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TUBBE TIISY WEBE, TIIESIC BLADES OF OBABS. 
 
 IPage 16.] 
 
BLADE-O'-GRASS 
 
 > W THE ^ 
 
 By B. L. FARJEON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JOSHXJA MARVEL," &o. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 LIBRARY OF 'I'll 
 
 University of California. 
 
 i- 1 RC I'J.A riXG BRAXCH. 
 
 Return in tsr^ weels*'; or a week before the end of the term. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1874. 
 
By B. L. FARJEON. 
 
 BREAD- AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, A Christmas 
 Story. Illustrated. 8vo Paper, 35 cents. 
 
 LONDON'S HEART. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $1 00. 
 
 GRIF: a Story of Australian Life. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 
 
 yOSHUA MARVEL. Svo, Paper, 40 cents. 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, 35 cents. 
 
 GOLDEN GRAIN. A Sequel to " Blade-o'-Grass.'' Illustrated. 
 Svo, Paper, 35 cents. 3 ^j^ ^ 
 
 Published by HARPER c^• BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 Either of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
 States, on receipt of the price. 
 
Blade-O'-Grass. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 STONEY ALLEV. 
 
 ?5N the heart of a 
 very maze of courts 
 and lanes Stoney 
 Alley proclaims it- 
 self. It is one of 
 a multitude of de- 
 foiTned thorough- 
 fares, which are 
 huddled together 
 — by whim, or ca- 
 price, or mockery — in a populous part of the 
 city, in utter defiance of all architectural rules. 
 It is regarded as an incontrovertible law that 
 every thing must have a beginning, and Stoney 
 Alley could not have been an exception to this 
 law. It is certain that the alley and its vsui*- 
 rounding courts and lanes must once upon a 
 time have been a space where houses were not ; 
 where, perhaps, trees grew, and grass and flow- 
 ers. But it is difficult to imagine ; more diffi- 
 cult still to imagine how they were commenced, 
 and by what gradual means one wretched thor- 
 oughfare was added to another, until they pre- 
 sented themselves to the world in the shapes 
 and forms they now bear; resembling au un- 
 gainly body with numerous limbs, every one of 
 which is twisted and deformed. Easier to fan- 
 cy that they and all the life they bear si)rang 
 up suddenly and secretly one dark night, when 
 Nature was in a sullen mood ; and that being 
 where they are, firmly rooted, they have remain- 
 ed, unchangeable and unchanging, from genera- 
 tion to generation. Records exist of fair islands 
 rising from the sea, clothed with verdure and 
 replete with animal life ; but this is the bright 
 aspect of phenomena which are regarded as de- 
 lusions by many sober persons. Putting imag- 
 ination aside, therefore, as a thing of small ac- 
 count in these days (if only for the purpose of 
 satisfying unbelievers), and coming to plain mat- 
 ter of fact, it is not to be doubted that Stoney 
 
 Alley and its fellows grew upon earth's surface, 
 and did not spring up, ready-made, from below 
 — although, truth to tell, it was worthy of such 
 a creation. In the natural course of things, 
 the neighborhood must have had architects and 
 builders ; but no record of them is extant, and 
 none is necessary for the puiT^oses of this story. 
 Sufficient that Stoney Alley rears its ugly body 
 — though lowly withal — in the very heart of 
 London, and that it may be seen any day in the 
 week in its worst aspect. It has no other : it is 
 always at its worst. 
 
 Out of it crawl, from sunrise until midnight, 
 men and women, who, when they emerge into 
 the wide thoroughfare which may be regarded 
 as its parent, not uncommonly pause for a few 
 moments, or shade their eyes with their hands, 
 or look about them strangely, as if they have re- 
 ceived a surprise, or as if the different world in 
 which they find themselves requires considera- 
 tion. Into it crawl, from sunrise until midnight, 
 the same men and women, who, it may be ob- 
 sened, draw their breath more freely when they 
 are away from the wide thoroughfares, and who 
 plunge into Stoney Alley as dusty, heat-worn 
 travelers might plunge into a refreshing bath, 
 where the cool waters bring relief to the parched 
 skin. What special comfort these men and 
 women find there, would be matter for amaze- 
 ment to hundreds of thousands of other men 
 and women whose ways of life, happily, lie in 
 pleasanter places. But Stoney Alley, to these 
 crawlers, is Home. 
 
 Its houses could never have been bright ; its 
 pavements and roads— for it has those, though 
 rough specimens, Uke their treaders — could never 
 have been fresh. Worn-out stones and bricks, 
 having served their time elsewhere and been 
 cashiered, were probably brought into requisi- 
 tion here to commence a new and unclean life. 
 No cart had ever been seen in Stoney Alley : it 
 was too narrow for one. A horse had once lived 
 there — a spare, sad, blind horse, belonging to a 
 coster-monger, who worked his patient servant 
 
10 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 sixteen hours a day, and fed it upon Heaven 
 knows what. It was a. poor, patient creature ; 
 and as it trudged along, with its head down, it 
 seemed by its demeanor to express an under- 
 standing of its meanness. That it was blind 
 may have been a merciful dispensation ; for, in- 
 asmuch as we do not know for certain whether 
 such beasts can draw comparisons as well as 
 carts, it may have been spared the pangs of envy 
 and bitterness which it might have experienced 
 at the sight of the well-fed horses that passed it 
 on the road. It was as thin as a live horse well 
 could be — so thin that a cat might have been 
 forgiven for looking at it with contempt, as be- 
 ing likely to serve no useful pui^pose after its 
 worldly trudgings were ended. Its mane was 
 the raggedest mane that ever was seen ; and it 
 had no tail. What of its hair had not been ap- 
 propriated by its master, the coster-monger, had 
 been plucked out ruthlessly, from time to time, 
 by sundry boys and girls in Stoney Alley — being 
 incited thereto by an ingenious youth, who plait- 
 ed the horse-hair into watch-guards, and who 
 paid his young thieves in weak liquorice-water, 
 at the rate of a tea-spoonful for every dozen 
 hairs — long ones — from the unfortunate horse's 
 tail. For years had this poor beast been wont 
 to stumble over the stones in Stoney Alley when 
 its day's work was over, and wait like a human 
 being before its master's house for the door to 
 open — rubbing its nose gently up and down the 
 panels when a longer delay than usual occurred. 
 The door being opened, it used to enter the nar- 
 row passage, and fill the house with thunderous 
 sound as it walked into a little dirty yard, where 
 a few charred boards (filched from a fire) had 
 been tacked together in the form of a shed, 
 which offered large hospitality to wind and rain. 
 In this shed the wretched beast took its ease 
 and enjoyed its leisure, and died one night so 
 quietly and unexpectedly that the coster-monger, 
 when he learned the fact in the morning, cursed 
 it for an ungrateful " warmint, " and declared 
 that if his dumb servant had yesterday shown 
 any stronger symptoms of dying than it had 
 usually exhibited, he would have sold it for 
 *' two -pun -ten to Jimmy the Tinman." So 
 deeply was he impressed by the ingratitude of 
 the animal, that he swore he would have noth- 
 ing more to do with the breed ; and he bought 
 a donkey — a donkey with such a vicious temper, 
 and such an obstinate disposition, that the cos- 
 ter-monger, in his endeavors to render it submis- 
 sive, became as fond of it as if it were one of his 
 own kindred, and soon gi-ew to treat it in ex- 
 actly the same manner as he treated his wife. 
 It would have been diflUcult, indeed, to decide 
 
 which was the more important creature of the 
 two— the wife or the donkey; for on two dis- 
 tinct occasions the coster-monger was summon- 
 ed before a magistrate — once for ill-treating his 
 wife, and once for ill-treating his donkey — and 
 the sentence pronounced on each occasion was 
 precisely the same. It may be noted, as a cu- 
 rious contrast (affording no useful lesson that I 
 am aware of), that when the coster-monger came 
 out of prison for ill-treating his wife, he went 
 home and beat the poor creature unmercifully, 
 who sat sobbing her heart out in a corner the 
 while ; and that when he came out of prison for 
 ill-treating his donkey, he went into the rickety 
 shed in his back-yard and belabored the obsti- 
 nate brute with a heavy stick. But the donkey, 
 cunning after its kind, watched its opportunity, 
 and gave the coster-monger such a spiteful kick 
 that he walked lame for three months afterward. 
 It would be unfair to the coster-monger not to 
 state that he was not the only husband in those 
 thoroughfares who was in the habit of beating 
 his wife. He was but one of a very numerous 
 Brute family, in whose breasts mercy finds no 
 dwelling-place, and who marry and bring up 
 children in their own form and likeness, morally 
 as well as physically. It is to be lamented that 
 when the inhumanity of the members of this 
 prolific family is brought before the majesty of 
 the law for judgment — as is done every day of 
 our lives — the punishment meted out is general- 
 ly light and insignificant as compared to the of- 
 fense. Yet it may be answered that these wife- 
 beaters and general Brutes were children once ; 
 and the question may be asked. Whether, taking 
 into consideration that no opportunity was offer- 
 ed to them of acquiring a knowledge of a better 
 condition of things, they are fully responsible for 
 their actions now that they are men ? We wage 
 war against savage beasts for our own protec- 
 tion. But how about savage men, who might 
 have been taught better, who might have been 
 humanized ? We press our thumb upon them, 
 and make laws to punish the exercise of their 
 lawless passions. But have they no case against 
 us? Is all the right on our side, and all the 
 wrong on theirs ? That the problem is an old 
 one, is the more to be lamented; every year, 
 nay, every hour, its roots are striking deeper 
 and deeper into the social stratum. The prov- 
 erb, " when things are quiet, let them be quiet," 
 is a bad proverb, like many others which are ac- 
 cepted as wisdom's essence. Not by a man's quiet 
 face, but by his busy brain and heart, do we judge 
 him. If there be benevolence in statesmanship, 
 the problem should be considered in its entirety 
 without delay. By-and-by it may be too late. 
 
BLADE. 0'- GRASS. 
 
 11 
 
 PARTI. 
 
 A "STRANGE EVENT OCCUBS IN 8T0NEY ALLEY. 
 
 Delicate feather-flakes of snow were floating 
 gently down over all the city. In some parts 
 the snow fe.U white and pure, and so remained 
 for many hours. In other parts, no sooner did 
 it reach the ground than it was converted into 
 slush— losing its purity, and becoming instantly 
 defiled. This was its fate in Stoney Alley ; yet 
 even there, as it rested upon the roofs and eaves, 
 it was fresh and beautiful for a time. In which 
 contrasted aspects a possible suggestion might 
 arise of the capability of certain things for grace 
 and holiness, if they are not trodden into the mire. 
 
 An event had just occurred in Stoney Alley 
 which was the occasion of much excitement. 
 This was nothing more or less than the birth of 
 twin girls in one of the meanest houses in the 
 alley. The mother, a poor sickly woman, whose 
 husband had deserted her, was so weakened and 
 prostrated by her confinement, and by the want 
 of nourishing food, that she lived but a dozen 
 days after the birth of her babes. No one knew 
 where the father was ; he and his wife had not 
 lived long in the neighborhood, and what was 
 known of him was not to his credit, although 
 with a certain class he was not unpopular. He 
 was a lazy, surly fellow, who passed his waking 
 hours in snarling at the better condition of things 
 by which he was surrounded. The sight of a 
 carriage made his blood boil with envy; not- 
 withstanding which he took delight in walking in 
 the better thoroughfares of the city, and feeding 
 his soul with the bitter sight of well-dressed peo- 
 ple and smiling faces. Then he would come 
 back to his proper home, and snarl at society to 
 pot-house audiences, and in his own humble 
 room would make his unhappy wife unhappier 
 by his reviling and discontent. He called him- 
 self a working-man, but had as much right to 
 the title as the vagabond beggar who, dressed in 
 broadcloth, is wheeled about in an easy-chair, 
 in the West End of London, and who (keeping 
 a sharp look-out for the police the while) exhib- 
 its a placard proclaiming himself to be a re- 
 spectable commercial traveler, who has lost the 
 use of his limbs. He traded upon the title, how- 
 ever, and made some little money out of it, hop- 
 ing by and-by to make more when ho had be- 
 come sufficiently notorious as a public agitator. 
 In the mean time he (perhaps out of revenge 
 upon society) deserted his wife when she was 
 near her confinement, and left her to the mercy 
 of strangers. She could not very well have fared 
 worse than she did in that tender charge. She 
 bore two babes, and died without a sign. 
 
