toby, thinking sadly, with his hat pulled down low on his
head, ran against a man dressed like a countryman, carrying a fair-
haired little girl. Toby enquired anxiously if he had hurt either of

p i

ti ('IAW





them. -The man answered no, and seeing Toby had a kind face, he
asked him the way to Alderman Cute's house.
"It's impossible," cried Toby, "that your name is Will Fern ?"
"That's my name," said the man.
Thereupon Toby told him what he had just heard, and said, "Don't
go there."
Poor Will told him how he could not make a living in the country,
and had come to London with his orphan niece to try and find a friend
of her mother's and to endeavor to get some work, and, wishing Toby a
happy New Year, was about to trudge wearily off again, when Trotty
caught his hand, saying-
"Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me if I see the child
and you go wandering away without a shelter for your heads. Come
home with me. I'm a poor man, living in a poor place; but I can give
you lodging for one night, and never miss it. Come home with me!
Here! I'll take her! cried Trotty, lifting up the child. "A pretty one!
I'd carry twenty times her weight and never know I'd got it. Tell me
if I go too quick for you. I'm very fast. I always was! Trotty said
this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his fatigued
companion, and with his thin legs quivering again beneath the load he
"Why, she's as light," said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as
in his gait-for he couldn't bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment's
pause-" as light as a feather. Lighter than a peacock's feather-a
great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go! And, rushing in,
he set the child down before his daughter. The little girl gave one look
at Meg's sweet face and ran into her arms at once, while Trotty ran
round the room, saying, "Here we are and here we go. Here, Uncle
Will, come to the fire. Meg, my precious darling, where's the kettle ?
Here it is and here it goes, and it'll bile in no time! "
"Why, father! said Meg, as she knelt before the child and pulled
off her wet shoes, "you're crazy to-night, I think. I -don't know what
the bells would say to that. Poor little feet, how cold they are!"
"Oh, they're warmer now!" exclaimed the child. "They're quite
warm now!"
"No, no, no," said Meg. "We haven't rubbed 'em half enough.


We're so busy. And when they're done, we'll brush out the damp hair;
and when that's done, we'll bring some color to the poor pale face with
fresh water; and- when that's done, we'll be so gay and brisk and
The child, sobbing, clasped her round the neck, saying, 0 Meg, 0
dear Meg I"
Good gracious me!." said Meg presently," father's crazy. He's put
the dear child's bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the
Trotty hastily repaired this mistake, and went off to find some tea
and a rasher of bacon he fancied he had seen lying somewhere on the
He soon came back and made the tea, and before long they were all
enjoying the meal. Trotty and Meg only. took a morsel for form's sake,
but their delight was in seeing their visitors eat, and very happy they
were-though Trotty had noticed that Meg was sitting by the fire in
tears when they had come in, and he feared her marriage had been
broken off.
After tea Meg took Lilian to bed, and Toby showed Will Fern where
he was to sleep. As he came back past Meg's door he heard the child
saying her prayers, remembering Meg's name and asking for his. Then
he went to sit by the fire and read his paper, and fell asleep to have a
wonderful dream, so terrible and sad, that it was a great relief when he
"And whatever you do, father," said Meg, don't eat tripe again with-
out asking some doctor whether it's likely to agree with you; for how
you have been going on! Good gracious! "
She was working with her needle at the little table by the fire, dress-:
ing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding-so quietly happy,
iso blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise, that he uttered a.
great cry as if it were an angel in his, house, then flew to clasp her in
his arms.
But he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the
hearth, and somebody came rushing in between them.
"No!" cried the voice of this same somebody. A generous and jolly.
voice it was! Not even you; not even you. The first kiss of Meg in


the New Year is mine-mine! I have been waiting outside the house
this hour to hear the bells .and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a
happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!"
And Richard smothered her with kisses.
You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this, I don't
care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in your
life saw anything at all approaching him! He kept running up to Meg,
and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going
from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a
figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sit-
ting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single
moment, being-that's the truth-beside -himself with joy.
"And to-morrow's your wedding-day, my pet I" cried Trotty. "Your
real, happy wedding-day !"
"To-day!" cried Richard, shaking hands with him. "To-day. The
chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!"
They were ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they were ringing!
Great bells as they were-melodious, deep-mouthed, noble bells, cast in
no common metal, made by no common founder-when had they ever
chimed like that before?
Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the
child, who had been 'awakened by the noise, came running in half-
Why, here she is cried Trotty, catching her up. "Here's little
Lilian! Ha, ha, ha! Here we are and here we go! Oh, here we are
and here we go again! And here we are and here we go I And Uncle
Will, too!"
Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst
to the room, attended by a flock of neighbors, screaming, "A Happy
.-cw Year, Meg !" "A happy wedding "Many of 'em and other
fragmentary good-wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private
friend of Trotty's) then stepped forward and said:
"Trotty Veck, my boy, it's got about that your daughter is going to
be married to-morrow. There ain't a soul that knows you that don't
wish you well, or that knows her and don't wish her well. Or that knows
you both, and don't wish you both all the happiness, the New Year

can bring. And here we are to play it in and dance it in accord-
Then Mrs. Chickenstalker came in (a good-humored, comely woman
who, to the delight of all, turned out to be the friend of Lilian's mother,
for whom Will Fern had come to look), with a stone pitcher full of "flip,"
to wish Meg joy, and then the music struck up, and Trotty, making Meg
and Richard second -couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance
and danced it in a step unknown before or since, founded on his own
peculiar trot.

Tiny Tim.

IT will surprise you all very much to hear
S that there was once a man who did not like
SChristmas. In fact, he had been heard on
S, several occasions to use the word humbug with
regard to it. His name was Scrooge, and he
was a hard, sour-tempered man of business,
intent only on saving and making money,
and caring nothing for anyone. He paid
the poor, hard-working clerk in his office as
little as he could possibly get the work done
for, and lived on as little as possible himself,
alone, in.two dismal rooms. He was never
merry or comfortable or happy, and he hated
other people to be so, and that was the
reason why he hated Christmas, because
people will be happy at Christmas, you know,
if they possibly can, and like to have a little
money to make themselves and others com-
BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM. Well, it was Christmas eve, a very cold and
foggy one, and Mr. Scrooge, having, given his
poor clerk unwilling permission to spend Christmas day at home, locked
up his office and went home himself in a very bad temper, and with a
cold in his hegd. After having taken some gruel as he sat over a mis-
erable fire in his dismal room, he got into bed, and had some wonderful
and disagreeable dreams, -to which we will leave him, whilst we see
how Tiny Tim, the son of his poor clerk, spent Christmas day.


The name of this clerk was Bob Cratchit. He had a wife and five
other children besides Tim, who was a weak and delicate little cripple,
and for this reason was dearly loved by his father and the rest of the
family; not but what he was a dear little boy, too, gentle and patient
and loving, with a sweet face of his own, which no one could help look-
ing at.
Whenever he could spare the time, it was Mr. Cratchit's delight to
carry his little boy out on his shoulder to see the shops and the people;
and to-day he had taken him to church for the first time.
Whatever has got your precious father and your brother Tiny Tim! "
exclaimed Mrs. Cratchit, "here's dinner all ready to be dished up. I've
never known him so late on Christmas day before."
"Here he is, mother!" cried Belinda, and "here he is!" cried the
other children.
In came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter,
exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare
clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon
his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his
limbs supported by an iron frame!
"Why, where's our Martha? cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Not coming !" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits;
for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come
home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas day!"
Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so
she came out prematurely from behind the closet-door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the
"And how did Tim behave? asked Mrs. Cratchit.
"As good as gold and better," replied his father. "I think, wife, the
child gets thoughtful, sitting at home so much. He told me, coming
home, that he hoped the people in church who saw he was a cripple
would be pleased to remember on Christmas day who it was who made
the lame to walk."
"Bless his sweet heart!" said the mother in a trembling voice, and

the father's voice trembled, too, as he remarked that "Tiny Tim was
growing strong and hearty at last."
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool beside the fire; while Bob, Master Peter, and the two ubiqui-
tous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon
returned in high procession.
Such:a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest
of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a mat-
ter of course-and in truth'it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan)
hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible.vigor;
Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot
plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the
two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves,
and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,
lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded
by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the
carving-knife, prepared to plunge it. in the breast; but when she did,
and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur
pof delight arose all round the board,. and even Tiny Tim, excited by the
two young Oratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and
feebly cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever
was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size, and cheap-
ness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce
and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family;
indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (sfirveying one small atom'
of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at that! Yet everyone
had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped
in sage and onions to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed
by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone-too nervous to bear
witnesses-to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done- enough! Suppose it should break in
turning out! Suppose somebody should have' got over the wall of the


back yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose-a sup-
position at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of
horrors were supposed.
Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.
A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eat-
ing-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress'
next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs.
Cratchit entered-flushed, but smiling proudly-with the pudding like
a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quar-
tern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he,
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their
marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was. off her mind,
she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Every-
body had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it
was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat,
heresy to do so. 'Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted,
and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and
a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two'
tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden'
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out vWith beaming looks,.
while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then.:
.Bob proposed:
"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us"
Which all the family re-echoed.
God bless us everyone 1" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
iNow I told you .that Mr. Scrooge had some disagreeble and wonderful'
dreams on Christmas eve, and so he had; and in one of them he drearmt
that a Christmas spirit showed him his clerk's home he saw them all,

gathered round the fire, and heard them drink his health, and Tiny Tim's
song, and he took special note of Tiny Tim himself.
How Mr. Scrooge spent Christmas day we do not know. He may have
remained in bed, having a cold, but on Christmas night he had more
dreams, and the spirit took him again to his clerk's poor home. The
mother was doing some needlework, seated by the table, a tear dropped
on it now and then, and she said, poor thing, that the work, which was
lack, hurt her eyes. The children 'sat, sad and silent, about the room,
except Tiny Tim, who was not there. Upstairs the father, with his face
hidden in his hands, sat beside a little bed, on which lay a tiny figure,
white and still. "My little child, my pretty little child," he sobbed, as
the tears fell through his fingers on to the floor. Tiny Tim died because
his father was too poor to give him what was necessary to make him
well; you kept him poor; said the dream-spirit to Mr. Scrooge. The
father kissed the cold, little face on the bed, and went downstairs, where
the sprays of holly still remained about the humble room; and taking
his hat, went out, with a fistful glance at the little crutch in the corner
as he shut the door. Mr. Scrooge saw all this, and many. more things
as strange and sad, the spirit took care of that; but, wonderful to relate,
he woke the next morning feeling a different man-feeling as he had
never felt in his life before.
"Why, I am as light as a feather, and as happy as an angel, and, as
merry as a schoolboy," he said to himself as he absolutely skipped into
the next room to breakfast and threw on all the coals at once, and put
two lumps of sugar in his tea. "I hope everybody had a merry Christ-
mas, and here's a happy New Year to all the world."
Poor Bob Cratchit crept into the office a few minutes late, expecting
to be roundly abused and scolded for it, but no such thing; his master
*w'as there with his back to a good fire, and actually smiling, and he
shook hands with his clerk, telling him heartily he was going to raise
his salary and asking quite affectionately after Tiny Tim! "And mind
you make up a good fire in your room before you set to work, Bob," he
said, as he closed his own door.
Bob could hardly believe his eyes and ears, but it was all true. Such
doings as they had on New Year's day had never been seen before in
the Cratchits' home, nor such a turkey as Mr. Scrooge sent them for

dinner. Tiny Tim had his share too, for Tiny Tim did not die, not a bit
of it. Mr. Scrooge was a second father to him from that day, he wanted
for nothing, and grew up strong and hearty. Mr. Scrooge loved him, and
well he might, for was it not Tiny Tim who had unconsciously, through
the Christmas dream-spirit, touched his: hard heart and caused him to
become a good and happy man?
Christmas Carot.




Little Dombey.

L ITTLE DOMBEY was the son of a rich city merchant. Ever since
his marriage, ten years before our story commences, Mr. Dombey
had ardently desired to have a son. He was a cold, stern, and
pompous man, whose life and interests were entirely absorbed in his
business, which appeared to him to be the most important thing in the
whole world. It was not so much that he wanted a son to love, and to
love him, but because he was so desirous of having one to associate with
himself in the business, and make the house once more Dombey & Son
in fact, as it was in name, that the little boy who was at last born t(
him was so precious, and so eagerly welcomed.
There was a pretty little girl six years old, but her father had taken
so little notice of her that it was doubtful if he would have known her
had he met her iii the street. Of what use was a girl to Dombey &
Son ? She could not go into the business.
Little Dombey's mother died when he was born, but the event did not
greatly. disturb Mr. Dombey; and since his son lived, what did it matter
3 (29)


to him that his little daughter Florence was breaking her heart in
loneliness for the mother who had loved and cherished her !
During the first few months of his life, little Dombey grew and
and as soon
,'::. .: as he was old

.-i take notice,
_,_ C, there was no
-.1 one he loved
S.so well as his
SJ -- sister Flor-
"i' .. ence. H e
S- ..,. would laugh
', -". and hold out
....his arms as
soon as she
S'- came in sight,
.,,^ -s *,l_ and the affec-
i t-Ion of her
'i D baby brother
S "' comforted the
Lonely little
"''n "t \ girl, who was
S" ever weary
S:: of waiting on
and playing
\_- with him.
In due time
"He would laugh and hold out his arms as soon as she came in sight. t a e n t
church, and baptized by the name of Paul (his father's name). A grand
and stately christening it was, followed by a grand and stately feast;
.nd little Paul, when he was brought in to be admired by the company,
was declared by his godmother to be an angel, and the perfect picture
of his ewn papa.'"