 The mother was bnried the day before Christ- 
 mas, and the babes were left to chance charity. 
 There were man^;<6«i§a lodgers in the how 
 in which the twin gn^^Mfjf^fii^^^^t^ 
 one of them was rich enoSgpkSt(t±B0»Sf0fr Her- 
 self the incumbrance of two such serious re- 
 sponsibilities. The station-house was spoken of, 
 the Foundling, the work-house ; but not a soul 
 was daring enough to carry out one of the sug- 
 gestions. This arose from a fear of conse- 
 quences — in the shape, perhaps, of an acknowl- 
 edged personal responsibility, which might prove 
 troublesome in the event of the station-house, 
 the work-house, or the Foundling refusing to 
 take charge of the infants. Moses in the bul- 
 rushes was not in a worse plight than these un- 
 fortunate babes in Stoney Alley. 
 
 What on earth was to be done with them? 
 Every person in the house might get into trouble 
 if they were left to die. The house, small as it 
 was, accommodated five or six distinct families 
 — each occupying a room— in addition to two 
 bachelors — one a vagrant, the other a hawker in 
 cheap glass-ware. These last could not be ex- 
 pected to assume the slightest shadow of re- 
 sponsibility. At length a bright idea struck a 
 charitable woman in the house. Armed only 
 with a calico apron with a large bib and an im- 
 mense pocket in front (like a stomacher), the 
 charitable soul went about to solicit contributions 
 in aid of the infants. As she walked round and 
 about the narrow alleys and courts, soliciting 
 from every body, she made quite a stir in the 
 neighborhood by the vigorous manner in which 
 she rattled the coppers in her capacious pocket. 
 A gi'cat many gave, farthings and half-pence be- 
 ing in the ascendant — the largest contribution 
 being given by the bachelor vagrant above men- 
 tioned, who gave twopence with the air of a gen- 
 tleman — better still, with the true spirit of one ; 
 for he gave more than he could afford, and took 
 no glory to himself for the action. Attracted 
 by the rattle of the coppers, a singular-looking 
 little man, with a shriveled face, came to the 
 door of his shop, and was instantly accosted by 
 the kind-hearted soul. 
 
 '■'■You'll give a copper or two, I know, Mr. 
 Virtue," said the woman. 
 
 •'Then you know more than I do," replied 
 the man. " I don't give. I lend." 
 
 *' What '11 you lend on 'em, then ?" asked the 
 woman, good-humoredly. 
 
 "Lend on what?" •• 
 
 " On the poor little twins that was bom in our 
 house a fortnight ago." 
 
 "Oh, that's what you're up to," exclaimed 
 the man, whose eyes were the most extraordi- 
 
12 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 nary pair that ever were seen in human face— for 
 one was as mild as London milk, and the other 
 glared like a fuiy. "That's what you're up to. 
 CoUectin' for them brats afore they learn to tell 
 lies fortheirselves." 
 
 "They're as sweet a pair as ever you see," 
 said the woman. "Just give it a thought, Mr. 
 Virtue ; you're a man o' sense — " 
 
 " Yah !" from the man, in the most contempt- 
 uous of tones, and with the fiercest of glares 
 from his furious eye. 
 
 *' There they are, without a mother, as 'elpless 
 as 'elpless can be," persisted the woman, with 
 a wonderful display of cheerfulness. "Come, 
 now, you'll give a copper although you do look 
 so grumpy." 
 
 The cynic turned into his dark shop at this 
 last appeal, but as he turned a penny dropped 
 from his pocket. The woman picked it up with a 
 pleasant laugh, and, adding it to her store, pro- 
 ceeded on her charitable mission. But, industri- 
 ous and assiduous as she was, the sum total col- 
 lected was very small ; about sufiicient to keep 
 the infants for half a week. The kind-hearted 
 woman took the babes, and nursed them pro tern. 
 She had a family of dirty children of her own, 
 who were bringing themselves up in the gutters ; 
 for she could not attend to them, so fully was her 
 time occupied in other ways. She could not, 
 therefore, be expected to take permanent charge 
 of the motherless babes. And so h§r husband 
 told her, grumblingly, when he came home from 
 his work on Christmas- eve. All that she said 
 was, "Poor little things !" and fell to — rough as 
 she was — detecting imaginary beauties in the ba- 
 bies' faces : a common trick of mothers, which 
 no man can afford to be cross with, especially in 
 his own wife, and the woman who has borne him 
 children. 
 
 "Can't put 'em out in the cold, the pretty 
 dears !" said the woman, tenderly. 
 
 "We've got enough of our own," responded 
 her husband, not unkindly, and yet with a cer- 
 tain firmness ; " and there's more coming — 
 worse luck!" But these last two words he said 
 beneath his breath, and his wife did not hear 
 them. 
 
 "All the more reason for being kind to these," 
 said the woman. "They'll be handsome girls 
 when they grow up. Look'ee here, Sam, this 
 one's got a dimple, just like — like — " Her voice 
 trailed off softly, and her husband knew that 
 she was thinking of their first-bom, that had lived 
 but a few weeks. 
 
 I am aware that it is the fashion with a large 
 class to regard the portrayal of sentiment among 
 very common people as fanciful and untrue to 
 
 nature. I differ from this class, I am glad to 
 say. True love for women, and true tenderness 
 for children, are common to all of us, whether 
 high or low. Cynics can not alter what is natu- 
 ral — in others. 
 
 The man felt kindly toward his wife and the 
 babes, but he was not at all inclined to saddle 
 himself with a couple of ready-made infants. 
 He saw, however, that his wife was in a foolishly 
 tender mood, and he let the subject drop for the 
 present. 
 
 It may have been eight o'clock in the white 
 night, and the bright snow was still falling like 
 feathers from angels' wings, when, at the door of 
 the house in which the twins had been born and 
 the mother had died, a lady and gentleman 
 stopped, and, obtaining entrance, asked for the 
 landlady. Unmistakably lady and gentleman, 
 though plainly dressed. Not highly born, but as 
 truly lady and gentleman as the best in the land. 
 They were strangers to the landlady of the house ; 
 but she rose the instant they entered her apart- 
 ment, and remained standing during the inter- 
 view. 
 
 "We have to apologize for this intrusion," 
 commenced the lady, in a gentle voice ; "but al- 
 though we are strangers to you, we aie not here 
 out of rudeness." 
 
 " I'm sure of that, ma'am," replied the land- 
 lady, dusting two chairs with her apron. " Will 
 you and the gentleman take a seat ?" 
 
 "This is my husband," said the lady, seating 
 herself. ' ' Every year, on the anniversary of 
 this evening, with the exception of last year, we 
 have been in the habit of coming to some such 
 place as this, where only poor people live — " 
 
 "Ah, you may say that, ma'am ! The poor- 
 est." 
 
 — " It is so, unfortunately. God help them! 
 Every year until the last we have been in the 
 habit of coming to some such place in furtherance 
 of a scheme — a whim, perhaps you'll call it — the 
 development of which gives us the chief pleas- 
 ure of our lives. We have no family of our own, 
 no children that can properly call me mother and 
 my husband father ; so every year we adopt one 
 and bring it up. We have six now, as many as 
 we have been able to keep ; for last year we lost 
 part of our means through unwise speculation, 
 for which I and my husband were equally to 
 blame—" 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am," interposed 
 the landlady, sympathizingly, standing in an at- 
 tentive attitude, with the corner of her apron be- 
 tween her fingers. 
 
 — "And having as many little responsibilities 
 on us as our means would enable us to take 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 13 
 
 UBB KINU-UE.VBTED LODGER WAS NimSINQ THE TWINS. 
 
 proper care of, we were unable to add another 
 to our family of little ones. But this year a for- 
 tunate thing has occurred to us. A kind fiiend 
 has placed a small sum at our disposal, which 
 will enable us to take a seventh child, and rear 
 it in comfort and respectability." 
 
 *'And a lucky child that seventh 'uU be," re- 
 marked the landlady. *'I'raa seventh child 
 myself, and so was my mother before me, and 
 we was both born on a 7th." 
 
 The lady smiled, and continued : 
 
 *' Every child we have is an orphan, without 
 father or mother, which we believe to be neces- 
 sary for the proper furtherance of our scheme. 
 We feed them and nourish them properly — in- 
 deed, as if they were really our own — and when 
 they are old enough, they will be put to some re- 
 spectable occupation which will render them in- 
 dependent of the world. Among the many poor 
 
 children round about here, do you know of one 
 who, having no natural protectors, would be bet- 
 tered by coming under our charge ? These let- 
 ters will satisfy you of our fitness for the task, 
 and that we are in earnest." 
 
 "Lord bless me!" exclaimed the landlady, 
 impelled to that exclamation by sudden thought 
 of the twins up stairs, and not casting a glance 
 at the papers which were placed in her hands. 
 "You don't mean what you say ?" 
 
 "Indeed we do. You will bo kind enough 
 to understand that we do not desire to take a 
 child who has parents living, but one whom hard 
 circumstances has placed in the world friendless 
 and alone. These poor courts and alleys abound 
 in children — " 
 
 "Ah, that they do ; and a nice pest they ore, 
 a many on 'em. They're as thick as fleas." 
 
 — "And at this season it is good to think of 
 
14 
 
 BLADE -O'. GRASS. 
 
 them, and to try to do some little thing in their 
 behalf. It is but little that we can do — very, 
 very little. Do you know of such a child as we 
 seek for now ?" 
 
 "A girl?" 
 
 "A girl or boy." 
 
 " God Almighty bless you, ma'am !" cried the 
 landlady. " Stop here a minute, and I'll let you 
 know." 
 
 She ran in haste up stairs to where her kind- 
 hearted lodger was nursing the twins. 
 
 "I beg you a thousand pardons, Mrs. Man- 
 ning," she said, panting, "and you too, Mr. 
 Manning ; and I wish you a merry Christmas, 
 and many on 'em ! I'm that out of breath, and 
 that astonished, that I don't know if I'm on my 
 head or my heels. Stay a minute, my good 
 souls ; I'll be back in a jiffy." 
 
 With that she ran out of the room and down 
 §rairs to assure herself that her visitors had not 
 flown, or that she had not been dreaming. Hav- 
 ing satisfied herself, she ran up stairs again, and 
 sat down in a more panting state than before. 
 
 "I thought I was dreaming, and that they 
 was apparitions ! " she gasped. 
 
 Mr. Manning, being one of those English- 
 men who look upon their habitations as their 
 castles, was inclined to resent these intrusions. 
 Unconsciously throwing a large amount of ag- 
 gressiveness in his tone and manner, he asked 
 his landlady if he owed her any rent, and re- 
 ceived for answer, No, that he didn't, and the 
 expression of a wish that every body was like 
 him in this respect. 
 
 " Veiy well, then," said Mr, Manning, not at 
 all mollified by the landlady's compliment, and 
 speaking so surlily that (as the landlady after- 
 ward said, in relating the circumstance), if it had 
 not been for her being out of breath, and for 
 thinking of those two precious babes, he would 
 have "put her back up" there and then — "if I 
 . don't owe you any thing, what do you mean by 
 coming bouncing into my room in this man- 
 ner?" 
 
 *'I asks your pardon," said the landlady, with 
 dignity ; but instantly softening, as she thought 
 of her visitors down stairs; "but you've got a 
 'art in your bosom, and you've got the feelings of 
 a father. The long and the short of it is" — and 
 here she proceeded to explain the visit she had 
 had, and the object of her visitors. "Ah, Mr. 
 Manning," she continued, following the direc- 
 tion of his eyes toward the two babes lying in 
 his wife's lap, "you've got the same idea as I 
 had in coming up here. Here's these two bless- 
 ed babes, with no mother, and no father to speak 
 of; for I don't believe he'll ever turn up. What's 
 
 to become of 'em ? Who's to take care of 'em ? 
 I'm sure you can't." 
 