Whether baby Paul caught cold on his christening day or not, no one
could tell, but from that time he seemed to waste and pine;. his healthy
and thriving babyhood had received a check, and as for illnesses, "There
never was a blessed dear so put upon," his nurse said. Every tooth cost
him a fit, and as for chicken-pox, whooping-cough, and measles, they
followed one upon the
other, and, to quote
Nurse Richards again, p
"seized and worried ,
him like tiger cats,"
so that by the time ''' i
he was five years old,
though he had the
prettiest, sweetest -
little face in the world,' .'"
there was always-a a
patient, wistful look
upon it, and he was l -..
thin and tiny and del-
icate. He would be
as merry and full of
spirits. as other chil- ''
dren when playing
with Florence in their 4! 2'r
nursery, but he soon
got tired, and had -
such old-fashioned
ways of speaking and -
doino things, that
Richards often shook
her head sadly over him.
When he sat in his little arm-chair with his father, after dinner, as
Mr. Donmbey would have him do every day, they were a strange pair-
so like, and so unlike each other.
What is money, papa? asked Paul on one of these occasions, cross,
ing his tiny arms as well as he could-just as his father's were crossed,


Why, gold, silver, and copper; you know what it is well enough,
Paul," answered his father.
Oh, yes; I mean, what can money do ?"
"Anything, everything-almost," replied Mr. Dombey, taking one of
his son's wee hands, and beating it softly against his own.
Paul drew his hand gently away. "It didn't save me my mamma, and
it can't make me strong and big," said he.
"Why, you are strong and big, as big as such little people usually
are," returned Mr. Dombey.
"No," replied Paul, sighing; "when Florence was as little as me, she
was strong and tall, and did not get tired of playing as I do. I am so
tired sometimes, papa."
Mr. Dombey's anxiety was aroused, and he summoned his sister, Mrs.
Chick, to consult with him over Paul, and the doctor was sent for to
examine him.
"The child is hardly so stout as we could wish," said the doctor; "his
mind is too big for his body, he thinks too much-let him try sea-air-
sea-air does wonders for children."
So it was arranged that Florence, Paul, and nurse should go to
Brighton, and stay in the house of a lady named Mrs. Pipchin, who kept
a very select boarding-house for children, and whose management of them
was said, in the best circles, to be truly marvelous. Mr. Dombey himself
went down to Brighton every week, and had the children to stay with
him at his hotel from Saturday to Monday, that he might judge of the
progress made by his son and heir towards health.
There is no doubt that, apart from his importance to the house of
Dombey & Son, little Paul had crept into his father's heart, cold though
it still was towards his daughter, colder than ever now, for there was in it a
sort of unacknowledged jealousy of the warm love lavished on her b)
Paul, which he himself was unable to win.
Mrs. Pipchin was a marvelously ugly old lady, with a hook. nose and
stern cold eyes. Two other children lived at present under her charge, a
mild blue-eyed little girl who was known as Miss Pankey, and a Master
Bitherstone, a solemn and sad-looking little boy whose parents were in
India, and who asked Florence in a depressed voice whether she could
give him anj idea of the way back to Bengal.


x -' 'xc

AL'i~' 1\1jIj: -

Li~i, r lx' '--

s -a'


_ ~_____

"Well, Master Paul, how do you think you will like me? said Mrs.
Pipchin, seeing the child intently regarding her.
"I don't think I shall like you at all," replied Paul, shaking his head.
"I want to go away. I do not like your house."
Paul did not like Mrs. Pipchin, but he would sit in his arm-chair and
look at her, just as he had looked at his father at home. Her ugliness
seemed to fascinate him.
As the weeks went by little Paul grew more, healthy-looking, but
he did not seem any stronger, and could not run about out of doors.
A little carriage was therefore got, for him, in which he could be
wheeled down to the beach, where he would pass the greater part of
the day.
Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who
was proposed as the drawer of his carriage, and selected, instead, his
grandfather-a weazen, cold, crab-faced man, in a suit of battered
oilskin, who had got tough and stringy from long pickling .in salt water,
and who smelt like a weedy seabeach when the tide is out.
With this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always
walking by his side, and the despondent Wickam bringing up the rear;
he went down to the margin of the ocean every day; and there he would
sit or lie in his carriage for hours together; never so distressed as by the
company of children-Florence alone excepted, always.
"Go away, if you please," he would say to any child who came to
bear him company. "Thank you, but I don't want you."
Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.
"I am very well, I thank you," he would answer. But you had
better go and play, if you please."
Then he would turn his head, and watch the child away, and say to
Florence, "We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy."
"I love you, Floy," he said one day to her; "if you went to India as
that boy's sister did, I should die."
Florence laid her head against his pillow, and whispered how much
stronger he was growing.
Oh yes, I know, I am a great deal better," said Paul, "a very great
deal better. Listen, Floy; what is it the sea keeps saying? "
"Nothing, dear; it is only the rolling of the waves you hear."


"Yes, but they are always saying something, and always the same
thing. What place is over there, Floy ? "
She told him there was another country opposite, but Paul said he
did not mean that, he meant somewhere much farther away, oh, much
farther away-and often he would break off in the midst of their talk to
listen to the sea and gaze out towards that country "farther away."
After having lived at Brighton for a year, Paul was certainly much
stronger, though still thin and delicate. And on one of his weekly visits,
Mr. Dombey observed to Mrs. Pipchin, with pompous condescension,
"My son is getting on, Madam, he is really getting on.. He is six years
of age, and six will be sixteen before we have time to look about us."
And then he went on to explain that Paul's weak health having kept
him back in his studies, which, considering the great destiny before the
heir of Dombey & Son, was much to be regretted, he had made arrange-
ments to place him at the educational establishment of Dr. Blimber.
which was close by. Florence was, for the present, to remain under
Mrs. Pipchin's care, and see her brother every week.
Dr. Blimber's school was a great hot-house for the forcing of boys'
brains;-no matter how backward a boy was, Doctor Blimber could
always bring him on, and make a man of him in no time; and Dr.
Blimber promised speedily to make a man of Paul.
"Shall you like to be made a man of, my son ?" asked Mr. Dombey.
"I'd rather be a child and stay with Floy," answered Paul.
Then a different life began for little Dombey.
Miss Blif ber, the doctor's daughter, a learned lady in spectacles, was
his special tutor, and from morning till night his poor little brains were
forced and crammed, till his head was heavy and always had a dull ache
in it, and his small legs grew weak again-every day he looked a little
thinner and a little paler, and became more old-fashioned than ever in
his looks and ways-" old-fashioned" was a distinguishing title which
clung to him. He was gentle and polite to everyone-always looking
out for small kindnesses which he might do to any inmate of the house.
Everyone liked "little Dombey," but everyone down to the footman said
with the same kind of tender smile-he was such an old-fashioned boy.
"The oddest and most old-fashioned child in the world," Dr. Blimber
would say to his daughter; "but bring him on, Cornelia-bring him on."



And Cornelia did bring him on; and Florence, seeing how pale and
weary the little fellow looked when he came to her on Saturdays, and
how he could not rest from anxiety about his lessons, would lighten his
labors a little, and ease his mind by helping him to prepare his week's
One of Paul's friends at Dr. Blimber's school was a Mr. Toots, a young
gentleman with a swollen nose and an excessively large head. The
people said that the doctor overdid it with young Toots, and that when
he began to have whiskers he left off having brains.
One day, when his lessons were over, about a fortnight before the
commencement of holidays, little Paul's head, which had long been
iing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy and painful, felt so
Jneasy that night that he was obliged to support it on his hand. And
yet it drooped so, that by little and little it sank on Mr. Toots' knee,
and rested there, as if it had no care ever to be lifted up again.
That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have been,
he thought, for, by-and-by, he heard Mr. Feeder calling in his ear, and
gently shaking -him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his
head, quite scared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor Blimber


had come into the room; and that the window was open, and that his
forehead was wet with sprinkled water; though how all this had been
done without his knowledge was very curious indeed.
"Ah! Come, come! That's well! How is my little friend now ?"
said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly.
Oh, quite well, thank you, sir," said Paul.
But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for *i
couldn't stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were
inclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being
looked at very hard indeed. Mr. Toots' head had the appearance of
being at once bigger and farther off than was quite natural; and when
he took Paul in his arms, to carry him up stairs, Paul observed with
astonishment that the door was in quite a different place from that in
which he had expected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that Mr.
Toots was going to walk straight up the chimney.
It was very kind of Mr. Toots, Paul's chief patron, to carry him to the
top of the house so tenderly; and Paul told him that it was. But Mr.
Toots said he would do a great deal more than that, if he could; and
indeed he did more as it was: for he helped Paul t, undress, and helped
him to bed, in the kindnest manner possible.
In a few days Paul was able to get up and creep about the house.
He wondered sometimes why everyone looked at and spoke so very
kindly to him, and was more than ever careful to do any little kind-
nesses he could think of for them: even the rough, ugly dog Diogenes,
who lived in the yard, came in for a share of his attentions.
There was to be a party at Dr. Blimber's on the evening before the
boys went home, and Paul wished to remain for this, because Florence
was coming, and he wanted her to see how everyone was fond of. him.
He was to go away with her after the party. Paul sat in a corner of the
sofa all the evening, and everyone was very kind to him indeed, it was
quite extraordinary, Paul thought, and he was very happy; he liked to
see how pretty Florence was, and how everyone admired and wished to
dance-with her. When the time came for them to take leave, the whole
houseful gathered on the steps to say good-by'to little Dombey and his
sister, Toots even opening the carriage-door to say it over again.
"Good-by, Doctor Blimber," said Paul, stretching out his hand.


"Good-by, my little friend," returned the doctor.
"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," said Paul, looking innocently up
into his awful face. "Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you
Diogenes was the dog, who had never in his life received a friend into
his confidence before Paul. So the doctor promised that every attention
should be paid to Diogenes in Paul's absence.
After resting for a night at Mrs. Pipchin's house, little Paul went
home, and was carried straight upstairs to his bed.
"Floy, dear," said he to his sister, when he was comfortably settled,
"was that papa in the hall when I was carried in ?"
"Yes, dear," answered Florence.
He didn't cry, did he, Floy, and go into his own room when he saw
Florence could only shake her head and hide her face against his, as
she kissed him.
"I should not like to think papa cried'" murmured little Paul, as he
went to sleep.
He lay in his bed day after day quite happily and patiently, content
to watch and talk to Florence. He would tell her his dreams, and how
he always saw the sunlit ripples of a river rolling, rolling fast in front
of him; sometimes he seemed to be rocking in a little boat on the water
and its motion lulled him to rest, and then he would be floating away,
away to that shore farther off, which he could not see. One day he told
Florence that the water was rippling brighter and faster than ever, and
that he could not see anything else.
"My own boy, cannot you see your poor father?" said Mr. Dombey,
bending over him.
Oh yes; but don't be so sorry, dear papa, I am so happy-good-by,
dear papa." Presently he opened his eyes again, and said, "Floy,
mamma is like you, I can see her. Come close to me, Floy, and tell
them," whispered the dying boy, "that the face of the picture of Christ
on the staircase at school is not divine enough; the light from it is shin-
ing on me now, and the water is shining too, and rippling so fast, so
The evening light shone into the room, but little Paul's spirit had


gone out on the rippling water, and the-divine face was shining on him
from the farther shore.
One day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was sitting at her
work, when Susan appeared, with a face half-laughing and half-crying,
to announce a visitor.
"A visitor! To me, Susan!" said Florence, looking up in astonish.
"Well, it is a wonder, ain't it now, Miss Floy,"- said Susan; "but I
wish you had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you'd be all the better
for it, and it's my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them
old Skettleses, Miss, the better for both: I may not wish to live in crowds,
Miss Floy, but still I'm not an oyster."
To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress
than herself; and her face showed it.
"But the visitor, Susan ?" said Florence.
Susan, with an hysterical explosion, that was as much a laugh as a
)b, and as much a sob as a laugh, answered:
"Mr. Toots! "
The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a moment,
and her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that
gave great satisfaction to Miss Nipper.
"My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy," said Susan, putting her apron
to her eyes, and shaking her-head. "Immediately I see that innocent
in the hall, Miss Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked."
Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the spot.
In the meantime Mr. Toots, who had come upstairs after her, all uncon-
scious of the effect he produced, announced himself with his knuckles on
the door, and walked in very briskly.
"How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?" said Mr. Toots. "I am very well, I
thank you; how are you ?"
Mr. Toots-than whom there were few better fellows in the world,
though there may have been one or two brighter spirits-had laboriously
invented this long burst of discourse with the view of relieving the feel-
ings both of Florence and himself. But finding that he had run through
his property, as it were, in an injudicious manner, by squandering the
whole before taking a chair, or before Florence had uttered a word, or


before he had well got in at the door, he deemed it advisable to begin
"How dy'e do, Miss Dombey?" said Mr. Toots. "I'm very well, J
thank you; how are you ?"
Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very well.
"I'm very well, indeed," said Mr. Toots, taking a chair. "Very well,
indeed, I am. I don't remember," said Mr. Toots, after reflecting a little.
"that I was ever better,
thank you."
"It's very kind of you to
come," said Florence, tak- b
ing up her work. "I am
very glad to see you." /
Mr. Toots replied with a I
chuckle. Thinking that
might be too lively, he cor-
rected it with a sigh. Think-
ing that might be too mel-
ancholy, he corrected it with
a chuckle. Not thoroughly 1" r
pleasing himself with either
mode of reply, he breathed
""You were very kind to
my dear brother," said Flor-
ence, obeying her own natu-
ral impulse to relieve him by
saying so. He often talked
to me about you."
Oh, it's of no consequence," said Mr. Toots, hastily. "Warm:
ain't it ? "
"It's beautiful weather," replied Florence.
"It agrees with me! said Mr. Toots. "I don't think I ever was se
well as I find myself at present, I'm obliged to you."
After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr. Toots fell into a
deep well of silence.

"You have left Doctor Blimber's, I think ? said Florence, trying to
help him out.
"I should hope so," returned Mr. Toots. And tumbled in again.
He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten
minutes. At the expiration of that period, he suddenly floated, and said,
Well! Good-morning, Miss Dombey."
"Are you going?" asked Florence, rising.
"I don't know, though. No, not just at present," said Mr. Toots,
sitting down again, most unexpectedly. "The fact is-I say, Miss
Dombey "
"Don't be afraid to speak to me," said Florence, with a quiet smile.
"I should be very glad if you would talk about my brother."
"Would you, though," retorted Mr. Toots, with sympathy in every
fibre of his otherwise expressionless face. "Poor Dombey! [I'm sure I
never thought that Burgess & Co.-fashionable tailors (but very dear),
that we used to talk about-would make this suit of clothes for such a
purpose." Mr. Toots was dressed in mourning.] "Poor Dombey! I say I
Miss Dombey! blubbered Toots.
"Yes," said Florence.
"There's a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you'd like
to have him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remem-
bering Diogenes ?"
Oh yes! oh yes! cried Florence.
"Poor Dombey! So do I," said Mr. Toots.
Mr. Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting
)eyond this point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a
chuckle saved him on the brink.
"I say," he proceeded, "Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen
,or ten shillings, if they hadn't given him up: and I would: but they-
were glad to get rid of him, I think. If you'd like to have him, he's at
the door. I brought him on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog, you
know," said Mr. Toots, but you won't mind that, will you ?"
In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained
from looking down into the street, staring- through the window of a
hackney cabriolet, into which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been
ensnared, on a false pretense of rats among the straw. Sooth to say,-he


was as unlike a lady's dog as dog might be; and in his gruff anxiety to
get out presented an appearance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave
short yelps out of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself by
the intensity of every one of those efforts, tumbled down into the straw,
and then sprang panting up again, putting out his tongue, as if he had
come express to a dispensary to
be examined for his health..... .
But th.uugh Diugenes \\a,,, as i- .- I,
cidicul,.us a du,- as :
one wIould meet. with

.._.' --..- ".. .

'n a summer's day; a blundering, ill-favored, clumsy, bullet-headed dog,
continually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neigh-
borhood, whom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was far
from good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over
his eyes, and a comic nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice;
"'o ,..ere ,'.--& e t i l T =. -7-_ l v r -=d -:_ hai ... ... ... o--2
,i 'y r "n -o i ,,,-,, .. .. -'--_2ten -7il a -:- -' -2:-.-. "o


he was dearer to Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance of him
and that request that he might be taken care of, than the most valuable
and beautiful of his kind. So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes,
and so welcome to her, that she took the jeweled hand of Mr. Toots and
kissed it in her gratitude. And when Diogenes, released, came tearing up
the stairs and bouncing into the room, dived under all the furniture, and
wound a long iron chain, that dangled from his neck, round legs of chaii
and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes became unnaturally
visible, in consequence of their nearly starting out of his head; and when
he growled at Mr. Toots, who affected familiarity; Florence was as
pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of discretion.
Mr. Toots- was so overjoyed, by the success of his present, and was so
delighted to see Florence bending down over. Diogenes, smoothing his
coarse back with her delicate little hand-Diogenes graciously allowing
it from the first moment of their acquaintance-that he felt it difficult
to take leave, and would, no doubt, have been a much longer time in
making up his mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by Diogenes
himself, who suddenly took it into his head to bay Mr. Toots, and to
make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not exactly seeing his
way to the end of these demonstrations, and sensible that they placed
the pantaloons constructed by the art of Burgess & Co. in jeopardy, Mr.
Toots, with chuckles, finally took himself off and got away.
"Come, then, Di! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress.
Let us love each other, Di!" said Florence, fondling his shaggy head.
And Di, the rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the
tear that dropped upon it, and his dog's heart melted as it fell, put his
nose up to her face, and swore fidelity.
[Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than
Diogenes the dog spoke to Florence He subscribed to the offer of his
little mistress cheerfully, and devoted himself to her service. A banquet
was immediately provided for him in a corner; and when he had eaten
and drunk his fill, he went to the window where Florence was sitting,
looking on, rose up on his hind legs, with his awkward forepaws on her
shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great head against her
heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired. Finally, Diogenes coiled
himself up at her feet and went to sleep

The Runaway Couple.

----- "SUPPOS.
ING a young
i 1i gentleman not
eight years olc
was to. run
away with fine
i. young woman
of seven, would
you consider
that a, queer
Sl4I start? That
there is a start
S. as I-the Boots
at the HIolly-
STreel n--have
seen with my
I own eyes; and
I cleaned the
I,, shoes they ran
aw-ay in, and
they was so
little that I
couldn't get my
b hand into 'em
"Master Ha.r-
ry Walmers
father, he lived
= ~--F--"' -
at the Elms,
S-"- away by Shoot-
her's Hill, six
or seven miles
from London.
4 46)

mon proud of Master Harry, as he was his only-child; but he didn't spoil
him neither. He was a gentleman that had a will of his own, and an eye
of his own, and that would be minded. Consequently, though he made
quite a companion of the fine bright boy, still he kept the command over
him, and the child was a child. I was under-gardener there, at that
time; and one morning Master Harry, he comes to me and says-
"'Cobbs, how should you spell Norah, if you was asked?' and then,
begun cutting it in print, all over the fence.
"He couldn't say he had taken particular notice of children before
that; but really it was pretty to see them two mites a-going about the
place together, deep in love. And the courage of the boy! Bless your
soul, he'd have throwed off his little hat, and tucked up his little sleeves,
and gone in at a lion, he would, if they had happened to meet one and
she had been frightened of him. One day he stops along, with her,
where Boots was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says-speaking up,
*Cobbs,' he says, 'I like you.' 'Do you, sir? I'm proud to hear it.'
'Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why do I like you, do you think, Cobbs?' 'Don't
know, Master Harry, I am sure.' 'Because Norah likes you, Cobbs.'
'Indeed, sir ? That's very gratifying.' Gratifying, Cobbs? It's
better than millions of the brightest diamonds to be liked by Norah.'
'Certainly, sir.' 'You're going away, ain't you, Cobbs?' 'Yes, sir.'
'Would you like another situation, Cobbs?' 'Well, sir, I shouldn't
object, if it was a good 'un.' 'Then, Cobbs,' says he, 'you shall be our
head-gardener when we are married.' And he tucks her, in her little
sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks away.
"It was better than a picter, and equal to a play, to see them babies
with their long, bright, curling hair, their sparkling eyes, and their
beautiful light tread, a-rambling about the garden, deep in love. Boots
was of opinion that the birds believed they was birds, and kept up with
'em, singing to please 'em. Sometimes, they would creep under the
Tulip tree; and would sit there with their arms round one another's
necks, and their soft cheeks touching, a-reading about the prince and
the dragon, and the good and bad enchanters, and the king's fair
daughter. Sometimes he would hear them planning about having a
house in a forest, keeping bees and a cow, and living entirely on milk
and honey. Once he came upon them by the pond, and heard Master


farry say, 'Adorable Norah, kiss me, and say you love me to distraction,
or I'll jump in headforemost.' And Boots made no question he would
have done it, if she hadn't complied.
"'Cobbs,' says Master Harry, one evening, when Cobbs was watering
the flowers,' I am going on a visit, this present mid-summer, to my
grandmamma's at York.'
"'Are you, indeed, sir? I hope you'll
have a pleasant time. I am going into
Yorkshire myself when I leave here.'
"-'Are you going to your grandmamma's,
No, sir. I haven't got such a thing.'
"'Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs? '
No, sir.'
"The boy looked on at the watering of
the flowers for a little while and
then said, I shall be very glad,
indeed, to .go, Cobbs Norah's
"'You'll be all right then, sir,'
says Cobbs, 'with your beautiful
sweetheart by your side.'
'Cobbs,' returned the boy, flush-
ing, I never let anybody joke about
it when I can prevent them.'
"'It wasn't a joke, sir,' says
Cobbs, with humility--
' wasn't so meant.'
"'I am glad of that,
Cobbs, because I like you,
you know, and you're going
to live with us. Cobbs!'
"'What do you think
my grandmamma gives -
me, when I go down there ?' MASTE HAlRRY AND NORAH.
,Walks into the house much bolder than bhra"


"' I couldn't so much as make a guess, sir.'
"'A Bank of England five-pound note, Cobbs.'
"'Whew says Cobbs, 'that's a spanking sum of money, Mastel
"'A person could do a great deal with such a sum of money as that.
Couldn't a person, Cobbs ?'
"'I believe you, sir!'
"'Cobbs,' said the boy, 'I'll tell you a secret. At Norah's house they
have been joking her about me, and pretending to laugh at our being
engaged. Pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!'
"'Such, sir,' says Cobbs, 'is the depravity of human natur'.'
"The boy. looking exactly like his father, stood for a few minutes with
his glowing face towards the sunset, and then departed with, Good-
night, Cobbs. I'm going in.'
"I was the Boots at the Holly-Tree Inn when one summer afternoon
the coach drives up, and out of the coach gets these two children.
"The guard says to our governor, 'I don't quite make out these little
passengers, but the young gentleman's words was, that they were to be
brought here.' The young gentleman gets out; hands his lady out; gives
the guard something for himself; says to our governor, 'We're to stop
here to-night, please. Sitting-room and two bedrooms will be required.
Chops and cherry-pudding for two!' and tucks her, in her little sky-blue
mantle, under his arm, and walks into the house much bolder than
"Boots leaves me to judge what the amazement of that establishment
was when those two tiny creatures, all alone by themselves, was marched
into the Angel-much more so when he, who had seen them without
their seeing him, give the governor his views of the expedition they was
upon, 'Cobbs,' says the governor, if this is so, I must set off myself
to York and quiet their friends' minds. In which case you must keep
your eye upon 'em, and humor 'em, till I come back. But, before I take
these measures, Cobbs, I should wish you to find out from themselves
whether your opinions is correct.' 'Sir to you,' says Cobbs, 'that shall
be done directly.'
"So. Boots goes up stairs to the Angel, and there he finds Master
Harry on an enormous sofa a-drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his


pocket- hankecher.
Their little legs were
entirely off the ground
of course; and it really
is not possible for
Boots to express to me
how small them chil-
dren looked.
"'It's Cobbs! It's
Jobbs!' cries Master
Harry, and comes run-
ning to him, and catch-
ing hold of his hand.
MIiss Norah comes run-
ning to him on t'other
side, and catching hold


? -I-
'I I -. .i .i. \ ., ;' i.jiI l''- *' '
', ,-1 '

of his t'other hand, and they both jump for joy.

"'I see you a-getting out, sir,' says Cobbs. 'I thought it was you. I
thought I couldn't be mistaken in your height and figure. What's the
object of your journey, sir ?-Matrimonial? '
"' We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green,' returned the
boy. 'We have run away on purpose. Norah has been in rather low
spirits, Cobbs; but she'll be happy, now we have found you to be our
"'Thank you, sir, and thank yIou, miss,' says Cobbs, 'for your good
opinion. Did you bring any luggage with you, sir ? '
"If I will believe Boots when he gives me his word and honor upon
it, the lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, a round and a half of
cold buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a hair-brush-seemingly
a doll's. The gentleman had got about half a dozen yards of string, a
knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper folded up surprisingly small,
an orange, and a Chaney mug with his name upon it.
"'What may be the exact natur' of your plans, sir? says Cobbs.
"'To go on,' replied the boy-which the courage of that boy was
something wonderful!-' in the morning, and be married to-morrow.'
'Just so, sir,' says Cobbs. 'Would it meet your views, sir, if I was
to accompany you?'