 " No, that I can't ; and don't intend to." 
 
 "And no one expects you. Sir. You've got 
 a big enough family of your own. Well, here's 
 this lady and gentleman setting down stairs this 
 blessed minute as wants a child, and as '11 do 
 what's right and proper by it," 
 
 " But there's a pair of 'em. Won't they take 
 the two ?" 
 
 "One they said, and one they mean. They 
 can't hardly aiford that, they said. And I'm as 
 certain as I am that I'm setting here, that if they 
 knew there was two of 'em, they wouldn't part 
 'em for the world. No, they'd go somewhere 
 else ; and the chance 'd be lost. " 
 
 "But they want a child that ain't got no father 
 nor mother. Now these young uns have a fa- 
 ther; and that you know." 
 
 * ' No, I don't ; I don't know nothing of the 
 kind. 'Tain't the first story I've told by a many, " 
 said the landlady, in answer to Mr, Manning's 
 look of astonishment ; * ' and I don't mind telling 
 this one to do a little baby good." 
 
 " What's to become of the other ?" 
 
 "We'll look after her between us. One '11 
 take her one day, and one another. Lord bless 
 you, Mr. Manning, we shall be able to manage." 
 
 "And if the father comes back ?" 
 
 " I'll get the lady's address and give it to him ; 
 and then he can do as he likes." 
 
 "It's the best thing that can be done," said 
 Mr. Manning ; ' ' though I've nothing to do with 
 it, mind you ; it's none of my business. I've got 
 troubles enough of my own. But it ain't every 
 young un that gets such a chance." 
 
 "No, that it ain't;" and the landlady pull- 
 ed her chair close to that of Mrs. Manning. 
 " Which shall it be, my dear ?" 
 
 This proved to be a very difficult question to 
 answer. First they decided that it was to be 
 this one, then that ; then soft - hearted Mrs. 
 Manning began to cry, and said it was a sin to 
 part them. And the babes lay sleeping uncon- 
 sciously the while this momentous point was be- 
 ing discussed, the decision of which might con- 
 demn one to want and dirt and misery — to 
 crime, perhaps — and the other to a career where 
 good opportunity might produce a happy and 
 virtuous life. At length it was decided, and one 
 was chosen ; but when the landlady prepared to 
 take the child, she found that the fingers of the 
 babes were tightly interlaced ; so she left them in 
 Mrs. Manning's lap, with instructions to get the 
 chosen one ready, and went down to her vis- 
 itors. 
 
 "Poor child!" said the lady, at the conclu- 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 15 
 
 sion of the landlady's recital ; " and the mother 
 was only buried yesterday !" 
 
 " Only yesterday, ma'am," responded the land- 
 lady; "and the dear little thing is left without 
 a friend. There's not one of us that wouldn't 
 be glad to take care of it ; but we're too poor, 
 ma'am ; and that's the fact." 
 
 "The child's younger than we could have 
 wished," mused the lady, with a glance at her 
 husband; "but it would seem like a cruel de- 
 sertion, now that we have heard its sad story." 
 
 Her husband nodded, and the landlady, keen- 
 ly watchful, said, eagerly : 
 
 "I'll bring it down to you, ma'am. One of 
 the lodgers is nursing it; but her husband's 
 grumbling at her, and making her miserable 
 about it. He says he's got enough of his own ; 
 and so he has." 
 
 By this time Mrs. Manning had the baby ready 
 — she had dressed the child in some old baby- 
 clothes of her own — and before she let it go out 
 of her arms, she said, as if the little thing could 
 understand : 
 
 " Kiss sister, baby. You'll never see her 
 again, perhaps ; and if yoa do, you won't know 
 her. " 
 
 She placed their lips close together; and at 
 that moment they opened their eyes, and smiled 
 prettily on one another. The man and the two 
 women stood by, gazing earnestly at the babes. 
 
 Tears were in Mrs. Manning's eyes as she wit- 
 nessed the strange parting ; the landlady was 
 silent and pensive: ^and the man, with his hands 
 behind him, seemei^QjJ>esuddenly engrossed in 
 the consideration of sSJ^ft^j^^l^i^btepH wliicli 
 he found too perplexin^^isiBBaES?^3fs wife 
 raised the fortunate babe to his face. 
 
 "A happy New- Year to you, little un," said 
 the not unkindly man, as he kissed the child. 
 
 "Suppose they were our'n, Sam," said his 
 wife, softly and tearfully ; "we shouldn't like 
 this to happen." 
 
 " But they're not our'n," replied her husband ; 
 " and that makes all the ditFerence." 
 
 And yet there was a wistful expression on his 
 fiice, as the landlady took the baby out of the 
 room. 
 
 "I've kept the prettiest one," his wife whis- 
 pered to him — " the one with the dimple." 
 
 The lady and gentleman — she with her new 
 charge wrapped in her warm shawl, and pressed 
 closely to her bosom — walked briskly through 
 the cold air toward their home, which lay in a 
 square about a mile from Stoney Alley. In the 
 centre of the square was a garden, the wood- 
 growth in M'liich, though bare of leaves, looked 
 as beautiful in their white mantle as ever they 
 had done in their brightest summer. The snow- 
 lined trees stood out boldly yet gracefully, and 
 their every branch, fringed in purest white, was 
 
 / 
 
 'TUB LADY AXR OKNTLEM.VN WALUEU BBI8KLV TOBOITOII TUS OOLU Al 
 
16 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 an emblem of loveliness. They gleamed grand- 
 ly in the moon's light, mute witnesses of the 
 greatness of Him whose lightest work is an evi- 
 dence of perfect wisdom and goodnese. 
 
 HOW SHE ACQUIRED THE NAME OF BLADE-O - 
 GRASS. 
 
 Thus, while one .little babe was tended and 
 watched by benevolent hands and eyes, the fate 
 of the other — the prettier one, she with the un- 
 fortunate dimple — was intrusted to the shapeless 
 hands of chance. To such tender care as had 
 happily fallen to its lot the fortunate one may 
 be left for a time. Turn we to the other, and 
 watch its strange bringing up. 
 
 Proverbially, too many cooks spoil the broth ; 
 and this forlorn babe was left to the care of too 
 many cooks, who, however, in this instance, did 
 not spoil the broth by meddling with it, but by 
 almost utterly neglecting it. The landlady's 
 declaration that "We'll look after her between 
 us ; one '11 take her one day, and one another, " 
 although uttered in all sincerity, turned out bad- 
 ly in its application. What is every body's busi- 
 ness is nobody's business, and for the most part 
 the babe was left to take care of herself. For a 
 little while Mrs. Manning was the child's only 
 friend ; but in the course of a couple of months 
 she fulfilled her husband's apprehension, and 
 added another bantling to his already over- 
 stocked quiver. This new arrival (which, it 
 must be confessed, was not received with grati- 
 tude by its father) was so fractious, and so be- 
 sieged by a complication of infantile disorders, 
 that all Mrs. Manning's spare moments were 
 fully occupied, and she had none to devote to 
 other people's children. The motherless child 
 threatened to fare badly indeed. But now and 
 again a mother wiio had lost her offspring came 
 to the little stranger and suckled her ; so that 
 she drew life from many bosoms, and may be 
 said to have had at least a score of wet-nurses. 
 And thus she grew up almost literally in the 
 gutters, no one owning her, no one really caring 
 for her ; and yet she throve, as weeds thrive — 
 while her sister, not a mile away, throve, in the 
 care of kind friends, as flowers thrive. Bom in 
 equality, with the same instincts for good and 
 evil, with the same capacity for good and evil, 
 equally likely to turn out good or bad, should it 
 have been left entirely to chance that one might 
 live to prove a blessing, and the other a curse, 
 to society ? But so it was. 
 
 One of the most curious circumstances con- 
 nected with the little outcast was that she was 
 
 not known by any settled name. It grew to be 
 a fashion to call her by all sorts of names — now 
 Polly, now Sally, now Young Hussy, now Little 
 Slut, and by a dozen others, not one of which 
 remained to her for any length of time. But 
 when she was three years of age an event oc- 
 curred which played the part of godmothers and 
 godfathers to her, and which caused her to re- 
 ceive a title by which she was always afterward 
 known. 
 
 There was not a garden in Stoney Alley. Not 
 within the memory of living man had a flower 
 been known to bloom there. There were many 
 poor patches of ground, crowded as the neigh- 
 borhood was, which might have been devoted to 
 the cultivation of a few bright petals ; but they 
 were allowed to lie fallow, festering in the sun. 
 Thought of graceful form and color had never 
 found expression there. Strange, therefore, that 
 one year, when Summer was treading close upon 
 the heel of Spring, sending Avarm, sweet winds to 
 herald her coming, there should spring up, in 
 one of the dirtiest of all the back-yards in Stoney 
 Alley, two or three blades of grass. How they 
 came there was a mystery. No human hand 
 was accountable for their presence. It may be 
 that a bird, flying over the place, had mercifully 
 dropped a seed, or that a kind wind had borne 
 it to the spot. But however they came, there 
 they were, these blades of grass, peeping up from 
 the ground shyly and wonderingly, and giving 
 promise of bright color even in the midst of the 
 unwholesome surroundings. Our little castaway 
 — she was no better — now three years of age, 
 was sprawling in this dirty back-yard with a 
 few other children — all of them regular students 
 of Dirt College. Attracted by the little bit of 
 color, she crawled to the spot where it shone in 
 the light, and straightway fell to watching it, and 
 inhaling, quite unconsciously, whatever of grace 
 it possessed. Once or twice she touched the 
 tender blades, and seemed to be pleased to find 
 them soft and pliant. The other children, de- 
 lighted at having the monopoly of a gutter that 
 ran through the yard, did not disturb her ; and 
 so she remained during the day, watching and 
 wondering, and fell asleep by the side of the 
 blades of grass, and dreamed, perhaps, of bright- 
 er colors and more graceful forms than had ever 
 yet found place in her young imagination. The 
 next day she made iier way again to the spot, 
 and seeing that the blades had grown a little, 
 wondered and wondered, and unconsciously ex- 
 ercised that innate sense of worship of the beau- 
 tiful which is implanted in every nature, and 
 which causes the merest babes to rejoice at light 
 and shapes of beauty and harmony of sound. 
 
BLADE. 0'. GRASS. 
 
 17 
 
 What is more wonderful in the eyes of a babe 
 than vivid color or light, however kindled? 
 what more sweet to its senses than that perfect 
 harmony of sound which falls upon its ears as 
 the mother sings softly, and lulls her darling to 
 sleep ? This latter blessing had never fallen to 
 the lot of our child ; but color and light were given 
 to her, and she was grateful for them. She grew 
 to love these emerald leaves, and watched them 
 day after day, until the women round about ob- 
 served and commented upon her strange infatu- 
 ation. But one evening, when the leaves were 
 at their brightest and strongest, a man, running 
 hastily through the yard, crushed the blades of 
 grass beneath his heel, and tore them from the 
 earth. The grief of the child was intense. She 
 cast a passionate yet bewildered look at the man, 
 and picking up the toni, soiled blades, put them 
 in the breast of her ragged frock, in the belief 
 that warmth would bring them back to life. She 
 went to bed with the mangled leaves in her hot 
 hand; and when she looked at them the next 
 morning, they bore no resemblance to the bright 
 leaves which had been such a delight to her. She 
 went to the spot where they had grown, and cried 
 without knowing why ; and the man who had de- 
 stroyed the leaves happening to pass at the time, 
 she struck at him with her little fists. He push- 
 ed her aside rather roughly with his foot ; and 
 Mrs, Manning, seeing this, and having also seen 
 the destruction of the leaves, and the child's wor- 
 sliip of them, blew him up for his unkindness. 
 He merely laughed, and said he wouldn't have 
 done it if he had looked where he was going, and 
 that it was a good job for the child that she 
 wasn't a blade o' grass herself, or she might 
 have been trodden down with the others. The 
 stoiy got about the alley, and one and another, 
 at first in fun or derision, began to call the child 
 Little Blade-o'-Grass, until, in course of time, it 
 came to be recognized as her regular name, and 
 she was known by it all over the neighborhood. 
 So, being thus strangely christened. Little Blade- 
 o'-Grass grew in years and in ignorance, and be- 
 came a worthy member of Dirt College, in which 
 school she was matriculated for the battle of life. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE TIGEH. 
 