"When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried
out, 'Oh, yes, yes, CobbsI Yes!'
"'Well, sir,' says Cobbs. 'If you will excuse my having the freedom
to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I'm
acquainted with a pony, sir, which, put in a phaeton that I could
borrow, would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr. (myself driving, if
you approve), to the end of your journey in a very short space of time.
I am not altogether sure, sir, that this pony will be at liberty to-morrow,
but even if you had to wait over to-morrow for him, it might be worth
your while. As to the small account here, sir, in case you was to find
yourself running at all short, that don't signify, because I'm a.part
proprietor of this inn, and it could stand over.'
"Boots assures me that when they clapped their hands and jumped
for joy again, and called him, 'Good Cobbs!' and-' Dear Cobbs!' and
bent across him to kiss one another in the delight of their confiding
hearts, he felt himself the meanest rascal for deceiving 'em that ever was
"'Is there anything you want just at present, sir?' says Cobbs.
mortally ashamed-of himself.
"'We would like some cakes after dinner,' answered Master Harry,
folding his arms, putting out one leg, and looking straight at him, and
two apples-and jam. With dinner, we should like to have toast and
water. But Norah has always been accustomed to half a glass of cur-
rant wine at dessert. And so have I.'
"'It shall be ordered at the bar, sir,' says Cobbs; and away he went.
"The way in which the women of that house-without exception-
everyone of 'em-married and single, took to that boy when they heard
the story, Boots considers surprising. It was as much as he could do
to keep 'em from dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed
up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at him through
a pane of glass. They were seven deep at the key-hole. They were out
of their minds about him and his bold spirit.
"In the evening Boots went into the room, to see how the runaway
couple was getting on. The gentleman was on the window-seat,
supporting the lady in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and was
lying, very tired and half-asleep, with her head upon his shoulder.


"'Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., fatigued, sir ?' says Cobbs.
"'Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used to be away from home,
and she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could
bring a biffin, please?'
"'I ask your pardon, sir,' says Cobbs. 'What was it you- '
"' 1 think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs. She is very fond
of them.'
"Boots withdrew in search of the required restorative, and, when he
brought it in, the gentleman handed it to the lady, and fed her with a
spoon, and took a little himself. The lady being heavy with sleep, and
rather cross, What should you think, sir,' says Cobbs, 'of a chamber
candlestick?' The gentleman approved; the chambermaid went first,
up the great staircase; the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, followed, gal-
lantly escorted by the gentleman; the gentleman embraced her at the
door, and retired to his own apartment, where Boots softly locked him up.
"Boots couldn't but feel what a base deceiver he was when they asked
him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-and-water, and toast and
currant jelly, overnight) about the pony. It really was as much as he
could do, he don't mind confessing to me, to look them two young things.
in the face, and think how wicked he had grown up to be. Howsom-
ever, he went on a-lying like a Trojan, about the pony. He told 'em it
did so unfortunately happen that the pony was half-clipped, you see, and
that he couldn't be taken out in that state for fear that it should strike
to his inside. But that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the
day, and that to-morrow morning at eight o'clock the phaeton would be
ready. Boots' view of the whole case, looking back upon it in my room,
is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., was beginning to give in. She
hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem
quite up to brushing it herself, and it's getting in her eyes put her out.
But nothing put out Master Harry. He sat behind his breakfast cup,
a-tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his own father.
"After breakfast Boots is inclined to consider that they drawed sol-
diers- -at least, he knows that many such was found in the fireplace,
all on horseback. In the course of the morning Master Harry rang the
bell-it was surprising how that there boy did carry on-and said in a


sprightly way,
-.' Cobbs, is there

~ this neighborhood?'
..[h,,ii B any good walks in

'Yes, sir,' says
Cobbs. 'There's
..w Love Lane.'

I you, Cobbs! '-that
i iif ': was that there boy's
S". expression-'you're
--" ,joking.'
: il W A '"
S. i' "' Begging your
_-a ___p- ardon, sir,' says
.',l,,C 'obb. 'there really is Love
L ane. An1ii a pleasant walk it
__.___!iI I is, ,11 -I,,11-:ud I shall be to show
'.c'i l1 it ti:-' y-i.i-Self and M -rs. Harry

'"'" "...l'l'. "' NI.-rat. dear,' said M aster
Harry, this is curious. We
"The lady followed, gallantly escorted by the gentleman." really ought to see Love Lane.
Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go there with
"Boots leaves me to judge what a beast he felt himself to be, when
that young pair told him, as they all three jogged along together, that
they had made up their minds to give him two thousand guineas a year
as head-gardener, on account of his being so true a friend to 'em. Boots
could have wished at the moment that the earth would have opened and
swallowed him up ; he felt so mean with their beaming eyes a-looking
at him, and believing him. Well, sir, he turned the conversation as well
as he could, and he took 'em down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and
there Master THarry would have drowned himself in half a moment more,
a-getting out a water-lily for her-but nothing daunted that boy. Well,
sir, they was tired out. All being so new and strange to 'em, they was


tired as tired could be. And they laid' down on a bank of daisies, like
the children in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell asleep.
"Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing was getting
pretty clear to Boots, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmers', Jr., temper
was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist she
said he teased her so,' and when he says,' Norah, my young May Moon,
your Harry tease you?' she tells him, 'Yes; and I want to go home!'
However, Master Harry he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond
as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk and began to cry.
Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master
Harry ditto repeated.
"About eleven or twelve at night comes back the governor in a
chaise, along with Mr. Walmers and an elderly lady. Mr. Walmers
looks amused and very serious, both at once, and says to our missis,
' We are very much indebted to you, ma'am, for your kind care of our
little children, which we can never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray,
ma'am, where is my boy?' Our missis says, Cobbs has the dear chil-
dren in charge, sir. Cobbs, show forty!' Then he says to Cobbs, 'Ah,
Cobbs! I am glad to see you. I understood you was here!' And Cobbs
says, 'Yes, sir. Your most obedient, sir.'
"I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps, but Boots assures
me that his heart beat like a hammer, going upstairs. 'I beg your
pardon, sir,' says he, while unlocking the door; 'I hope you are not
angry with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will
do you credit and honor.' And Boots signifies to me that if the fine
boy's father had contradicted him in the daring state of mind in which
he then was, he thinks he should have fetched him a crack,' and taken
the consequences.
"But Mr. Walmers only says, 'No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow.
Thank you!' And the door being open, goes in.
"Boots goes in too, holding the light, and he sees Mr. Walmers go up
to the bedside, bend gently down, and kiss the little sleeping face.
Then he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it;
and then he gently shakes the little shoulder.
"'Harry, my dear boy! Harry!'
"Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at Cobbs, too


Such is the honor of that mite that he looks at Cobbs to see whether he
has brought him into trouble.
"'I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and -
come home.'
"'Yes, pa.'
"Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast begins to swell
when he has nearly finished, and it swells more and more as he stands
a-looking at his father; his.fathei" standing a-looking at him, the quiet
image of him.
"'Please may I'-the spirit of that little creature and the way he
kept hih rising tears down!--' Please, dear pa-may I-kiss Norah
before I go?"
"'You may, my child.'
"So he takes Master Harry in his hand, and Boots leads the way with
the candle, and they come to that other bedroom; where the elderly lady
is seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., is fast
asleep. There the father lifts the child up to the pillow, and he lays his
little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor uncon-
scious little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., and gently draws it to him-
a sight so touching to the chambermaids who are peeping through the
door that one of them calls out, 'It's a shame to part 'em!' But this
chambermaid was always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not
that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it."

Poor Jo!

.," -JO was a crossing-sweeper; his cross-
ing was in Holborn, and there every day
he swept up the mud, and begged for
i .pennies from the people who passed. Poor
S: Jo wasn' t at all pleasant to look at. He
N wasn't pretty and he wasn't clean. His
clothes were only a few poor rags that
Hardly protected him from the cold and
S the rain. lie had never been to school,
and he could neither write nor read-
could not even spell his-own name. He
had only one name, Jo, and that served
him for Christian and surname too.
J ... Poor Jo! He was ugly and dirty and
S ignorant; but he knew one thing, that i'
AolD TE ~. was wicked to tell a lie, and knowing this,
he always told the truth. One other
thing poor Jo knew too well, and that was what being hungry means.
For little Jo was very poor. He lived in Tom-all-Alones, one of the mo-
horrible places in all London. The road here is thick with mud. Ti,
crazy houses are dropping away; two of them, Jo remembered, once fell
to pieces. The air one breathes here is full of fever. The people who
live in this dreadful den are the poorest of London poor. All miserably
clad, all dirty, all very hungry. They know and like Jo, for he is always
willing to go on errands for them, and does them many little acts of
kindness. Not that they speak of him as Jo.


Oh, dear no! No one in Tom-all-Alones is spoken of by his name,
whether it be his surname, or that which his godfathers and godmothers
-always supposing that he had any-gave him. The ladies and gentle-
men who live in this unfashionable neighborhood have their fashions
just as much as the great folks who live in the grand mansions in the
West End. Here one of the prevailing customs is to give everyone a
nickname. Thus it is that if you inquired there for a boy named Jo, you
would be asked whether you meant Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows,
or young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick.
Jo was generally called Toughy, although a few superior persons who
gave themselves airs and graces, and affected a dignified style of speak-
ing, called him "the tough subject."
Jo used to say he had never had but one friend.
It was one cold winter night, when he was shivering in a doorway
near his crossing, that a dark-haired, rough-bearded man turned to look
at him, and then came back and began to talk to him.
"Have you a friend, boy? he asked presently.
"No, never 'ad none."
"Neither have I. Not one. Take this, and good-night," and so say-
ing, the man who looked very poor and shabby put into Jo's hand the
price of a supper and a night's lodging.
Often afterwards the stranger would stop to talk with Jo, and give
him money, Jo firmly believed, whenever he had any to give. When he
had none, he would merely say, "I am as poor as you are to-day, Jo,"
and pass on.
One day Jo was fetched away from his crossing by the beadle, and
taken by him to the Sol's Arms, a public house in a little court near
Chancery Lane, where the Coroner was holding an inquest-an "ink-
ich Jo called it.
Did the boy know the deceased ? asked the Coroner.
Indeed Jo had known him; it was his only friend who was dead.
"He was very good to me, he was," was all poor Jo could say.
The next day they buried the dead man in the churchyard hard by; a
churchyard hemmed in by houses on either side, and separated by an
iron gate from the wretched court through which one goes to it.
But that night there came a slouching figure through the court to the


iron gate. It held the gate with both hands and looked between the
bars-stood looking in for a little while, then with an old broom it softly
swept the step and made the archway clean. It was poor Jo; and as,


after one more long look through the bars of the gate, he went away, he
softly said to himself," He was very good to me, he was."
Now, there happened to be at the inquest a kind-hearted little man
named Snagsby, who was a stationer by trade, and he pitied Jo so much


that he gave him half-a-crown. Half-a-crown was Mr. Snagsby's one
remedy for all the troubles of this world.
Jo was very sad after the death of his one friend. The more so as his
friend had died in great poverty and misery, with no one near him to
care whether he lived or not.
It was a few days after the funeral, while Jo was still living on Mr.
Snagsby's half-crown-half a bill, Jo called it-that a much bigger slice
of good-luck fell to his share. He was standing at his crossing as the
day closed in, when a lady, closely veiled and plainly dressed, came up
to him.
"Are you the boy Jo who was examined at the inquest? she asked.
"That's me," said Jo.
"Come farther up the court, I want to speak to you."
SWot, about him as was dead? Did you know him ?"
SHow dare you ask me if I knew him ?"
"No offense, my lady," said Jo humbly.
"Listen and hold your tongue. Show me the place where he lived.
hen where he died, then where they buried him. Go in front of me,
Jon't look back once, and I'll pay you well." ,I
"I'm fly," said Jo. "But no larks, yer jj'
know. Stow hooking it." i I
Jo takes her to each of the places she j: '
wants to see, and he notices that when he '
shows her the burying-place' she shrinks ', -
into a dark corner as if to hide herself while- .i -
she looks at the spot where the dead man's *t fl
body rests. Then she draws off her glove, i
and Jo sees that she has sparkling rings on
her fingers. She drops a coin into his hand 'i '
and is gone. Jo holds the coin to the light ( i
and sees to his joy that it is a golden sover- ---'1i"
eign. He bites it to make sure that it is
genuine, and being satisfied that it has suc- Jj, JIII ii(
cessfully stood the test, he puts it under
his tongue for safety, and goes off to Tom- JO AT THE GATE OF THE CHURCH.
all A.lones. HIS FRIEND.


But people in Jo's position in life find it hard to change a sovereign,
for who" will believe that they can come by it honestly ? So poor little
Jo didn't getmuch of the sovereign for himself, for, as he afterwards told
Mr. Snagsby-
"I had to pay five bob down in Tom-all-Alones before they'd square
it for to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five
while I was asleep, and a boy he thieved ninepence, and the landlord he
stood drains round with a lot more of it."
SAnd so Jo was left alone in the world again, now his friend was dead.
And this poor friend had only two mourners, Jo the crossing-sweeper
and the lady who had come to look at his grave.
Jo mourned for him because he had been his only friend, and the lady
mourned for the poor man because she had loved him dearly many years
ago when they had both been young together.
As time went on Jo's troubles began in earnest. The police turned
him away from his crossing, and wheresoever they met him ordered him
"to move on." It was hard, very hard on poor Jo; for he knew no way
of getting a living except at his crossing. So he would go back to it as
often as he dared, until the police turned him away again. Once a police-
man, angry to find that Jo hadn't moved on, seized him by the arm and
dragged him down to Mr. Snagsby's.
"What's the matter, constable," asked Mr. Snagsby.
"This boy's as obstinate a young gonoph as I know: although repeat-
edly told to, he won't move on."
"I'm always a-moving on," cried Jo. "Oh, my eye, where am I to
move to ?"
"My instructions don't go to that," the constable answered; "my in-
structions are that you're to keep moving on. Now the simple question
is, sir," turning to Mr. Snagsby, "whether you know him. He says
you do."
Yes, I know him."
Very well, I leave him here; but mind you keep moving on."
The constable then moved on himself, leaving Jo at Mr. Snagsby's.
There was a little tea-party there that evening, and one of the guests, a
very greasy, oily-looking man, whom they called Mr. Chadband, and who
was a dissenting minister, having by this time eaten and drunk a great


deal more than was good for him, determined to improve the occasion by
delivering a discourse on Jo. It was very long and very dull to- Jo: all
he could remember of the sermon was this couplet--

0 running stream of sparkling joy,
To be a soaring human boy."

What he remembered better was, when the perspiring Chadband had
finished, and he was at last allowed to go, Mr. Snagsby followed him to
the door and filled his hands with the remains of the little feast they
had had upstairs.
And now Jo began to find life harder and rougher than ever. He lost
his crossing altogether, and spent day after day in moving on. He grew
hungrier and thinner, and at last the foul air of Tom-all-Alones began to
have an ill-effect even on him-" the tough subject." His throat grew
very dry, his cheeks were burning hot, and his poor little head ached till
the pain made him cry. Then he remembered a poor woman he had
once done a kindness to, a brickmaker's wife, who had told him she lived
at St. Albans, and that a lady there had been very good to her. Perhaps
she'll be good to me," thought Jo, and he ~started off to go to St. Albans.
So it came about that one Saturday night, Jo reached that town very
tired and very ill. Happily for him the brickmaker's wife met him and
took him into her cottage. While he was resting there a lady came in.
The lady sat down by the bed, and asked him very kindly what was
the matter.
"I'm a-being froze and then burnt up, and then froze and burnt up
again, ever so many times over in an hour. And my head's all sleepy,
and all a-going round like, and I'm so dry, and my bones is nothing half
so much bones as pain."
Where are you going ? "
"Somewheres," replied Jo; "I'm a-being moved on, I am."
"Well, to-night you must come with me, and I'll make you comfort-
able." So Jo went with the lady to a great house not far off, and there
in a nice warm loft they made a bed for him, and brought him tempting
wholesome food. Everyone was very kind to him, even the servants
called him Old Chap," and told him he would soon be well. Jo was


really happy, and for a time forgot his pain and fever. But something
frightened Jo, and he felt he could not stay there, and he ran out into
the cold night-air. Where he went he could never remember, for when
he next came to his senses he found
himself in an hospital. He stayed there
for some weeks, and was then discharged,
though still weak and s ill. He was very
thin, and when he drew a breath his
chest was very painful. "It draws," said
Jo, as heavy as a cart."
Now a certain young I? dJ doctor by the
name of Allan Wood- court, rather than
count the hours on a restless pillow,
takes a stroll on Tom- all- Alones one
morning. The banks of a stagnant
channel of mud is the main street of
Tom-all-Alones, nothing is to be seen but
the crazy houses, shut t up and silent.


where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a doorstep. He
walks that way. Approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a
long distance, and is footsore and travel-stained; She sits on the door-
step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee
and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bag, or bundle, she

has carried. She is dozing probably, for she gives no heed to his steps
as he comes towards her.
.The broken footway is so narrow that, when the doctor comes to where
the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her. Looking
down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Can't you make them hear? Do you want to be let in ?"
"I'm waiting till they get up at another house-a lodging-house-not
here," the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting here because there
will be sun here presently to warm me."
"I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
"Thank you, sir. It don't matter."
"I suppose you have some settled home? Is it far from here?" he
asks, good-humoredly making light of what he has done,'as she gets up
and courtesies.
"It's a good two or three-and-twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. Do you know Saint Albans, sir ? I thought you gave a start
like, as if you did-? "
Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question in
return. Have you money for your lodging ?"
"Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. He tells
her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is very
welcome, gives her good-day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alones is still
asleep, and nothing is astir.
Yes, something is As he retraces his way to the point from which
he saw the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a ragged
figure coming very carefully along, crouching close to the soiled walls-
which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid-and thrusting a hand
before it. It is the figure of a boy, whose face is hollow, and whose eyes
have an emaciated glare.* He is so intent on getting along unseen, that
even the appearance or a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him
to look back. He shades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes on
the other side of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on, with his
anxious hand before him, and his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds.


Clothes made for what purpose, or of what material, it would be impos-
sible to say. They look, in color and in substance, like a bundle of rank
leaves of swampy growth, that rotted long ago.
Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with a
shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall how,
or where; but there is some association in his- mind with such a form.'
He& imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or refuge; still,
cannot make out why it comes with any special force on his remem-
He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alones in the morning light,
thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him; and looking
round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed, followed by the
"Stop him, stop him! cries the woman almost breathless. "Stop
him, sir "
He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is quicker
than he-makes a curve-ducks-dives under his hands-comes up half-
a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still, the woman
follows, crying, "Stop him, sir; pray stop him!" Allan, not knowing
but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase, and runs
so hard that he runs the boy down nearly a dozen times; but each time
he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again. To
strike at him, on any of these occasions, would be to fell and disable
him; but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that; and so the grimly
ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed, takes
to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare. Here, against
a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay, and tumbles down,
lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at him until the
woman comes up.
0 you Jo! cries the woman. "What ? I have found you at last I"
"Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention. "JoI Stay. To
be sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the
"Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwich," whimpers Jo. "What
of that? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur to


be ? I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by
another on you, till I'm worried to skins and bones. The inkwich
warn't my fault. I done nothing. He wos wery good to me, he wos; he
wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my crossing.
It an't wery likely I should want him to be inkwich'd. I only wish I
wos, myself. I don't know why I don't go and make a hole in the water,
I'm sure I don't."
He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so real,
and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a growth of
fungus, or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in neglect and
impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him. He says to the
woman, Miserable creature, what has he done ?"
To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrily: "0 you Jo, you Jo. I have found you
at last!"
"WWhat has he done? says Allan. "Has he robbed you ?"
"No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-
hearted by me, and that's the wonder of it."
Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, wait-
ing for one of them to unravel the riddle.
"But he was along with me, sir," says the woman-" 0 you Jo!-he
was along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young lady,
Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn't,
and took him home-"
Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.
"Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like
a thankless monster he ran away in the night, and never has been seen
or heard of since, till I set eyes on him just now. And that young lady
that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks
and wouldn't hardly be known for the same young lady now, if it wasn't
for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet voice. Do you
know it ? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of
you and of her goodness to you?" demands the woman, beginning to
rage at him as she recalls it, and breaking into passionate tears.
The boy, in rough sort stunned by what;he hears, falls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground, and


to shaking from head to foot until the hoarding against which he leans
Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but effectually.
"You hear what she says. But get up, get up "
Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises, and stands, after the manner
of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting one of
his high shoulders against it, and covertly rubbing his right hand over
his left, and his left foot over his right.
"You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been here
ever since ?"
Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alones till this blessed morning,"
replies Jo, hoarsely.
"Why have you come here now ? "
Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no higher
than the knees, and finally answers:
I don't know how to do nothing, and I can't get nothing to do. I'm
wery poor and ill, and I thought I'd come back here when there warn't
nobody about, and lay down and hide somewhere as I knows on till
arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus
willing' fur to give me something, he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she wos
allus a-chivying on me-like everybody everywheres"
"Where have you come from ?"
Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's knees
again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a sort
of resignation.
"Did you hear me ask you where you have come from ?"
"Tramp then," says Jo.
"Now, tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to overcome
his repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him with an
expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that you left that
house, when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to pity you,
and take you home."
Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation, and excitedly declares, ad-
dressing- the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that he
never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he would
sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner have had his unfortnet


'ead chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos wery good
to him, she wos. Conducting himself throughout as if in his poor fashion
he really meant it, and winding up with some very miserable sobs.
Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains himself
to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me?"
"No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. "I dustn't,
or I would."
"But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come, Jo."
After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again, looks
round the court again, and says in a low voice, "Well, I'll tell you some-
think. I was took away. There! "
"Took away ? In the night?"
"Ah!" Fearful of being overheard, Jo looks about him, and even
glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding, and through the
cracks in it, lest the object of his distrust should be looking over, or
hidden on the other side.
"Who took you away ?"
"I dustn't name him," says Jo. "I dustn't do it, sir."
"But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may trust me.
No one else shall hear."
"Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully, "as he
don't hear."
"Why, he is not in this place."
"Oh, ain't he though ? says Jo. "He's in all manner of places, all
at wunst."
Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and
good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He patiently awaits
an answer; and Jo, more baffled by his patience than by anything else,
at last desperately whispers a name in his ear.
"Ay! says Allan. "Why, what had you been doing ?"
"Nothink, sir. Never done nothing to get myself into no trouble,
'sept in not moving on and the inkwich. But I'm a-moving on now.
I'm a-moving on to the berryin ground-that's the move as I'm up to."
"No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with
"Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I was dis-

-POOR JO! 69
charged, then giv' me a little money--four half-bulls, wot you may call
half-crowns-and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' he ses.
'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' he ses.
'Don't let me ever see you nowhere within forty mile of London, or
you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he does see me, and he'll see me if
I'm above ground," concludes Jo, nervously repeating all his former pre-
cautions and investigations.
Allan considers a little; then says, turning to the woman, but keep-
ing an encouraging eye on Jo: "He is not so ungrateful as you sup-
posed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an insufficient
"Thank'ee, sir, thank'ee! exclaims Jo. There now! See how hard
you wos upon me. But only you tell the young lady wot the genlmn
ses, and it's all right. For you wos wery good to me, too, and I
knows it."
"Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me,
and I will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. If
I take one side of the way and you the other, to avoid observation, you
will not hook it,' I know very well, if you make me a promise."
"I won't not unless I wos to see him a-coming, sir."
"Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good-day again, my good woman."
So Jo was taken to a clean little room, and bathed, and had clean
clothes, and good food, and kind people about him once more, but he
was too ill now, far too ill, for anything to do him any good.
"Let me lie here quiet," said poor Jo, "and be so kind anyone as is
passing' nigh where I used to sweep, as to say to Mr. Snagsby as Jo, wot
he knew once, is a-moving on."
One day the young doctor was sitting by him, when suddenly Jo made
a strong effort to get out of bed.
"Well, Jo! what is the matter? Don't be frightened."
"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I
thought I was in Tom-all-Alones again. An't there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot ?"

"And I an't took back to Tom-all-Alones. Am I, sir? "
"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."
After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very
near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice:
"Jo! Did you ever know a prayer ?"
"Never know'd nothing, sir."
"Not so much as one short prayer ?"
"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin' wunst at
Mr. Snagsby's and I heerd him, but
he sounded as if he wos a-speakin'
to his-self, and not to me. He
prayed a lot, but I couldn't make

there wos other genlmen come down
out nothing on it. Different times

Tom-all-Alones a-prayin', but they
all mostly sed as the t'other wuns
prayed wrong, and all mostly
sounded to be a-talking to their-
selves, or a passing blame on the
t'others, and not a-talkin' to us.
We never know'd nothing. Never
,// know'd what it wos all about."
It takes him a long time to say
this; and few but an experienced
and attentive listener could hear,
or, hearing, understand him. After
a short relapse into sleep or stupor,
he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.
"Stay, Jo, stay What now ?"
"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re-
turns with a wild look.
"Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, Jo ?"
"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me: wery good to me
indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin
ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and
be berried. He used fur to say to me, I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,'


he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have
come there to be laid along with him."
"By-and-by, Jo. By-and-by."
"Ah! P'r'aps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ?"
"I will, indeed."
"Thank'ee, sir. Thank'ee, sir! They'll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there,
as I used fur to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is
there any light a-comin' ?"
"It is coming fast, Jo."
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very
near its end.
"Jo, my poor fellow!"
"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin'-a-gropin' -let me
catch hold of your hand."
Jo, can you say what I say ?"
"I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."
"Our Father!-yes, that's wery good, sir ?"
"Art in Heaven-is the light a-comin', sir? "
"It is close at hand. HALLOWED BE THY NAME! "
"Hallowed be-Thy--name "
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right
Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
every day!

The Little Kenwigs.

WHAT an odd-looking jfa~
ily What are they all in
such distress about?
This. is Mrs. Kenwigs, and
those funny little girls are her
1- daughters; and we shall see
S/ presently what is the cause of
their grief.
Mrs. Kenwigs was the wife
of an ivory turner, and though
they only had a very humble
home of two rooans in a dingy-
looking house in a small street, they had great pretensions to being
"genteel," and Mrs. Kenwigs was the admiration of all the neighbors.
The little Misses Kenwigs had their flaxen hair plaited into pig-tails and
tied with blue ribbons, and wore little white trousers with frills round
their ankles, the highest fashion of that day; besides being dressed with
such elegance, the two eldest girls went twice a week to a dancing school.
Mrs. Kenwigs, too, had an uncle who collected the water-rate, and she was
therefore considered a person of great distinction, with quite the man-
ners of a lady. Now, it happened that on the eighth anniversary of their
wedding-day Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs decided to invite a party of friends
to supper to celebrate the occasion. The four eldest children were to be
allowed to sit up to supper, and the uncle, Mr. Lillyvick, the collector,
had promised to come. The baby was put to bed in a little room lent
by one of the lady guests, and a little girl hired to watch him, and Mrs.