 At a very early age indeed was Blade-o'- 
 Grass compelled to begin the battle of life. Her 
 gi"eatest misfortune was that, as she grew in 
 years, she grew strong. Had she been a weakly 
 little thing, some one might have taken pity on 
 her, and assumed the responsibility of maintaining 
 her. The contingency was a remote one ; but all 
 B 
 
 by it was utterly destroyed 
 
 chance of benefitii 
 because she was str 
 said to have had semi 
 time that she attained 
 a corner for her to sleep in was always found in 
 the house in which she was born. But about 
 that time certain important changes took place, 
 which materially affected her, although she had 
 no hand in them. The landlady gave up the 
 house, and some one else took it, and turned it 
 into a shop. The lodgers all received notice to 
 leave, and went elsewhere to live. A great slice 
 of luck fell to the share of Mr. Manning. An 
 uncle whom he had never seen died in a distant 
 land, and left his money to his relatives; and a 
 shrewd lawyer made good pickings by hunting 
 up nephews and nieces of the deceased. Among 
 the rest he hunted up Mr. Manning, and one day 
 he handed his client a small sum of money. Mr. 
 Manning put his suddenly acquired wealth to a 
 good purpose — he got passage in a government 
 emigrant ship, and, with his wife and large fam- 
 ily, bade good-by forever to Stoney Alley. He 
 left the country — as hundreds and thousands of 
 others have done — with a bitter feeling in hL* 
 heart because he was not able to stop in it and 
 earn a decent livelihood ; but — as hundreds and 
 thousands of others have done— he lived this 
 feeling down, and in his new home, with better 
 prospects and better surroundings, talked of his 
 native land — meaning Stoney Alley — as the "old 
 countiy," in terms of affection, and as if he had 
 been treated well in it. It will be easily under- 
 stood that when Blade-o'-Grass lost Mrs. Man- 
 ning, she lost her best friend. 
 
 To say that she passed an easy life up to this 
 point of her career would be to state what is 
 false. The child was in continual disgrace, and 
 scarcely a day i)assed that was not watered with 
 l>er tears. Blows, smacks, and harsh words were 
 administered to her freely, until she grew accus- 
 tomed to them, and they lost their moral force. 
 She deserved them, for she was the very revei-se 
 of a good little girl. In a great measure her ne- 
 cessities made her what she was, and no coun- 
 teracting influence for good approached her. If 
 she were sent for beer, she would stop at corners, 
 and taste and sip, and bring home shortaneasure. 
 There was something fearful in her enjoyment ; 
 but she had no power nor desire to resist the 
 temptation. No tragedy queen, before the con- 
 summation of the final horror, ever looked round 
 with more watchful, wary, fearsome gaze than 
 did Blade-o'-Grass when, having nerved her soul 
 to take a sip of beer, she stopped at a convenient 
 comer, or in the shadow of a dark door-way, to 
 put her desire into execution. And then she 
 
18 
 
 BLADE- 0'- GRASS. 
 
 "having NESVED UEU soul to take a sip of BEEH, sue STOrPED AT A CONVENIENT COENEE." 
 
 was always breaking things. The mags she let 
 fall would have paved Stoney Alley. But there 
 was a greater temptation than beer : Bread. If 
 she were sent for a half-quartern loaf, she would 
 not fail to dig out -with liberal fingers the soft 
 portions between the crusts, and eagerly devour 
 them. Even if she had not been hungry — which 
 would have been a white-letter day in her exist- 
 ence — she would have done from habit what she 
 almost invariably was urged to do by the crav- 
 ings of her stomach. And about that unfor- 
 tunate stomach of hers, calumnies were circula- 
 ted and believed in. So persistent an eater was 
 Blade-o '-Grass, so conscientious a devourer of 
 any thing that, legitimately or otherwise, came 
 in her way — quality being not of the slightest 
 object — that a story got about that she had 
 *' something" in her inside, some living creature 
 
 of a ravenous nature, that waited for the food as 
 she swallowed it, and instantly devoured it for 
 its o\vn sustenance. Such things had been 
 known of. At some remote period a girl in the 
 neighborhood — whose personality was never 
 traced, but whom every body believed in — had 
 had such an animal — a few called it a "wolf," 
 but the majority insisted that it was a *' tiger" 
 — growing inside of her, and this animal, so the 
 story went, grew and grew, and fed upon the 
 girl's life till it killed her. The "tiger" had 
 been found alive after the girl's death, and, bar- 
 ing been purchased by some one for a fabulous 
 price, was embalmed in a bottle in a great mu- 
 seum, of which nobody knew the name or the 
 whereabouts. As an allegory, this "tiger" might 
 have served to illustrate the mouraful story of 
 the lives of Blade-o'-Grass and thousands of 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 her comrades — it might have ser>'ed, indeed, to I mythical story was 
 pomt a bitter moral ; but there was nothing al- | applied to the case 
 legorical about the inhabitants of Stoney Alley. 
 They only dealt in hard matter-of-fact, and the 
 
 great terror to her. 
 
 in tormenting the helpless child about lier " ti- 
 ger," and for a long time the slightest allusion 
 to it was sufficient to cause her the most exqui- 
 site anguish, in consequence of certain male>olent 
 declarations that she ought to be cut open and 
 have the tiger taken out of her. Indeed, one 
 miserable old fellow, who kept a rag shop, and 
 who had in his window two or three dust-coated 
 bottles containing commonplace reptiles pre- 
 served in spirits of wine, took a malicious pleas- 
 ure in declaring that the operation ought to bo 
 really performed upon Blade-o'-Grass, and that, 
 in the interests of science, she ought not to bo 
 allowed to live. It was the crudest of sport thus 
 to torture the poor child; for the simple fact 
 was that Blade-o'-Grass was nearly always hun- 
 gry. It was nature tugging at her stomach- 
 not a tiger. 
 
 The veiy firet night of ^Mrs. Manning's de- 
 parture, Blade-o'-Grass found herself without a 
 bed. With a weary, wretched sense of desola- 
 tion upon her, she lingered about the old spot 
 where she used to sleep, and even ventured to 
 enter at the back of the house, when the sharp 
 " Come, get out o*^ this !" of the new proprietor 
 sent her flying away. She belonged to nobody, 
 and nobody cared for her ; so she wandered and 
 lingered about until all the lights in the shops 
 and houses were out. She had gleaned some 
 small pleasure in watching these lights ; she liad 
 found comfort in them ; and when they were all 
 extinguished and she was in darkness, she trem- 
 bled under the impulse of a vaguo terror. She 
 
 AT TUE FOOT OF TJU8 LAMP'rOST BLADB-O -(iS.UBS IMOHSD UP. 
 
20 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 did not cry ; it was not often now that she call- 
 ed upon the well of tender feelings where tears 
 lay; but she was terrified. There was not a 
 star in the sky to comfort her. She was in deep 
 darkness, body and soul. How many others are 
 there at this present moment in the same terrible 
 condition ? 
 
 Too full of fear to stand upright, she crept 
 along the ground slowly, feeling her way by the 
 walls, stopping every now and then to gather 
 fresh courage, at which time she tried to shut 
 out her fears by cowering close to the flag-stones 
 and hiding her face in her ragged frock. She 
 had a purpose in view. She had thought of a 
 refuge where she would find some relief from the 
 terrible shadows. Toward that refuge she was 
 creeping now. It was a long, long time before 
 she reached her haven — a crazy old lamp-post, 
 the dim light of which was in keeping with the 
 general poverty of its surroundings. At the foot 
 of this lamp-post, clasping it as if it were the 
 symbol of a sacred refuge, Blade-o'-Grass look- 
 ed up at the light in an agony of speechless 
 gratitude, and then, wearied almost to a state 
 of unconsciousness, coiled herself up into a ball, 
 like a hedgehog, and soon was fust asleep. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 
 What followed ? Remorseless Time pursued 
 his way, and the minutes, light to some, heavy 
 to some, leaving in their track a train of woe 
 and joy and grief and happiness ; the leaden 
 minutes, the golden minutes, flew by until day- 
 light came and woke the sleeping child. Un- 
 washed — but that was her chronic condition, 
 and did not affect her — forlorn, uncared-for, 
 331ade-o'-Grass looked round upon her world, 
 and rubbed her eyes, and yawned ; then, after a 
 time, rose to her feet, and cast quick, eager 
 glances about her. The tiger in her stomach 
 was awake and stirring, and Blade-o'-Grass had 
 no food to give it to satisfy its cravings. She 
 prowled up and down, and round and about the 
 dirty courts, in search of something to eat ; any 
 thing would have more than contented her — 
 mouldy crust, refuse food; but the stones of 
 Stoney Alley and its fellows were merciless, and 
 no manna fell from heaveq to bless the famished 
 child. She would have puzzled the wisest phi- 
 losopher in social problems if he were not utterly 
 blinded by theory ; for, looking at her from every 
 aspect, and taking into account not only that she 
 was endowed with mental, moral, and physical 
 faculties, but that she was a human being with 
 a soul "to be saved," he could have produced 
 
 but one result from her — a yearning for food. 
 He could have struck no other kind of fire from 
 out of this piece of flint. What resemblance 
 did Blade-o'-Grass bear to that poetical image 
 which declared her to be noble in reason, infinite 
 in faculty, express and admirable in form and 
 bearing — like an angel in action, like a god in ap- 
 prehension ? The beauty of the world, the par- 
 agon of animals ! Perhaps it will be best for us 
 not to examine too curiously, for there is shame 
 in the picture of this child-girl prowling about 
 for food. Poor Blade-o'-Grass ! with every min- 
 ute the tiger in her stomach grew more rabid, 
 and tore at her vitals tigeiishly. In the after- 
 noon she found a rotten apple in the gutter, and 
 she stooped and picked it up, joy glistening in 
 her eyes. It was a large apple, fortunately, and 
 she devoured it eagerly, and afterward chewed 
 the stalk. That was all the food she got that 
 day ; and when night came, and she had watched 
 the lights out, she coiled herself up into a ball 
 by the side of her lamp-post again and slept, 
 and awoke in the morning sick with craving. 
 Yesterday's experience whispered to her not to 
 look about for food in Stoney Alley ; and she 
 walked with painful steps into the wider thor- 
 oughfare, and stopped for a few minutes to re- 
 cover herself from her astonishment at the vast 
 world in which she found herself. She would 
 have been content to stop there all the day, but 
 that the tiger cried for food, and she cried for 
 food in sympathy with the tiger. Keeping her 
 eyes fixed upon the ground, and never once rais- 
 ing her pitiful face to the faces that flashed past 
 her hither and thither, she faltered onward for a 
 hundred yards or so, and then, in a frightened 
 manner, retraced her steps so that she should 
 not lose herself. "Give rae food I" cried the 
 tiger, and " Give me food!" cried Blade-o'-Grass, 
 from the innermost depths of her soul. At about 
 ten o'clock in the morning her cry was answered ; 
 she saw a cats'-meat man with a basketful of 
 skewered meat hanging upon his arm. Instinct- 
 ively she followed him, and watched the cats 
 running to the doors at the sound of his voice, 
 and waiting with arched backs and dilating eyes 
 for his approach. Blade-o'-Grass wished with 
 all her heart and soul that she were a cat, so that 
 she might receive her portion upon a skewer"; 
 but no such happiness was hers. She followed 
 the man wistfully and hungeringly, until he 
 stopped at the door of a house where there were 
 evidently arrears of account to be settled. He 
 placed his basket upon the door-step, and went 
 into the passage to give some change to the 
 woman, of the house. Here was an opportuni- 
 ty for Blade-o'-Grass. She crept stealthily and 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 21 
 