Kenwigs, in a beautiful new gown, received her visitors in great state.
All the company had assembled when a ring was heard, and Morleena,
whose name had been invented by Mrs. Kenwigs specially for her, ran
down to open the door and lead in her distinguished great-uncle, then
the supper was brought in and the party commenced.
The supper consisted of a pair of boiled fowls, a large piece of pork,
potatoes and greens, and an apple-pie, which they all enjoyed amaz-
Everybody had eaten everything, the table was cleared, Mr. Lillyyick
established in the arm-chair by the fireside, the four little girls arranged
on a small form in front of the company with their flaxen tails towards
them, when Mrs. Kenwigs was suddenly dissolved in tears and sobbed
"They are so beautiful I"
"Oh dear," said all the ladies, "so they are; it's very natural you
should feel proud of that; but don't give way, don't."
"I can-not help it, and it don't signify," sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs; "oh!
they're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful."
On hearing this dismal prophecy, all four little girls screamed until
their light flaxen tails vibrated again, and rushed to bury their heads in
their mother's lap, and she clasped them in her arms.
At length she was soothed and the children calmed down; while the
ladies and gentlemen all said they were sure they would live for many,
many years, and there was no occasion for their mother's distress: and
as the children were not so remarkably lovely, this was quite true.
Then Mr. Lillyvick talked to the company about his niece's marriage,
and said graciously that he had always found Mr. Kenwigs a very honest,
well-behaved, upright, and respectable sort of man, and shook hands
with him, and then Morleena and her sisters kissed their uncle and most
of the guests.
Then Miss Petowker, who was the daughter of a theatrical fireman,
who went on in the pantomime, and who could sing and recite in a way
that brought tears to Mrs. Kenwigs' eyes, remarked-
Oh, dear Mrs. Kenwigs, while Mr. Noggs is making that punch to
drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that figure dance
before Mr. Lillyvick."


"No, no, my dear," replied Mrs. Kenwigs, "it will only worry my
"It can't worry him, I'm sure," said Miss Petowker. "You will be
very much pleased, won't you, sir? "
That I am sure I shall," replied the collector, glancing at the punch
"Well, then, I'll tell you what," said Mrs. Kenwigs. "Morleena shall
do the steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the Blood-
drinker's Burial' afterwards."
Everyone clapped their hands and stamped their feet at this proposal,
but Miss Petowker said, "You know I dislike doing anything profes-
sional at private parties."
Oh, but not here! said Mrs. Kenwigs. We are all so very friendly
and pleasant, that you might as well be going through it in your own
room-besides the occasion."
"I can't resist that," interrupted Miss Petowker, "anything in my
humble power I shall be delighted to do."
In reality Mrs. Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged all the enter-
tainment between them beforehand, but had settled that a little pressing
on each side would look more natural. Then Miss Petowker hummed a
tune, and Morleena danced, the soles of her shoes being as carefully
chalked as if she were going on the tight rope. It was a very beautiful
figure with a great deal of work for the arms, and gained much applause;
and Miss Petowker observed that if she had such a child as that, she
would have her out at the opera instantly. Then Miss Petowker was
entreated to begin her recitation, so she let down her back hair, and
went through the performance with great spirit, and died raving mad in
the arms of a bachelor friend who was to rush out and catch her at the
words "in death expire," to the great delight of -the audience and the
terror of the little Kenwigses, who were nearly frightened into fits.
Mr. Noggs was just going to say that the punch was ready, when a
knock at the door startled them all. Mrs. Kenwigs shrieked, thinking
the baby had fallen out of bed.
But it was only a friend of Mr. Noggs, who lived upstairs, and who
had come down to say that Mr. Noggs was wanted by two queer-looking
people all covered with mud and rain.


Mr. Noggs hurried out, saying he would be back soon, and presently
startled them all by rushing in, snatching up a candle and a tumbler of
hot punch, and darting out again.
Now, it happened unfortunately that the tumbler of punch was the
very one that
Mr. Lillyvick ....
was just going ..'
to lift to his lips, .,
and the great ..,
man-the rich -'- 4.'
relation who '
had it in his .
power to make
Morleena and.
her sisters heir- -
esse s and
whom everyone .
was most anx- ,.'
ious to please-
was offended. '- '7
Poor Mr. Ken- ..
wigs endeavored
to soothe him,
but only made .
matters worse by
saying he didn't .
think such a .
little thing
would have put
him out of tem- .
per; Mr. Lilly-
vick demanded
his hat, and was only induced to remain by Mrs. Kenwigs' tears and sobs,
and the entreaties of all the little girls and the company, combined witn
those of his nephew-in-law.
"There, Kenwigs," said Mr. Lillyvick, "and let me tell you, to show


you how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away without
another word, it would have made no difference respecting that pound
or two which I shall leave among your children when I die."
"Morleena Kenwigs," cried her mother, "go down on your knees to
your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his life through; for he's
more an angel than a man, and I've always said so."
Just as all were happy again, everyone was startled by a rapid succes-
sion of the loudest and shrillest shrieks, apparently coming from the
room where the baby was asleep. Mrs. Kenwigs immediately thought
that a strange cat must have got in and sucked the baby's breath while
the girl was asleep, and made for the door, screaming dismally-
"My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby My own dar-
ling, sweet, innocent Lillyvick I Let me go-o-o-o."
Mr. Kenwigs rushed out, and was met at the door of the bedroom by
a young man with the baby (upside down) in his arms, who came out so
quickly that he knocked Mr. Kenwigs down; handing the child to his
mother, he said, "Don't be alarmed, it's all out, it's all over-the little
girl, being tired, I suppose, fell asleep and set her hair on fire. I heard
her cries and ran up in time to prevent her setting fire to anything else.
The child is not hurt: I took it off the bed myself and brought it here
to convince you."
All were very grateful to the young man, and invited him to join the
party, but he excused himself, saying he had just had a very tiring
journey, and wished to return to his friend Mr. Noggs.
After they had all talked over this last excitement, and discussed little
Lillyvick's deliverer, the collector pulled out his watch and announced
that it was nearly two o'clock, and as the poor children had been for
some time obliged to keep their little eyes open with their little fore-
hingers, the company took leave, declaring they had never spent such a
delightful l evening, and that they wished Mr. and'Mrs. Kenwigs had a
wedding-day once a week, and many more remarks of the same kind;
while Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs, highly delighted with the success of their
party, thanked them all for coming, and hoped they had enjoyed them-
selves only half as much as they said they had.

Little Dorrit.

M/ANY years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poor
Gentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money,
was brought to the Marshalsea prison. As there seemed no
prospect of being able to pay his debts, his wife and their two little
children came to live there with him. The elder child was a boy of three;
the younger a little girl of two years old, and not long afterwards another
little girl was born. The three children played in the courtyard, and
were happy on the whole, for they were too young to remember a happier
state of things.
But the youngest child, who had. never been outside the prison walls,
was a thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world
could be like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather,
became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk he
bought a little arm-chair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, and coaxed
her with cheap toys to come and sit with him. In return the child loved
him dearly, and would often bring her doll to dress and undress as she
sat in the little arm-chair. She was still a very tiny creature when she
began to understand that everyone did not live locked up inside high
valls with spikes at the top, and though she and the rest of the family
might' pass through the door that the great key opened, her father could
not; and. she would look at him with a wondering pity in her tender
little heart.
One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at. the sky
through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time.
Thinking of the fields, ain't you ?"


"Where are they? she asked.
"Why, they're-over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his
key vaguely, "just about there."
Does anybody open them and shut them ? Are they locked ?"
"Well," said the turnkey, discomfited, "not in general."
"Are they pretty, Bob? She called him Bob, because he wished it.
Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups and there's daisies, an
there's-" here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many flowers-
"there's dandelions, and all manner of games."
"Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob ?"
"Prime," said the turnkey.
"Was father ever there ?"
Hem! coughed the turnkey. 0 yes, he was there, sometimes."
"Is he sorry not to be there now ?"
"N-not particular," said the turnkey.
"Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd
within. "0 are you quite sure and certain, Bob ?"
At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject to hardbake. But
after this chat, the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sun-
day afternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick
grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe; and then
they would go to some tea-gardens for shrimps and tea and other del-
icacies, and would come back hand in hand, unless she was very tired
and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died, and the poor
father was more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was
a careless child, and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest
and truest heart, was inspired by her love and unselfishness to be the
little mother of the forlorn family, and struggled to get some little educa-
tion for herself and her brother and sister.
At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting
her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But
this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her,
and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through
this little gate, she passed out of her childhood into the care-laden world.
What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her



~ ~1'iiL~iAIN'T Youl '

I p

Jill 'l
Jil l

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~~II II,

I~ 1 I
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sister, in her brother, in the jail ; hoii much or how little of the wretched
truth it pleased God to make visible to her, lies hidden with maifi
mysteries. It is enough that she wa,. inspired to be something which
was not what the rest were, and to ble that somietlli'ng, different. and
laborious forrther sakeof the rest. Inspired ? Yes. Shall .we speak .-of
the inspiration of a poet oir i liest, and not of the heart impelled ly
love and self-devotion to the lowlies.t work in tle lowliest. way of life?
At thirteen she could read ,ald I eep ace lontllii-that, is, could put dowi\
in i~virds at'd1 figures how mtinh' lie be necessaries that they wanted
would cost, and how much less tlhey had to Ibuy them with. She had
been, by snatches of a few wee'kI at a time, to an evening schi', outside,t
and got her sister and brother sent .toI dlay-schools 1vy desultory starts,
during three or four years. Theie' was 1no instruction lfo any of them a'
home; but she knew well--no one bI:ettir--t.hat a man so Qd'ii'en as 6
be the Father o~ the fiarshalsea, could be no father to his-own chil:lren.,
To these scanllty mnians of inlprovemnlt, she adled another of hIr own
contrivingi. (Once a1Ilonl' the cro(:lwd of inmates there appeared a d:iing-
nmaster.,. Her si ter had a greilt desire to learn the dancing-ma-.ter's art,
and seeme:l to have a taste that way. .At. thirteen years old, tli- Child
of the Marshals1a presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little;
bag in her hand, and otlf;Ied lier hiumile petition.
".1' you please. I was 1boorn here, sirt."
"'Oh! .Iou are the .voung lady, are you? said the danciig-master,
surveying the sniall figure and uplifted face.

"And wihat can Vdo for you ? said the dancing-manist.er.
"Nothin'gfo l me, f sir, thank yo, n." anxiously undrawing the strings of
the little IlagE; ''"but -it,'yhle yu stay here, you could le so kind as to!
tea'chl nl sister cheap- "
My child; l teacth-her for nothing," said t.he. dan eing-master, shut-
ting up the lag. \He was as -goodl-naturid a daineing-nmaster as ever
danced to the nsolvnit Court, and lie k.p'lt his word. The sister was so
apt a pupil, and the danein'-master had uc.h abundant leisure to bIestow1
upon her, that wondelrfil p ro:,gres wa.-si de. .,indeed, tlhe dancin)l-
master was so proud of it, and so vwi"hful to display it 1iwiore he eft, t.
a few select friends nmson the colleg1in., that at six i/clock (on a qgi tainlI



fipe morning, a minuet de la cour came off in the yard-the college-rooms
beifg of too confined proportions for the purpose-in which so much
grqd.d was covered, and the steps were so conscientiously executed, that
t,J adppging-master, having to play the kit besides, was thoroughly

The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master's con-
tinig j R instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child to
try,aginp11. e watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the
fut~lJg Rjf, tiie ,a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own
T1 rlserep.Niredo eh o
rib'0)jg, -~t A rpn, ma'am," she said, looking timidly round the door
oftffnwillLrie 4 rgn she found in tears and in bed: "but I was born
lippl need bad oil
j1yeYiyo^g qepd[)% ~ hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the mil-
li-P 'pjsa qp, 9e;,rAyqg her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master
^A~itd ribdl' rir Jryfali
J4 IwiT0 rfqrfNki4ei.,are you? "
" ">Ys, o' j ;, -"
ajJ1 ,I;99Al v gY1ftpything for you," said the milliner, shak-
ing her head.
,.4';V, t@ tPt4 tp'aWiW jfyj,~ ease, I want to learn needlework."
*rl i Lat4W r d~q W9 Ata tred the milliner, "with me before
you? It has not done me much good."
{l!j~Jt ngT,-teateg i,-i #pe#1n,,tq);tave done anybody much good
w*oJ'irVP rJilsy rle) if l~ rnJmpFity; "but I want to learn,
just the same."
"I am afraid you are so weak, you see,",tl~inilliner objected.
h"IfS^^^tn Ai)Hi^ eaks1%Amoleing o0 a,
"And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner objected.
r riorpfgraidr mnJrNW te4 gee t th Child of the
M 1q~ha( : 4 4g 9vgxqb3Ef o %1 unfopp ta joqtfect of hers,
which came so often in hF.,woYa pWomigl!n^- r i;a morose or
h#rWeji,9ltit B TW le'T1y. iniWnTTran 1ipF4,e tjtqkh-l ig 1nd with
good-will, found her the moA (pntrt4leR n.) e i9 pg nmade
hq1(%gypdq aW o '9t(T81j0n soof 9 ol bIfl ,TV 87IvwniB 9w errw o u,
g^nswwQ ~igeas heprite Masiil4sean a eV(^qua


new flower of character. With the same hand that had pocketed a cr -
legian's half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that
streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his daughters'
earning their bread. So, over and above her other daily cares, the Child
of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving the genteel
fiction that they were all idle beggars together.
The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family
group-ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and know-
ing no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevit-
able certainty. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no
particular sense of being ruined, at the time when that calamity fell upon
him, further than he left off washing himself when the shock was an-
nounced, and never took that luxury any more. He had been a very
indifferent musical amateur in his better days; and when he fell with
his brother, resorted for support to playing a clarionet as dirty as him-
self in a small theatre orchestra. It was the theatre in which his niece
became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time when she took
her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her escort
and guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast,
starvation-anything but soap.
To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary
for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with her
"Fanny is not going to live with us, just now, father. She will
be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with
"You surprise me. 'Why ?"
I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended
to and looked after."
"A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend
and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will.
You all go out so much; you all go out so much."
This was to keep up the ceremony and pretense of his having no idea
that Amy herself went out by the day to work.
"But we are always very glad to come home, father; now, are we not?
And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking




8 i


I~LeiPB Sr I
I (

~t~algd8 .r .-i-~




care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here always.
She was not born here as I was you know, father."
"Well, Amy, well. I don't quite follow you, but it's natural I suppose
that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should,
too. So, you and Fanny and your -uncle, my dear, shall have your own
way. Good, good. I'll not meddle; don't mind me."
To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs.
Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange
with very doubtful companions, consequent upon both, was her hardest
task. At eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from
hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the
prison from whom he derived anything useful or good, and she could find
no patron for him but her old friend and godfather.
"Dear Bob," said she, what is to become of poor Tip ? His name
was Edward, and Ted had been transformed into Tip, .within the walls.
The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of
poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their fulfill-
ment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of running away
and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he
didn't seem to care for his country.
"Well, my dear," said the turnkey, something ought to be done with
him. Suppose I try and get him into the law ?"
That would be so good of you, Bob! "
The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen
as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly that
a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office
of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace Court;
at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting bulwarks to the
dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more.
Tip languished in Clifford's Inn for six months, and at the expiration
of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets,
and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back again.
"Not going back again ?" said the poor little anxious Child of the
Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank
of her charges.
"I am so tired of it," said Tip, "' that I have cut it"


Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and
Mrs. Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty
friend, got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop
trade, into the law again, into an auctioneer's, into a brewery, into- a
stockbroker's, into the law again, into a coach office, into a wagon office,
into the law again, into a general dealer's, into a distillery, into the law
again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the Billingsgate
trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever
Tip went into he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it.
Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the prison
walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to
prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slipshod, purposeless,
down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted
their fascination over him and brought him back.
Nevertheless, the bra ve little creature did so fix her heart on her
brother's .rescue that, while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she
pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he
was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he
graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom
over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight
course at last.
"God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too prbud to come and see us,
when you have made your fortune."
"All right! said Tip, and went.
But not all the .way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool.
After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so
strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved-to walk back again.
Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the
expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than
At length, after another interval of successorship to Mrs. Bangham,
he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it.
Amy, I have got a situation."
"Have you really and truly, Tip?"
"All-right. I shall do now. You needn't look anxious about me
any more, old girL"

% YM W OMAI. "87
"What is it, Tip? "I-',d 'lW
ri'^"^^ylaluhYof 4n i ht d mulidJ a"'ido iU z "
'" T tinin-itjhrni Ot1e c11 h( dlijno' 1mb bi i i]qiys 11t l d&
"That's the chap. He'll b'o dif WoiAh1I Pl'"going to give
me a berth." lo --
.ifAttWabhaf t ih det1/id,^19P'mA ,oVI .
1 i r *rfHore.l AM iPliiatghte' 11 sb!h ItidbfS+, my."
ti She lost 'a hi ,fmhibiot lidffl aiifterwards, and only heard from him
once. A whis-
per passed
td among the
I b I elder collegians
that he had
d il been seen at a
111 u mock auction in
Moorfields, pre-
rP wetending to buy
i plated articles

old,;Y i.im 11r1 o r
oaB l k 8j lh "Don't say that you are a prisoner, Tip!"
frlii "l;la41~d' silver, and paying for them with, the greatest liberality ih
4Ai klLiotdel; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone
At' cWif standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above
1h Mti' LL-when he opened the door and walked in.
'""l4Ii 14issed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any que-
tion. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
lilt "I ; a:m afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am 1"
i;Ji)1dkm very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you coie back? ?" D


"Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very
well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip."
"Ah! But that's not the worst of it."
"Not the worst of it?"
"Don't look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come
back, you see; but-don't look so startled-I have come back in what J
may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in
now, as one of the regulars."
Oh! Don't say that you are a prisoner, Tip I Don't, don't!"
"Well, I don't want to say it," he returned in a reluctant tone; "but
if you can't understand me without my saying it, what am I to do ? I
am in, for forty pound odd."
For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She
cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill
their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip's graceless feet.
It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring
him to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside
himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip,
and altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only,
'hen he submitted to her entreaties, backed by those of his uncle and
sister. There was no want of precedent for his return; it was accounted
for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better com-
prehension of the pious fraud than Tip, supported it loyally.
This was the life, and this the history, of the Child of the Marshalsea,
at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment to the one miserable
yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and
fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was
pointed out to everyone. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls,
she had found it necessary to conceal where she lived, and to come and
go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, out-
side of which she had never slept in her life. -Her original timidity had
grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little figure
shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them.
Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all
things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she -saw her father,


and the prison, and the turbid living river that flowed through it and
flowed on.
This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit, until the son
of a lady, Mrs. Clennem, to whose house Amy went to do needlework,
became interested in the pale, patient little creature, and learning her
history resolved to do his best to try and get her father released, and to
help them all.
One day when he was walk-
ing home with Amy to try to
find out the names of some of /
the people her father owed
money to, a voice was heard r
calling, "Little mother,- little 'I
mother," and a strange figure .' /
came bouncing up to them and / !i. .
fell down, scattering her bas- '
ketful of potatoes on the / ,,I
ground. "Oh Maggie," said *;..:, 1 ,
Aniy, "what a clumsy child ,/' .h I
you are! "
She was about eight and
twenty, with large bones, large '
features, large hands and feet,
large eyes, and no hair. Amy
told Mr. Clennem that Maggie
was the grand-daughter of her
old nurse, who had been dead
a long time, and that her grand-
iit her had been very unkind MAGGIE.
1 er ,"Oh, ain't it a delightful place to stop atj'
,; her and beat her.
"-When Maggie was ten years old she had a fever, and she has never
grown older since."
"Ten years old," said Maggie. "But what a nice hospital So com-
fortable, wasn't it ? Such a 'e'v'nly place I Such beds there is there
Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Suclh
checking Oh, AIN'T it a delightful place to stop at"


,Thea whiAh Bhe-rcidm ibtl: .her g;INandmblher didibtakiiw iw aat itQ, ?o
with her, and was very unkind. But after some time Maggiait oLedr4
improveb, iand was iVryl ittnitnive 'aid 'indtistuiibun i nai'iowl A she can earn
her owYi living e-ntitely isinrAd! P : U ; oh im li f It
: iAmy id-id hot'say whowhad! taken' pains to oteafohnaad enoom'age the
po6r' ,half-witted creaturer, tbut sMr. Clennem ,gsiesed: from ,Abe rname
little mother and the fondness of the poor creature for AmyJ,; -, ot :i!
One cold,, wet evening, Amy and Maggioe! -enitio Mt. iCl-nnenl's-house
to thank =him for having freed Edward froFey-thexjpoisoil, :.id, oaicolni
out found it was too late to get home aui the.gate \vas. looked.- 'rThey
tried to :get in at Ma'g ice's 'lodgings, but, ftiinigh -hey'knocked !t wiee, tle
peo,!ple were a.leep. As A my di, not wishitodiiktub tbenh)tbeywandare
about. all night, so tiestines ing at. tlth gteie: ~otheupison, M~aggi
shivering and whimlpering. -, -,;i, n ;:.
'It"ill soon be: ov-er, d,_ar.' said lpatieflt AmyJi i q :',l >
O'Oh, it's all very vwell for you, motherr' -.said l.Maggie6 'lbut Imta(,por
thing, only ten years o.ld." -.i x o b "o' Th L iH
Thanks to Mr. Clennmni. a rieat chlang iiitool.'!Ipeei n sthBe fortune of,
the family, and not long 0 i'tLIr'thii, wiLetched. 1a-izh'.it. i nt;, d ,lisedvered that
Mr. Dborit wa.s power olfa lrg'e property, and they became very!rnihmo.'
But Little Dorrit. never loi-.got. a~. lad t(.O f'.,,avitli ijestlf ;thi faWilly
di,:.t.lihe friends who lhad Lbeen kind t t theml lin tlie-ir i)over ty~ tadwyhe.n
in Iis t :, Mr. Clennen l'e:';'ine a pri n-? 'i 'th, iMari"halSea;Alittle
DI) it, canze to comfort a; .:cin',l- him, andlafterltumany changes of ffor
tune she became his ife,' and thl.-y lived liippl,'evex~Iafter.i x) 1.i'.: H ,

:,a, ",,l ,: i ,,' : IJ l7/ .n

-' i ji > i ." *; ;, ; : '' ( ; ; i :

IM 80 ownlJ 1 10t i)) 1 ) I ev 11 i '1 ellob -it ;Is er I Ii i j
7 o hj.i) J Ifi .I Io Al', 11O IJo1 ;~ mo I i hA1 1 -i) I 10 )) Il ,f > mf ,' ei.

The Yoy rMaker and .His. iBlind. ,D ght e .
,'1'd u eb n ni ii iA -iAl A onT 1i im )d

C ALEB PLIMMER ,andij his b liiid (r hti(h1, ,ly1 il t 'd atihrie',i n' a'fli.tle
cracked nit siell1 bf:; a, huse:. !T liy 'web-'e ',_-Lh-'-b keW,,:,an4i thei
house, lwhielt wasri so. 'siia~. thatnitrign it. ohlive ;:lle;n. 1it`ioc;edi Ito
pieces with a bh- 1 iil or,.-n a.nll d i' [ Itl-.1 Aflf\tv A! iI a- rt; Wa1 stu.k .like a 'th_[d-
stool on to the premises.tof oMdsstisu~ ~rihff i Jackleto~; 4li& tby' in e rlmanits
for whom they workted--the ,latte.!- of. _bhin Nvwas' h.ii.uself Ilrth- G tuff ld
Tackleton in one. i.,, ,u ; JId)I I'di I I)uI
I am saying that Cailab anid hisi'lisn,;uaighte; lived hdre.: :I shbu~1
say Caleb did, his daughteii-l-ited i, Inoer; nidahce'palace. T~ ichii.-b'i
father's love had crea. d fohnailiCnr SIh didi: rot know t.hdit the'&itri ng
were cracked, the plaster tumbling dow. ,n',Wthe twoodw'l rbtte' ;
that everything was dldo andi hi.1y .-ahd~lpovertigh'strieken, about hem,'lnd
that her father was a .gi'ai-haired, stootiig.\ 1 A 1i mnan aridthe liteir .t'-
rwhom they worked a-thrd;:eand 1i''utii ta.imrnm', ster; r,-o dear'l~, shrLe
fancied a pretty, cosy Im4nllact, ,little,,theobe e fnull of tokefiits't a, kinil
master's care, a smart, abiist,,gaibllhht.-10okinig. fdtt.heiandl achand.soni6 and
noble-looking toy merch a pi i..who wias a n ( nge.'fl gAo id( -ness. ., II bi IciK
This was all Caleb's doifng.,ntlsWie hi sltblind'daughter '~paa s il babythe
had determined, in his great.oaIoe rind pibty'for beI r i.hat hd# deprhiation
should be turned into a blersing,,hndthelr ilif' ast'ha8py'ad hoe-'ildinittke
it. And she was happy; everytnhingiotbd uihevishdosa-1bii~hlt.et fat.heIV..
eyes, in the rainibow-colored light withPirhichlit.fash:is dar etndd 'plea.
ulre to invest it. il u id ruit w 'ln l noi o-i',de ,l bie
Caleb and his daughter gM'eaatit Joatogletheii tteir unawPbw ting-
room, which pervvd,i them for. the~ o ordthr'yrhlirit a in' d p -wrll ani
strange o ldpric int a bThe ielwre liousesl ih.fin shead'~V liltldtlmed.
it. And shl. o wfi aslp-st~tious;inlile. ,SuBur bardifenigmeni tfo'itollefator(91)