 fearfully toward the basket, and, snatching up 
 two portions of cats'-meat, ran for her life, with 
 her stolen food hidden in her tattered frock — ran 
 until she reached Stoney Alley, where she sank 
 to the ground with her heart leaping at her 
 throat, and where, after recovering her breath, 
 she devoured her ill-gotten meat with unbounded 
 satisfaction. She had no idea that she had done 
 a wrong thing. She was hungry, and had sim- 
 ply taken food when the opportunity presented 
 itself. The fear by which she had been impress- 
 ed had not sprung from any moral sense, but 
 partly from the thought that the man would 
 hurt her if he caught her taking his property, 
 and partly from the thought (more agonizing 
 than the other) that she might be prevented 
 from carrying out her design. The next day 
 she watched for and followed the cats'-meat man 
 again, and again was successful in obtaining a 
 meal, and so on for a day or two afterward. 
 But the food was not ovemice, and the tiger 
 whispered to her that a change would be agree- 
 able. Success made her bold, and she looked 
 about her for other prey. Her first venture, 
 after the cats'-meat man lost her patronage, was 
 an old woman who kept an apple stall, and who 
 went to sleep as regularly as clock-work every 
 afternoon at three o'clock, and ^voke at five. But 
 even in her sleep this old apple-woman seemed 
 to be wary, and now and then would mumble 
 out, with drowsy energy, "Ah, would yer? I 
 sees yer !" as if the knowledge that she was sur- 
 rounded by suspicious characters whose mouths 
 watered for her fruit had eaten into her soul. 
 But as these exclamations to terrify poachers 
 were mumbled out when the old woman really 
 was in an unconscious state, she fell an easy 
 victim to Blade-o'-Grass. She was a great treas- 
 ure to the little girl, for she dealt in nuts and 
 oranges as well as apples. Then there was a 
 woman who sold a kind of cake designated 
 "jumbles" — a wonderful luxury, price four a 
 penny. She also fell a victim, and between one 
 and another Blade-o'-Grass managed to pick up 
 a precarious living, and in a few months became 
 as nimble and expert a little thief as the sharp- 
 est policeman would wish to make an example 
 of. She was found out, of course, sometimes, 
 and was cuffed and beaten ; but she was never 
 given in charge. The persons from whom she 
 stole seemed to be aware of the hapless condi- 
 tion of the child, and had mercy upon her ; in- 
 deed, many of them had at one time or another 
 of their lives kno>vn what it was to suffer the 
 pangs of hunger. 
 
 Incredible as it may sound, Blade-o'-Grass 
 still had one friend left. His name was Tom 
 
 j Beadle. He was some five years older than 
 I Blade-o'-Grass, but looked so delicate and sick- 
 ly, and was of such small proportions, that they 
 might have been taken for pretty nearly the same 
 age. DeUcate and sickly as he looked, he was 
 as sharp as a weasel. He had a mother and a 
 father, who, when they were not in prison, lived 
 in Stoney Alley; but they, being a drunken 
 and dissolute pair, did not trouble themselves 
 about their son. So he had to shift for him- 
 self, and in course of time became cunningest of 
 the cunning. Between him and Blade-o'-Grass 
 there had grown a closer intimacy than she had 
 contracted with any other of her associates, and 
 whenever they met they stopped to have a chat. 
 Blade-o'-Grass had a genuine affection for him, 
 for he had often given her a copper, and quite as 
 often had shared his meal with her. 
 
 A few months after the change for the worse 
 in the prospects of Blade-o'-Grass, Tom Beadle, 
 lounging about in an idle humor, saw her sitting 
 on the curb-stone, with her eyes fixed ujjon the 
 old apple-woman, who had begun to nod. Tliere 
 was something m the gaze of Blade-o'-Grass 
 that attracted Tom Beadle's attention, and he 
 set himself to watch. Presently the girl shifted 
 a little nearer to the fruit stall — a little nearer — 
 nearer, until she was quite close. Her hand 
 stole slowly toward the fruit, and a pear was 
 taken, then another. Tom Beadle laughed ; but 
 looked serious immediately afterward, for Bbde- 
 o'-Grass was running away as fast as her legs 
 could carry her. Assunng himself that there 
 was no cause for alarm, Tom Beadle ran after 
 her, and placed his hand heavily on her shoul- 
 der. She had heard the step behind her, and 
 her heart almost leaped out of her throat ; but 
 when she felt the hand upon her shoulder, she 
 threw away the stolen fniit, and fell to the ground 
 in an agony of fear. 
 
 "Git up, you little fool," exclaimed Tom 
 Beadle. " What are you frightened at ?" Be- 
 fore he said this, however, he picked up the 
 pears and put them in his pocket. 
 
 "Oh, Tom!" cried Blade-o'-Grass, the famil- 
 iar tones falling upon her cars like sweetest mu- 
 sic ; "I thought it was somebody after me." 
 
 Then Tom told her that he ran after her to 
 stop her running, and instructed her that it was 
 the very worst of policy, after she had "prigged" 
 any thing, to run away when nobody was looking. 
 And this was the first practical lesson in morals 
 that Blade-o'-Grass had received. 
 
 " But, I say, Bladergrass," observed Tom, " I 
 didn't know as you'd taken to prig. " 
 
 " I can't help it, Tom. The tiger's always at 
 me." 
 
22 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 Tom implicitly believed in the tiger stoiy. 
 
 "Well, that's all right," said Tom; "only 
 take care — and don't you run away agin when 
 nobody's a-lookin'." 
 
 Months passed, and Blade-o'-Grass lived lit- 
 erally from hand to mouth. But times grew 
 Very dull ; her hunting-ground was nearly work- 
 ed out, and she was more often hungry than 
 not. One day she hadn't been able to pick up 
 a morsel of food, and had had insuiSicient for 
 many previous days. The day before she had 
 had but one scanty meal, so that it is not diffi- 
 cult to imagine her miserable condition. Her 
 guardian angel, Tom Beadle, discovered her 
 crouching against a wall, with fear and despair 
 in her face and eyes. He knew well enougli 
 Avhat w^as the matter, but he asked her, for 
 form's sake, and she returned liim the usual 
 answer, while the large tears rolled down her 
 cheeks into her mouth. 
 
 It so happened that Tom Beadle had been out 
 of luck that day. He hadn't a copper in his 
 pocket. He felt about for one, nevertheless, 
 and finding none, whistled— curiously enough, 
 the "Rogue's March" — more in perplexity than 
 from surprise. 
 
 "Ain't yer had any think to eat, Blader- 
 grass ?" 
 
 "Not a blessed bite," was the answer. 
 
 It was about five o'clock in the evening , there 
 were at least a couple of hours to sunset. An 
 inspiration fell upon Tom Beadle, and his coun- 
 tenance brightened. 
 
 " Come along o' me," he said. 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass placed her hand unhesitatingly 
 in his, and they walked toward the wealthier 
 part of the City, until they came to a large 
 space suiTounded by great stone buildings. In 
 the centre of the space was a statue. Blade-o'- 
 Grass had never been so far from her native 
 place as this. The crowds of people hurrying 
 hither and thither, as if a moment's hesitation 
 would produce a fatal result, the apparently 
 intei*minable strings of carts and cabs and wag- 
 ons and omnibuses issuing from half a dozen 
 thoroughfares, and so filling the roads with mov- 
 ing lines and curves and angles that it seemed 
 to be nothing less than miraculous how a gen- 
 eral and disastrous crash was avoided, utterly 
 bewildered little Blade-o'-Grass, and caused her 
 for a moment to be oblivious of the cravings of 
 tiie tiger in her stomach. 
 
 "Now, look 'ere, Bladergrass," whispered 
 Tom Beadle; "you keep tight 'old of my 'and ; 
 if any body arks yer, I'm yer brother a-dyin' of 
 consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, I am." 
 
 Forthwith he called into his face such an ex- 
 
 pression of utter, helpless woe and misery, that 
 Blade-o'-Grass cried out in terror, 
 
 "Oh, what's up, Tom? Oh, don't, Tom, 
 don't!" really believing that her companion had 
 been suddenly stricken. 
 
 " Don't be stoopid !" remonstrated Tom, smil- 
 ing at her to reassure her, and then resuming 
 his woe-begone expression ; ' ' I'm only a-sham- 
 min'." 
 
 With that he sank upon the bottom of a grand 
 flight of stone steps, dragging Blade-o'-Grass 
 down beside him. There they remained, silent, 
 for a few moniients, and perhaps one in a hun- 
 dred of the eager, bustling throng turned to give 
 the strange pair a second glance; but before 
 sympathy had time to assume practical expres- 
 sion, a policeman came up to them and bade 
 them move on. Tom rose to his feet, wearily 
 and painfully, and slowly moved away ; a snail 
 in its last minutes of life could scarcely have 
 moved more slowly, if it had moved at all. He 
 took good care to keep tight hold of the hand of 
 Blade-o'-Grass, lest she should be pushed from 
 him and be lost in the crowd. A notable con- 
 trast were these two outcasts — she, notwith- 
 standing her fright and the pangs of hunger by 
 which she was tormented, strong-limbed and 
 sturdy for her age ; and he, drooping, tottering, 
 with a death- look upon his face, as if every mo- 
 ment would be his last. You would have sup- 
 posed that his mind was a blank to all but de- 
 spair, and that he was praying for death ; but 
 the cunning and hypocrisy of Tom Beadle were 
 not to be measured by an ordinary standard. 
 He was as wide awake as a weasel, and although 
 his eyes were to the ground, he saw every thing 
 that surged around him, and was as ready to 
 take advantage of an opportunity as the sliai*pest 
 rascal in London. As he and his companion 
 made their way through the busy throng, they 
 attracted the attention of two men — both of 
 them elderly men, of some sixty years of ago ; 
 one, well dressed, with a bright eye and a be- 
 nevolent face; the other, poorly but not shab- 
 bily dressed, and with a face out of which every 
 drop of the milk of human kindness seemed to 
 have been squeezed when he was a young man. 
 When he looked at you, it appeared as if you 
 were undergoing the scrutiny of two men ; for 
 one of his eyes had a dreadfully fixed and glassy 
 stare in it, and the other might have been on 
 fire, it was so fiercely watchful. 
 
 Now, overpowered as Tom Beadle might have 
 been supposed to be in his own special ills and 
 cares, he saw both these men, as he saw every 
 thing else about him, and a sly gleam of recog- 
 nition passed from his eyes to the fiice of the 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 odd-looking and poorly dressed stranger} it 
 met with no response, however. The next mo- 
 ment Tom raised his white, imploring face to 
 that of the better-dressed man, whose tender 
 heart was stirred by pity at the mute appeal. 
 He put his hand in his pocket, but seemed to 
 be restrained fiom giving ; some impulse with- 
 in him whispered, "Don't!" while his heart 
 prompted him to give. But the struggle was 
 not df long duration. The words, " Indiscrimi- 
 nate charity again," fell from his lips, and look- 
 ing round cautiously, as if he were .about to 
 commit a felony, he hastily approached close to 
 the two children, and, with an air of guilt, 
 slipped a shilling in Tom Beadle's hand. After 
 which desperate deed he turned to fly from the 
 spot, when he saw something in the face of the 
 odd-looking man (who had been watching the 
 comedy with curious interest) which made him 
 first doubtful, then angry. Although they were 
 strangers, he was impelled to speak, and his 
 kind nature made him speak in a polite tone. 
 
 "Dreadful sight. Sir, dreadful sight," he said, 
 pointing to the creeping forms of Tom Beadle 
 and Blade-o'-Grass. "A penny can't be thrown 
 away there, eh ?" 
 
 The odd-looking man shrugged his shoulders. 
 The shrug conveyed to the benevolent stranger 
 this meaning: "You are an imbecile; you are 
 an old fool ; you are not fit to be trusted alone." 
 It was the most expressive of shrugs. 
 