ate means; kitchens and single apartments for dolls of the lower classes;
capital town residences for dolls of high estate. Some of these estab-
lishments were already furnished according to estimate, with a view to
the convenience of dolls of limited income; others could be fitted on the
most expensive scale, at a moment's notice, from whole shelves of chairs
and tables, sofas, bedsteads, and upholstery. The nobility and gently
and public in general, for whose accommodation these tenements were
designed, lay, here and there, in baskets, staring straight up at the ceil-
ing; but in signifying their degrees in society, and confining them to
their respective stations (which experience shows to be lamentably diffi-
cult in real life), the makers of these dolls had far improved on nature,
who is often froward and perverse; for they, not resting on such arbi-
trary marks as satin, cotton-print, and bits of rag, had superadded strik-
ing personal differences. which allowed of no mistake. Thus, the doll-
lady of distinction had wax limbs of perfect symmetry; but only she
and her compeers; the next grade in the social scale being made of
leather; and the next coarse linen stuff. As to the common-people, they
had just so many matches out of tinder-boxes for their arms and legs,
and there they were-established in their sphere at once, beyond the
possibility of getting out of it.
There were various other samples of his handicraft besides dolls in
Caleb Plummer's room. There were Noah's Arks, in which the birds and
beasts were an uncommonly tight fit, I assure you; though they could
be crammed in, anyhow, at the roof, and rattled and shaken into the
smallest compass. By a bold poeticallicense, most of these Noah's Arks
had knockers on the doors; inconsistent appendages perhaps, as sug-
gestive of morning callers and a postman, yet a pleasant finish to the
outside of the building. There were scores of melancholy little carts,
which, when the wheels went round, performed most doleful music.
Many small fiddles, drums, and other instruments of torture; no end of
cannon, shields, swords, spears, and guns. There were little tumblers in
red breeches, incessantly swarming up high obstacles of red-tape, and
coming down, head first, upon the other side; and there were innumer-
able old gentlemen of respectable, not to say venerable, appearance, in-
sanely flying over horizontal pegs, inserted, for the purpose, in their own
street-doors. There were beasts of all sorts, horses, in particular, of every


breed; from the spotted barrel on four pegs, with a small tippet for a
mane, to the thoroughbred rocker on his highest mettle.
"You were out in the rain last night in your beautiful new great-
coat," said Bertha.
"Yes, in my beautiful new greatcoat," answered Caleb, glancing to
where a roughly-made garment of sackcloth was hung up to dry.
"How glad I am you bought it, father."
"And of such a tailor I quite a fashionable tailor; a bright blue cloth,
with bright buttons; it's a deal too good a coat for me."
"Too good!" cried the blind girl, stopping to laugh and clap her
hands-" as if anything was too good for my handsome father, with his
smiling face, and black hair, and his straight figure, as if any thing could
be too good for my handsome father! "
"I'm half ashamed to wear it, though," said Caleb, watching the effect
of what he said upon her brightening face; "upon my word. When I
hear the boys and people say behind me: 'Halloa! Here's a swell!'
I don't know which way to look. And when the beggar wouldn't go
away last night; and, when I said I was a very common man, said 'No,
your honor! Bless your honor, don't say that!' I was quite ashamed.
I really felt as if I hadn't a right to wear it."
Happy blind girl! How merry she was in her exultation!
"I see you, father," she said, clasping her hands, as plainly as if I
had the eyes I never want when you are with me. A blue coat! "-
"Bright blue," said Caleb.
"Yes, yes! Bright blue! 1' exclaimed the girl, turning up her radiant
face; "the color I can just remember in the blessed sky I You told me
it was blue before! A bright blue coat--"
"Made loose to the figure," suggested Caleb.
"Yes! loose to the figure!" cried the blind girl, laughing heartily;
and in it you, dear father, with your merry eye, your smiling face, your
free step, and your dark hair; looking so young and handsome! "
"Halloa! Halloa! said Caleb. "I shall be vain presently."
"I think you are already," cried the blind girl, pointing at him, in
her glee. "I know you, father! Ha, ha, ha! I've found you out, you
How different the picture in her mind from Caleb, as he sat observing


hbl41t IShq i had.spokevi gof, his freel'step.iSh Si, -ghtintt.i 'For
years and years mW neaer'oh ttel had crossebd, th att ithrehold di his 6Wi
sk iA, pacec, :b t'u th, a footfall icothilhrfei-t&te dir .he'rl air,i ahl d newt 1' e A hle,
when his heart was heaviest, forgotten the light tread thidt.' nwslw -eitler
hers,u cheerful and bol 'ragou..ii, -.',.: i.. w:n. hnli jU dl ylm i ,oYi "
"Theretwe< .arp,"' said C:leh, i.filling lack. a.,ncee'ol ,twtbl tu'foIAfa'll'W"
better judgment of his work; '" asiniurie realithbllga,;isiisg1Xlnor1fR'of
h1fplaenneei s rto sipenoeJ i Whbt aiaf.it y- l tha ithe lwNl flroih t *o. thb, l ri',_e
opens at once! If.theieiwas ily4 a<_thirba'se. i itiif ,'am b 1 trll1ii'
doors..ois tlo. thjro,is.to go inlliat !; blut.ithattsthb w~B:t dofni 'adllitg. oTFm
aNayS~ idel.udiig: my self .and s. i.n.illihg my.elf.'" :;fid it 'i n ..aba
bli'Yguiade pe tsking.quitc scft1yd Y Yo.i are nottii'ed~liiither? "ri ,i iia
"Tired," echoed Caleb, with a greit bilrit. 'lf an i altion', '~li-bat-lhjbil'di
tir?.,IUe,BWLit..ha .>c;lwaf ii~v r tired...iWthaItdoes it .ie 'ai-n : hIdt "f(
I otgie theOgaeaterifo~ee to ihis'woislie sth:,ppdd hiiii bhf: illn 1'Ai ihtail o
tioll laftwoJ'. swniill streitihing and .awnhihg ,dfigtli es on' .the tuintdhlWif i
wvho .,i a:*,.,rre.'sented ai lin isake dtenaal state of weasii ie~ t;f'i on i' iWaistl
uptardu,; anl.d.hii u med arbiti of ;-a soh., i;It waeka fri.nkih song4o,)t:),i-:
tl.ing. hou t riat siparkliig bb6r t and he saig it4iith an-anlii rf a ,e4ilihny'
care voice, that made his f iaia thousMid ti.mes'niori ibLibag, reAci 6~.1diSoel
thoughtful than ev.e~: 1d i w '.ila 'M;Y vi ~ : ig ?ti[d v,/i l((H
I "ihant., iiyi; ''re: singing:. aTreyoif' said 'Tackletown,' fIpuT it ing h i.-;S eHad
in attht,dor.. '4'-"Go ituli / nt-a; si-ng.-' (cA iIn Jrii. *rLrj I ?9Ri 9(dL bad
Nobody would have suspected him of it. Helbhadi i:-'t. h'hae gtrierhlly
tqjeiOd;a sii1ging iface,hbyhi'idamns.ino f!,nl bt? i;! l?7 z"
othll an'(fafford to sinAg,';h il ciTnileton.: f' glad ioOloamflt I Wd1Pi
you can afford to work, too. Har.ly tinme!fir'1both,AI should thi;th"'?~'w i
"If you could only see hiiBii0ii th:a,; -ow ei's ihiiig h trif d!1f- olik-
ped if aaleb i-'iSuti f u ii, :to j.ble!' yol'd it.h iniik, if ,'ydi. didn't -ow
i ~i .be.w insi i ea--nest, wouldn'tt. youp(now.?ift ,-.' n ;i (ni bas7
The blidid gi( ismilhiid n'Gl 1 Moli ed.. ii, ..i --,i;,I T-Ji. :i bi; II ju: osol,
I am. thsaunfkimn 4eu h 'dr ihYi little .*oir de thebeaitiffAlscaliitld 064,H11-
picdiaf'tha, bri.jni ng, fli'w.l? i bihFy' Irose- fiee in 'Mol.o)ssuin.,' nh i tyj yni
ini9fe, eleid( eptl~on,,Cakle hatdiafllmehr wel~ie ,t bwa i.rdanite.'!giftd
though he himself had gone without a meal or two to buy, it. 998
ghn)Tairiydji:tht capiediti raind wehiiftBsidglinHnstidiq middhatefai dig;4hrl//

W r \IvT0rY~ i# 4x4ND ~IS, BLA M UGRIITR 9
say,') gumbled, raclleton,a i, What about, ;th eiwl; ithat..'can' fc ping,7and
outght~fl ,4tQ, ijggia iil. tigag; isthere anythingg thai hei shQuldlbe,
made -o ?;.",! onl i; il- ^ i r i f j- -, "
i's ',The( oenlt tihifiihg's winkingl at thispiomenit.! ;whi.spered.Calebi
to his daughter. "Oh, my gracious !" J".1 n o
"Always merry ap4, iighithe~arted; with.s1 icusn dielithe mniling Btertha.
":.O i .pu'reit0eg.,aiee yoU,?'? .a!nswerd iTackletonj. ;" Pj:or idiot! -'
.Hqy aldlydidbelbieve. s.h ,wasap idiot; :o d,.he. founded tie belief, 1,
can't .snyWhe~lElo(jIo.ciou.sly.r 01 4, upon her.bingi folnd iofiir.. ,, i. I
SI";4p!). nd bejg.,, therertho.. ,.are: tyou pi;- said Tackleton, in his.
grudging ww i, ow I andi .)ni A o -o n ;? -
" fPi!. well: quite. wenl.,jAiid i;aai hppyia ~; pye you. canr wish,. e to
bi,'ffAs ~14ppl asy ;n:,v ,ot, like thelwh,'ole..,'ldt, f .you coul ("1I -"
I sf9tw e iotiPl..i- ntled ackletF;qniN ),"N, gieuw. of f rewaon-! iYjt a.
g eaqh re ls l .(- : O ai no i l. : ?
-4lT,jP)ind .2i t-og hiis :hand: kl1issed iti, held it for a.nmomnent in,
her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before reeleasg
ing it. There was such unspeakable affection and g ich ,fe erat g'iati:tnde
.itbnhggiqiCj,-nt..Tgg pn qjwgoelf; AA 5MpyeOtO fsay, ii iildei gMlowl
than usual: ni ; i ,--. ) -nn b[ii.
rof' Whs, tse.aia itterrOW)fARe Jqrj .lo shi'ii/ ir Iniir i fub F
"Bertha!" sapi,)Fpklery.,am assuming. for ,,once,.a Jittlt. cordiialiity.
' qiUpgeIhe I. e J d) ",ao i ,; i u i" (AB I'n! ndUren I"
"Oh! I eanjomueitraighft.,toi iy i Yjou .needn'.t guide ,me,".be re-
-jgge&habi wo t I to f,^'N j" ,o.j f:!! kr I'is n71n i
"Slfall I tell you a secret, Bertha?" ".' -;, i
jfa64fMy% WiillkNyi M9joser, Qaqger> wno al .:.It If! I ;j"
How bright the darkened face! How adortiedtbith light_italstelitf
inf h t}r,l, to, ejiifini d-i;v As s r- i Toi+- lo'twnil s,, ilb :2niio-/-H
"This is the day on which little what's-ber4name, -thei spo6l t chihi)
EPg igW ie's 1wvfp, tns hefee(upgsulyislt, to Ji3ou-rimalt s, heri fanttiartic
p149iapiptre; )agip-,i? j Agio Tlacleto, gwith StsttiaQg exprOskri@fr disrl
tqWt -a)h i;g e, SacerSi; ),: li 0,&; ,d *rd oii,.!, aiw 'rol
Yes,". i4ep iedt P^rtyha.,;, f bs'M..ii ,i the. day.ft ,i'two n <, :-ioi ,, amo
..l4 fh! t-i ) i 4 ",ydlr 4.";I :s.4r,'l (llr ilie .tit ,oir: tiha flatpty."
"Do you hear that, father! cried the blind girl in an ecstasy~o- :,.) ni


"Yes, yes, I hear it," murmured Caleb, with the fixed look of a sleep-
walker; "but I do not believe it. It's one of my lies, I've no doubt."
"You see I-I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into com-
pany with May Fielding," said Tackleton. "I am going to be married
to May."
"Married!" cried the blind girl, starting from'him.
"She's such a confounded idiot," muttered Tackleton, "that 1 w :
afraid she'd never comprehend me. Yes, Bertha! Married! Church,
parson, clerk, beadle, glass-coach, bells, breakfast, bride-cake, favors,
marrow-bones, cleavers, and all the rest of the, tomfoolery. A wedding,
you know; a wedding. Don't you know what a wedding is ?"
"I know," replied the blind girl, in a gentle tone. "I understand! "
"Do you? muttered Tackleton. It's more than I expected. Well,
on that account I want you to join the party, and to bring May and her
mother. I'll send a little something or other, before the afternoon. A
cold leg of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that sort. You'll ex-
pect me?"
"Yes," she answered.
She had drooped her head, and turned away; and so stood, with her
.hands crossed, musing.
"I don't think you will," muttered Tackleton, looking- at her; "for
you seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb !"
"I may venture to say I'm here, I suppose," thought Caleb. "SirI"
"Take care she don't forget what I've been saying to her."
She never forgets," returned Caleb. "It's one of the few things she
ain't clever in."
"Every man thinks his own geese swans," observed the toy merchant,
with a shrug. "Poor devil! "
Having delivered himself of which remark with infinite contempt, old
Gruff & Tackleton withdrew.
Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in meditation. The gaiety
had vanished from her downcast *face, and it was very sad. Three or
four times she shook her head, as if bewailing some remembrance or
some loss; but her sorrowful reflections found no vent in words.
"Father, I am lonely in the dark. I want my eyes; my patient, will-
ing eyes,"

I'~ ES

, 41


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