 " I suppose you mean to say I've been imposed 
 upon ! " exclaimed the benevolent stranger, hotly. 
 
 The odd-looking man chuckled enjoyably, and 
 perked up his head at the questioner in curiosity, 
 as a magpie with its eye in a blaze might have 
 done. But he said nothing. His silence exas 
 perated the benevolent alms-giver, who exclaim 
 ed, "You've no humanity, Sir — no humanity;" 
 and turned on his heel. But turned round again 
 immediately and said, " I've no right to say that, 
 Sir — no right, and I beg your pardon. But d'ye 
 mean to tell me that that lad is an impostor, 
 Sir ? If you do, I deny it, Sir ; I deny it ! D'ye 
 mean to say that I've been taken in, and that 
 those two children are not — not hungry. Sir?" 
 
 Some words seemed to be rising to the odd- 
 looking man's lips, but he restrained the utter- 
 ance of them, and closed his lips with a snap. 
 He touched his shabby cap with an air of amuse- 
 ment, and turned away, chuckling quietly ; and 
 the next minute the two men were struggling in 
 diflerent directions with the human tide that 
 spread itself over all the city. 
 
 In the mean time, Tom Beadle, keeping up the 
 fiction of "dyin' by inches," crept slowly away. 
 He had not seen the coin which had been slipped 
 
 into his hand, but he knew well enough by the 
 feel that it was a shilling. "A regular slice o' 
 luck," he muttered to himself, beneath his breath. 
 When they had crept on some fifty yards, he 
 quickened his steps, and Blade-o'-Grass tried to 
 keep up with him. But all at once her hands 
 grew quite cold, and a strong trembling took 
 possession of her. 
 
 "Come along, Bladergrass," urged Tom, in 
 his anxiety to get safely away ; ' ' 'ow you creep ! " 
 
 The child made another effort, but, a3 if by 
 magic, the streets and the roar in them vanished 
 from her sight and hearing, and she would have 
 fallen to the ground but for Tom's arm thrown 
 promptly round her poor fainting form. 
 
 Near to them was a quiet court — so still and 
 peaceful that it -might have hidden in a country 
 place where Nature was queen — and Tom Bea- 
 dle, who knew every inch of the ground, bore lier 
 thither. His heart grew cold as he gazed upon 
 her white face. 
 
 "I wish I may die," he muttered to himself, 
 in a troubled voice, "if she don't look as if she 
 was dead. Bladergrass ! Bladergrass ! " he called. 
 
 She did not answer him. Not a soul was near 
 them. Had it not been that he liked the child, 
 and that, little villain as he was, he had some 
 humanity in him — for her at least— he would 
 have run away. He stood quiet for a few mo- 
 ments, debating within himself what he had best 
 do. He knelt over her, and put his lips to hers, 
 and >yhispered, coaxingly," Come along, Blader- 
 grass. Don't be a little fool. Open your eyes, 
 and call Tom." 
 
 The warmth of his face and lips restored her 
 to consciousness. She munnured, "Don't — 
 don't ! Let me be !" 
 
 " What's the matter, Bladergrass ?" he whis- 
 pered. " It's me — ^Tom ! Don't you know me ?" 
 
 "Oh, let me be, Tom I" implored Blade-o'- 
 Grass. "Let me be! The tiger's a-eatin' the 
 inside out o' me, and I'm a-dyin'." 
 
 She closed her eyes again, and the sense of 
 infinite peace that stole upon her, as she lay in 
 this quiet court, was like heaven to her, after the 
 wild roar of steps and sounds in which a little 
 while since she had been ingulfed. Had she 
 died at that moment, it would have been happier 
 for her ; but at whose door could her death have 
 been laid ? 
 
 Tom Beadle, whispering hurriedly and anx- 
 iously, and certainly quite superfluously, "Lay 
 still, Bladergrass! Ill be back in a minute,'- 
 ran off to buy food, and soon returned with it. 
 He had a little difficulty in rousing her, but when 
 she began to taste the food, and, opening her eye«, 
 saw the store which Tom had brought, she tore 
 
24 
 
 BLADE -O- GRASS. 
 
 "he laughed and danced, to the admiration of blade-o'-grass.* 
 
 at it almost deliriously, crying out of thankful- 
 ness as she ate. Tom was sufficiently rewarded 
 by seeing the color return to her cheeks ; before 
 long Blade-o'-Grass was herself again, and was 
 laughing with Tom. 
 
 " But I thought you was a-dyin', Bladergrass, " 
 said Tom, somewhat solemnly, in the midst of 
 the merriment. 
 
 "No, it was you that was a-dyin', Tom!" 
 exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, clapping her hands. 
 *' A-dyin' by inches, you know!" 
 
 Gratified vanity gleamed in Tom Beadle's eyes, 
 
 and when Blade-o'-Grass added, "But, oh, Tom, 
 how you frightened me at first !" his triumph was 
 complete, and he enjoyed an artist's sweetest 
 pleasure. Then he gloated over the imposition 
 he had practiced upon the benevolent stranger, 
 and cried in glee, 
 
 " Wasn't he green, Bladergrass ? He thought 
 I was dyin' by inches, as well as you. Oh, oh, 
 oh !"and laughed and danced, to the admiration 
 of Blade-o'-Grass, without feeling a particle of 
 gratitude for the benevolent instinct which had 
 saved his companion from starvation. 
 
BLADE. 0'- GRASS. 
 
 25 
 
 After this fashion did Blade-o'-Grass learn 
 Jife's lessons, and learn to fight its battles. De- 
 prived of wholesome teaching and wholesome 
 example , believing, from very necessity, that 
 bad was good ; without any knowledge of God 
 and Ilis infinite goodness, she, almost a baby- 
 child, went out into the world, in obedience to 
 the law of nature, in search of food. A slice of 
 bread-and-butter was more to her than all the 
 virtues, the exercise of which, as we are taught, 
 bestows the light of eternal happiness. And yet, 
 if earaest men are to be believed, and if there 
 be truth in newspaper columns, the vast ma- 
 chinery around her was quick with sympathy for 
 her, as one of a class whom it is man's duty to 
 lift from the dust. Such struggles for the amel- 
 ioration (fine word!) of the human race were 
 being made by earnest natures that it was 
 among the most awful mysteries of the time 
 how Blade-o'-Grass was allowed to grow up in 
 the ignorance which deprives crime of responsi- 
 bility, how she was forced to be dead to the 
 knowledge of virtue , how she was compelled to 
 earn the condemnation of men, and to make sor- 
 rowful the heart of the Supreme ! 
 
 MR. MERRYWHISTLE RELIEVES HIMSELF OX THE 
 SUBJECT OF INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY. 
 
 The name of the man who gave Tom Beadle 
 the shilling Avas Merrywhistle. He was a bach- 
 elor, and he lived in the eastern part of the City, 
 in Buttercup Square, next door to his best 
 friends, the Silvers. Although Buttercup Square 
 was in the east of the City, where the greatest 
 poverty is to be found, and where people crowd 
 upon each other unhealthfully, it was as pretty 
 and comfortable a square as could be found any 
 where, and you might live in any house in it 
 and foncy yourself in the country, when you 
 looked out of window. The trees in the square 
 were full of birds' nests, and the singing of the 
 birds of a summer morning was very sweet to 
 the ear. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle had no trade or profession. 
 When the last census was taken, and the paper 
 was given to him to fill in, he set himself down 
 as " Nothing Particular j" and this eccentric def- 
 inition of himself coming under the eyes of his 
 landlady — who, like every other landlady, was 
 mighty curious about the age, religion, and oc- 
 cupation of her lodgers, and whether they were 
 single, widowed, or divorced men — was retailed 
 by her to her friends. As a necessary conse- 
 quence, her friends retailed the information to ' goodness 
 
 their friends ; and for some littJe time afterward 
 
 they used to a 
 other, jocoscl}-. 
 
 of the landlady and of each 
 Uow Nothipg Particular was 
 getting along, and .whether he had lately done /' 
 Any thing Particul^^ ^^i4 ^ on. But i\M 
 mildest of jokes soonxmftiMaaty.-aRd' never 
 reached Mr. Merry whistle's ears. He had an 
 income more than sufficient for his personal 
 wants i but at the year's end not a shilling re- 
 mained of his year's income. A pale face, a 
 look of distress, a poor woman with a baby in 
 anns, a person looking hungrily in a cook-shop 
 window — any one of these sights was sufficient 
 to melt his benevolent heart, and to draw copper 
 or silver from his pocket. It was said of him 
 that his hands were always in his pockets — a 
 saying which was the occasion of a piece of siir- 
 casm, which grew into a kind of proverb. A 
 lady resident of Buttercup Square, whose hus- 
 band was of the parsimonious breed, when speak- 
 ing of Mr. Merrywhistle's benevolence, said, with 
 a sigh, "My husband is just like Mr. Merr}-- 
 whistlci his hands are always in his pockets." 
 "Yes, ma'am," said an ill-natured friend, "but 
 there the similarity ends. Your husband's hands 
 never come out.'" Which produced a life-long 
 breach between the parties. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle was in a very disturbed 
 mood this evening. He was haunted by the 
 face of the old man who had been amused be- 
 cause he had given a poor child a shilling. The 
 thought of this old man proved the most obsti- 
 nate of tenants to Mr. Merrywhistle; having 
 got into his mind, it refused to be dislodged. 
 He had never seen this man before, and here, 
 in the most unaccountable manner, was he being 
 haunted and distressed by a face which presented 
 itself to his imagination with a mocking expres- 
 sion upon it, because he had been guilty of a 
 charitable act. " I should like to meet him 
 again," said Mr. Merrywhistle to himself, " I'd 
 talk to him !" Which mild determination, hot- 
 ly expressed, was intended to convey an exceed- 
 ingly severe meaning. As he could not dislodge 
 the thought of the man from his mind, Mr. 
 Merr}-whistle resolved to go to his friends next 
 door, the Silvers, and take tea with them. He 
 went in, and found them, as he expected, just 
 sitting down to tea. Only two of them, hus- 
 band and wife. 
 
 " I am glad you have come in," said Mrs. Sil- 
 ver to him. Her voice might surely have sug- 
 gested her name, it was so mild and gentle. But 
 every thing about her was the same. Her dress, 
 her quiet manner, her delicate face, her hands, 
 her eyes, where purity dwelt, breathed peace and 
 She and her sisters (and there are 
 
26 
 
 BLADE -O'-GB ASS. 
 
 many, thank God !) are the human pearls of the 
 world which is so often called " erring." 
 
 "How are the youngsters?" asked Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle, stirring his tea. 
 
 *'A11 well," answered Mr. Silver; "you'll 
 stay and see th«m ?" 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and proceeded with 
 his tea. The meal being nearly over, Mrs. Silver 
 said, "Now, friend, tell us your trouble." 
 
 "You see it in my face ?" responded Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle. 
 
 "Yes ; I saw it when you entered." 
 
 " You have the gift of divination." 
 
 " Say, the gift of sympathy for those I love." 
 
 Mr. Merry whistle held out his hand, and she 
 grasped it cordially. Then he told them of the 
 occmi'ence that took place on the Royal Ex- 
 change, and of the singular manner in which he 
 was haunted by the mocking face of the old man 
 who had watched him. 
 
 "You have an instinct, perhaps," said Mrs. 
 Silver, " that he was one of the men who might 
 have preached, at you, if he had had the oppor- 
 tunity, against indiscriminate charity ?" 
 
 "No, I don't know, I don't know, I really 
 don't know," replied Mr. Merry whistle, excited- 
 ly. "I think he rather enjoyed it ; he seemed to 
 look upon it as an amusing exhibition, for he Avas 
 almost convulsed by laughter. Laughter! It 
 wasn't laughter. It was a series of demoniac 
 chuckles, that's what it was — demoniac chuckles. 
 But I can't exactly describe what it was that set 
 my blood boiling. It wasn't his demoniac chuck- 
 ling alone ; it was every thiijg about him — his 
 manner, his expression, his extraordinary eyes, 
 one of which looked like the eye of an infuriated 
 bull, as if it were half inclined to fly out of its 
 head at you, and the other as if it were the right- 
 ful property of tlie meekest and mildest of baa- 
 lambs. Then his eyebrows — lapping over as if 
 they Were precipices, and as thick as blacking- 
 brushes. Then his face, like a little sour and 
 withered apple. Your pro-indiscriminate-char- 
 ity men would not have behaved as he did. They 
 would have asked me. How dare I— how dare I ? 
 — yes, that is what they would have said— how 
 dare I encourage pauperism by giving money to 
 little boys and girls and ragged men and women, 
 whom I had never seen in my life before, whom 
 I had never heard of in my life before ? This 
 fellow wasn't one of them. No, no, no ; I 
 say he wasn't one of them. I wouldn't swear 
 til at he wasn't drunk— no, I won't say that ; 
 tipsy, perhaps — no, not that either. Unchari- 
 table of me— very. Don't laugh at me. You 
 wouldn't have laughed at the poor little boy if 
 you had seen him." 
 
 " I am sure we should not." 
 
 " That's like me again," cried the impetuous 
 old bachelor, remorsefully; "throwing in the 
 teeth of my best friends an accusation of inhu- 
 manity — yes, inhumanity — positive inhumanity. 
 Forgive me ; I am truly soriy. But that indis- 
 criminate-charity question cropped up again to- 
 day, and that, as Avell as this affair, has set my 
 nerves in a jingle. A gentleman called upon me 
 this morning, and asked me for a subscription 
 toward the funds of an institution — a worthy in- 
 stitution, as I believe. I hadn't much to spare 
 — I am so selfishly extravagant that my purse is 
 always low — and I gave him half a sovereign. 
 He took it, and looked at it and at me reproach- 
 fully. *I was given to understand,' he said, in 
 the meekest of voices — so meek, indeed, that I 
 could not possibly take offense — ' I was given to 
 understand that from Mr. Meriywhistle, and in 
 aid of such an institution as ours, I should have 
 received a much larger contribution.' " 
 
 "That savored of impertinence," observed Mr. 
 Silver. 
 
 "I dare say. Silver; I dare say; Another 
 man might have thought so ; but I couldn't pos- 
 sibly be angry with him, his manner was so 
 humble — reproachfully humble. I explained to 
 him that at present I couldn't afford more, and 
 that, somehow or other, my money melted away 
 most sui-prisingly. *I hope, Sir,' he then said, 
 ' that what I was told of you is not true, and 
 that you are not in the habit of giving away 
 money indiscriminately.' I could not deny it — 
 no, indeed, I could not deny it; and I com- 
 menced to say, hesitatingly (feeling very guilty), 
 that now and then — But he inteiTupted me 
 with, * Now and then. Sir ! now and then ! You 
 will pardon my saying so, Mr. Meriywhistle, but 
 it may not have struck you before that those 
 persons who give away money indiscriminately 
 are making criminals for us, are filling our pris- 
 ons, are blowing a cold blast on manly self-en- 
 deavor, are crippling industry, are paying pre- 
 miums to idleness, which is the offspring of the 
 — hem I' And continued in this strain for more 
 than five minutes. When he went away my 
 hair stood on end, and I felt as if sentence ought 
 to be pronounced upon me at once. And here, 
 this very afternoon, am I caught again by a piti- 
 ful face — you should have seen it ! I thought 
 the poor boy would have died as I looked at him, 
 and I gave away a shilling indiscriminately. 
 Then comes this strange old fellow staring at 
 me, sneering at me, shrugging his shoulders at 
 me, and walking away with the unmistakable 
 declaration, though he didn't declare it in words, 
 that I wasn't fit to be trusted. As perhaps I'm 
 
BLADE -O- GRASS. 
 
 27 
 
 not — as perhaps I'm not." And Mr. Merry- 
 whistle blew his nose violently. 
 
 His friends knew him too well to interrupt 
 him. The tea-things had been quietly cleared 
 away while he was relieving his feelings. He 
 had by this time got rid of a great portion of 
 his excitement, and now, in his cooler mood, 
 he looked round and smiled. At that moment 
 a lad of about fifteen years of age entered the 
 room. All their countenances brightened, as also 
 did his, as he entered. 
 
 "Well, Charley," said Mr. Merrywhistle, as 
 the lad, with frank face, stood before him, 
 "been knocking any thing into 'pi' to-day?" 
 
 "No, Sir," replied Charley; "I'm past that 
 now, I'm getting along handsomely, the over- 
 seer said." 
 
 " That's right, my boy ; that's right. You'll 
 be overseer yourself some day." 
 
 Charley blushed; his ambition had not yet 
 reached that height of desire, and it seemed al- 
 most presumption to him to look so far ahead. 
 The overseer in the printing-office where Charley 
 was apprenticed was a great man in Charley's 
 eyes ; his word was law to fifty men and boys. 
 The lad turned to Mr. Silver, and said, in a 
 pleased tone, 
 
 "A new apprentice came in to-day, and swept 
 out the office instead of me." 
 
 " So you are no longer knight of the broom ?" 
 
 " No, Sir, and I'm not soriy for it ; and 
 there's something else. Dick Trueman, you 
 know. Sir — " 
 
 "You told us, Charley; he was out of his 
 time last week, and they gave him a frame as a 
 regular journeyman." 
 
 "Yes, Sir ; and he earned thirty-four shillings 
 last week — full wages. And what do you think 
 he did to-day, Sir?" And Charley's bright eyes 
 sparkled more brightly. These small items of 
 office news were of vast importance to Charley 
 — almost as important as veritable history. ' ' But 
 you couldn't guess," he continued, in an eager 
 tone. "He asked for three hours' holiday — 
 from eleven till two — and he went out and 
 married!" 
 
 " Bless my scull" exclaimed Mr. Merrywhi|(lU 
 " he can't be much more than twenty-one 
 of age." 
 
 "Only a few weeks more, Sir. But he's a 
 man now. Well, he came back at two o'clock, 
 in a new suit of clothes, and a flower in his coat. 
 All the men knew, directly they saw him, that 
 he had asked for the thi-ee hours' holiday to get 
 married in. And they set up such a clattering — 
 rattling on their cases with their sticks, and on 
 the stone with the mallets and planers — that you 
 
 couldn't hear your own voice for five minutes, 
 for every one of us likes Dick Trueman. You 
 should have seen Dick blush when he heard the 
 salute ! He tried to make them believe that he 
 didn't know what all the clattering was about ; 
 but they kept it up so long that he was obliged 
 to come to the stone and bob his head at us. It 
 makes me laugh only to think of it. And then 
 the overseer shook hands with him, and Dick 
 sent for three cans of beer, and all the men drank 
 his health and good luck to him." Charley 
 paused to take breath. The simple story, as he 
 told it in his eager way, was a pleasant story to 
 hear. Now came the most important part of it. 
 Charley's eyes grew larger as he said, with much 
 importance, "I saw her." 
 
 "Wlio?" they asked. 
 
 "Dick's wife. She was waiting at the comer 
 of the street for him — and oh, she's Beautiful!" 
 
 "Quite a day of excitement, Charley," said 
 Mr. Silver. 
 
 "There's something more. Sir." 
 
 "What is it, Charley?" 
 
 "Our wayz-goose comes off next week, Sir." 
 
 "Yes, Charley." 
 
 " Only two of the apprentices are asked, and 
 I'm one of them," said Charley, with a ring of 
 pardonable pride in his voice. "May I go ?" 
 
 "Certainly, my boy," said Mr. Silver; and 
 Mrs. Silver smiled approvingly, and told Charley 
 to run and wash himself and have tea ; and Char- 
 ley gave them all a bright look, and went out of 
 the room as happy a boy as any in all London. 
 
 Then said Mr. Merrywhistle, 
 
 " Charley's a good lad." 
 
 " He's our first and eldest," said Mrs. Silver, 
 bringing forward a basket filled with socks and 
 stockings wanting repair : " he will be a bright 
 man," 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and they talked of 
 various subjects until the sound of children's 
 happy voices interrupted them. " Here are our 
 youngsters," he said, rubbing his hands joyous- 
 jir-;-'aiid as hespoh^a troop of children came 
 into the room. 
 
 ^ ]|^.f i^l^KSK HOME. 
 
 -Theke were^fiixfi-orthera, as follows : 
 The eldest, Charles, the printer's apprentice, 
 fifteen years of age, with a good honest face and 
 a bright manner : the picture of a happy boy. 
 
 Then Marj-, fourteen years. She looked older 
 than Charley, and, young as she was, seemed 
 to have assumed a kind of matronship over the 
 younger branches. That the position was a 
 
28 
 
 BLADE- 0'- GRASS. 
 
 Pv 
 
 pleasing one to her and all of them was evident 
 by the trustful looks that passed between them. 
 
 Then Richard, twelve years, with dancing 
 eyes, open mouth, and quick, impetuous, spark- 
 ling manner: filled with electricity; never still 
 for a moment together ; hands, eyes, and every 
 limb imbued with restlessness. 
 
 Then Rachel, eleven years ; with pale face 
 and eyes— so strangely watchful of every sound 
 that it might almost have been supposed she 
 listened with them. She was blind, and, unless 
 her attentiqp were aroused, stood like a statue 
 waiting for the spark of life. / 
 
 Lastly, Ruth : a full-faced, round-eyed child, 
 the prettiest of the group: slightly willful, but 
 of a most affectionate disposition. 
 
 Rachel inclined her head. 
 
 "There's some one here," she said. 
 
 "Who, my dear?" asked Mrs. Silver, holding 
 up a warning finger to Mr. Merrywhistle, so that 
 he should not speak. 
 
 Rachel heard his light breathing. 
 
 "Mr. Meiry whistle," she said, and went near 
 to him. He kissed her, and she went back to 
 her station by the side of Ruth. 
 
 hey were a pleasant bunch of human flowers 
 to gaze at, and so Mr. and Mrs. Silver and Mr. 
 Merrywhistle thought, for their eyes glistened at 
 the healthful sight. Ruth and Rachel stood hand 
 in hand, and it was easily to be seen that they 
 were necessary to each other. But pleasant as 
 the children were to the sight, a stranger would 
 have been struck with amazement at their un- 
 likeness to one another. Brothers and sisters 
 they surely could not be, although their presence 
 there and their bearing to each other betokened 
 no less close a relationship. They were not, in- 
 deed, related by blood, neither to one another, nor 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Silver. They were Mrs. Silver's 
 foundlings — children of her love, whom she had 
 taken, one by one, to rear as her own, whom she 
 had snatched from the lap of Destitution. 
 
 Her marriage was one of purest affection, but 
 she was ban-en ; and after a time, no children 
 coming, she felt a want in her home. Her hus- 
 band was secretary in a sound assurance office, 
 and they possessed means to rear a family. Be- 
 fore their maniage, they had both dwelt in thought 
 upon the delight and pure pleasure in store for 
 them, and after their marriage she saw baby faces 
 in her dreams. She mused : " My husband's son 
 will be a good man, like his father, and we shall 
 train him well, and he will be a pride to us." 
 And he : " In my baby daughter I shall see my 
 wife from her infimcy, and I shall watch her 
 grow to girlhood, to pure womanhood, and shall 
 take delight in her, for that she is ours, the off- 
 
 spring of our love." But these were dreams. 
 No children came; and his wife still dreamed 
 of her shadow-baby, and yearned to clasp it to 
 her bosom. Years went on — they had married 
 when they were young — and her yearning was 
 unsatisfied. Pain entered into her life; a dull 
 envy tormented her, when she thought of homes 
 made happy by children's prattle, and her tears 
 flowed easily at the sight of children. Her hus- 
 band, engrossed all the day in the duties and 
 anxieties of his business, had less time to brood 
 over the deprivation, although he mourned it in 
 his leisure hours ; but she, being always at home, 
 and having no stern labor to divert her thoughts 
 from the sad channel in which they seemed quite 
 naturally to run, mourned with so intense a grief, 
 that it took possession of her soul, and threat- 
 ened to make her life utterly unhappy. One 
 day he awoke to this, and quietly watched her, 
 saw the wistful looks she cast about her, unaware 
 that she was being observed ; felt tears flowing 
 from her eyes at night. He questioned her, and 
 learned that her giief and disappointment were 
 eating into her heart ; that, strive as she would, 
 her life was unhappy in its loneliness while he 
 was away, and that the sweetest light of home 
 was wanting. 
 
 " I see baby faces in my dreams," she said to 
 him one night, " and hear baby voices — so sweet, 
 oh, so sweet!" She pressed him in her arais, 
 and laid his head upon her breast. "And when 
 I wake, I grieve." 
 
 " Dear love," he said, all the tenderness of his 
 nature going out in his words, " God wills it so." 
 
 " I know, I know, my love," she answered, her 
 tears still flowing. 
 
 "How can I fill up the void in her life?" he 
 thought, and gave expression to his thought. 
 
 Then she reproached herself, and asked his for- 
 giveness, and cried, in remorse, " How could she, 
 how could she grieve him with her sorrow ?" 
 
 "I have a right to it," he answered. "It is 
 not all yours, my dear. Promise me, you in 
 whom all my life's cares and joys are bound, never 
 to conceal another of your griefs from me." 
 
 She promised, and was somewhat comforted. 
 This was within a couple of months of Christmas. 
 A few nights before Christmas, as he was walk- 
 ing home, having been detained later than usual 
 at his office, he came upon a throng of people 
 talking eagerly with one another, and crowd- 
 ing round something that was hidden from his 
 sight. It was bitterly cold, and the snow lay 
 deep. He knew that nothing of less import 
 than a human cause could have drawn that con- 
 course together, and could have kept them bound 
 together on such a night, and while the snow was 
 
BliADE-O- GRASS. 
 
 29 
 
 falling heavily. He pushed his way through the 
 crowd to the front, and saw a policeman gazing 
 stupidly upon two forms lying on the ground. 
 One was a man — dead ; the other a baby — alive in 
 the dead man's arms. He had them — the liv- 
 ing and the dead— conveyed to the station-house ; 
 inquiries were set afoot ; an inquest was held. 
 Nothing was learned of the man ; no one knew 
 any thing of him ; no one remembered having 
 ever seen him before ; and the mystery of his life 
 was sealed by his death. He told his wife the 
 sad story, and kept her informed of the progress, 
 or rather the non-progress, of the inquiry. The 
 man was buried, and was forgotten by all but the 
 Silvers. Only one person attended the parish 
 funeral as mourner, and that was Mr. Silver, who 
 was urged to the act by a feeling of humanity. 
 
 *' The poor baby I" said Mrs. Silver, when he 
 came from the funeral — " what will become of 
 it?" 
 
 In the middle of the night she told her hus- 
 band that she had dreamed of the baby. "It 
 stretched out its little arms to me." 
 
 Her husband made no reply ; but a few nights 
 afterward, having arranged with the parish au- 
 thorities, he brought home the child, and placed 
 it in his wife's arms. Her heart warmed to it 
 immediately. A new delight took possession 
 of her ; the maternal instinct, though not fully 
 satisfied, was brought into play. During the 
 evening she said, " How many helpless orphans 
 are there round about us, and we are childless ! " 
 And then again, looking up tenderly from the 
 babe in her lap to her husband's face, "Perhaps 
 this is the reason why God has given us no chil- 
 dren." 
 
 From this incident sprang the idea of helping 
 the helpless ; and year after year an orphan child 
 was adopted, until they had six, when their 
 means were lessened, and they found they could 
 take no more. Then Mr. Merrywhistle stepped 
 in, and gave sufficient to lift another babe from 
 Desolation's lap. Tliis last was twin sister to 
 Blade -o'- Grass, and they named her Ruth. 
 From this brief record we pass to the present 
 evening, when all the ciiildren are assembled in 
 Mrs. Silver's house in Buttercup Square. 
 
 Some little time is spent in merry chat — much 
 questioning of the children by Mr. Merrywhistle, 
 who is a great favorite with them, and to whom 
 such moments as these are the sweetest in his 
 life. Charley tells over again the stirring inci- 
 dents of the day, and they nod their heads, and 
 laugh, and clap their hands, and cluster round 
 him. Charley is their king. 
 
 "Come, children, sit down," presently says 
 Mr. Silver. ' 
 
 They sit round the table, Charley at the head, 
 next to Mrs. Silver ; tlien come Ruth and Ra- 
 chel, with hands clasped beneath the table-cloth ; 
 then Mary and Richard. Mr. Silver produces a 
 book ; they hold their breaths. The blind girl 
 knows that the book is on the table, and her fin- 
 gers tighten upon Ruth's, and all her ears are in 
 her eyes. It is a study to watch the vai-ying 
 shades of expression upon her face. As Mr. 
 Silver opens the book you might hear a pin drop. 
 Ruth nestles closer to Rachel, and Charley rises 
 in his excitement. Mr. Merrywhistle sits in the 
 arm-chair, and, as he looks round upon the hap- 
 py group, is as happy as the happiest among 
 them. It is the custom every evening (unless 
 pressing duties intervene) to read a chapter of a 
 good work of fiction, and the reading-hour is 
 looked forward to with eager delight by all the 
 children. Last week they finished the "Vicar 
 of Wakefield," and this week they are introduced 
 to the tender romance of "Paul and Virginia." 
 The selection of proper books is a grave task, and 
 is always left to Mrs. Silver, who sometimes her- 
 self reads aloud. 
 
 "Where did we leave off last night, children ?" 
 asks Mr. Silver. 
 
 " Where Madame De la Tour receives a letter 
 from her aunt," answered Maiy. 
 
 "Yes, from her spiteful old aunt," adds Rich- 
 ard, "and where Paul stamps his feet and wants 
 to know who it is that has made Virginia's moth- 
 er unhappy." 
 
 A "Hush-sh-sh!" runs round the table; and 
 Mr. Silver commences the beautiful chapter where 
 Virginia gives food to the poor slave woman, and 
 induces her master to pardon her. With what 
 eagerness do the children listen to how Paul and 
 Virginia are lost in the woods! They gather 
 cresses with the young lovers, and they help 
 Paul set fire to the palm-tree, and they see the 
 Three Peaks in the distance. Then they come 
 to the fiimous part where Paul and Virginia stand 
 by the banks of a river, tlie waters of which roll 
 foaming over a bed of rocks. " The noise of the 
 water frightened Virginia, and she durst not wade 
 through the stream ; Paul therefore took her up 
 in his arms, and went thus loaded over the slip- 
 pery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, 
 careless of the tumultuous noise of its watere." 
 [Thinks Richard, "Oh, how I wish that I wei-e 
 Paul, caiTying Virginia over the river ! "J " ' Do 
 not be afraid,' cried Paul to Virginia; 'I feel 
 very strong with you. If the inhabitant of the 
 Black River had refused you the pardon of his 
 slave, I would have fought with him.' " ["And 
 so would I," thinks Richard, clenchmg his fists.] 
 Night comes, and the lovers ai*e almost despair- 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 "they 6IT ROtJND TUB TABLE, CUAKLEY AT TUB UEAD, 
 
 ing. Profound silence reigns in the awful soli- 
 tudes. Will they escape? Can they escape? 
 Paul climbs to the top of a tree, and cries, 
 *' Come, come to the help of Virginia!" But 
 only the echoes answer him, and the faint sound 
 of "Virginia, Virginia!" wanders through the 
 forest. Despairing, they try to comfort each oth- 
 er, and seek for solace in prayer. Hark ! they 
 hear the barking of a dog. " Surely," says Vir- 
 ginia, "it is Fidcle, our own dog. Yes, I know 
 his voice. Are we, then, so. near home? At 
 the foot of our own mountain ?" So they are 
 rescued, and this night's reading ends happily. 
 The delight of the children, the intense interest 
 with which they hang upon every word, can not 
 be described. Their attention is so thoroughly 
 engrossed, that the figures of the young lovers 
 miglit be living and moving before them. When 
 Mr. Silver shuts the book, a sigh comes from the 
 
 youthful audience. A pause ensues, and then 
 the children talk unreservedly about the story, 
 and what the end will be — all but Ruth, who is 
 too young yet to form opinions. It is of course 
 this and of course that with them all, and not 
 one of them guesses the truth, or has any idea of 
 the tragic ending of the story. 
 
 "Charley," says little Ruth, "you are like 
 Paul." 
 
 They all clapped their hands in acquiescence. 
 
 " But Where's my Virginia?" asks Charley. 
 
 "/'/^ be Virginia," cries Ruth, somewhat pre- 
 cociously ; " and you can carry me about where 
 you like." 
 
 They all laugh at this, and Ruth is quite proud, 
 believing that she has distinguished herself. It 
 is strange to hear the blind girl say, ' ' I can see 
 Paul with Virginia in his arras." And no doubt 
 she can, better than the others who are blessed 
 
with sight. The three grown-up persons listen 
 and talk among themselves, and now and then 
 join in the conversation. The clock strikes — 
 nine. It is a cuckoo-clock, and the children list- 
 en to the measured "Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!" until 
 the soulless hird, having, with an egregious ex- 
 cess of vanity, asserted itself nine times as the 
 great " I am" of all the birds in town or country, 
 retires into its nest, and sleeps for an hour. Then 
 a chapter from the Bible and prayers, and in the 
 prayers a few words to the memory of two — a 
 brother and a sister — who have gone from among 
 them. For last year they were seven ; now they 
 are five. Their foces grow sad as the memory of 
 their dear brother and sister comes upon them in 
 their prayers, and "Poor Archie!" "Poor Liz- 
 zie !" hang upon their lips. The night's pleasures 
 and duties being ended, the three youngest chil- 
 dren go to bed, the last kind nod and smile being 
 given to Ruth, sister to poor Blade-o'-Grass, who 
 lingers a moment behind the others, and, with 
 her arm round Rachel's neck, cries "Cuck-oo! 
 Cuck-oo ! " as her final good-night. But the proud 
 bird in the clock takes no notice, and preserves a 
 disdainful silence, although Ruth, as her custom 
 is, waits a moment or two, and listens for the re- 
 ply that does not come. Charley and Mary stop 
 up an hour later than the others, reading ; but 
 before that hour expires, Mr. Merrywhistle bids 
 his friends good-night, and retires. 
 
 BLADE-O'-GRASS. 
 
 for the twenti( 
 ing. 
 
 ■tPF 
 
 31 
 
 ia ft vowe t>f weak plead- 
 
 MR. MERRYWHISTLE MEETS THE QUEER LITTLE 
 OLD 5L\N. 
 
 But not to his bed. He was restlass, and, the 
 night being a fine one, he strolled out of Butter- 
 cup Square into the quiet streets. It was a fa- 
 vorite custom of his to walk along the streets of 
 a night with no companions but his thoughts. 
 Almost invariably he chose the quiet streets, for 
 there are streets in London — north and south, 
 and east and west — which never sleep; streets 
 which are healthy with trafiic in the day, and 
 diseased with traffic in the night. 
 
 Mr. MeiTywhistle walked along and mused, in 
 no unhappy frame of mind. A visit to the Silvers 
 always soothed and comforted him ; and on this 
 occasion the sweet face of Mrs. Silver, and the 
 happy faces and voices of the children, rested 
 upon him like a peaceful cloud. So engrossed 
 was he, that he did not heed the pattering of a 
 small urchin at his side, and it was many mo- 
 ments before he awoke from his walking dream, 
 and became conscious of the importunate in- 
 truder. 
 
 *'If you please, Sir I" eaid the small urchin, 
 
 Mr. MerrywK^de^logiked down, and saw a fape 
 that he fancied he lS(^en feefore. But the fliem- 
 ory of the happy groupin buttercup Square still 
 lingered upon him. What he really saw as ho 
 looked down was a little boy without a cap, large- 
 eyed, white-faced, and barefooted. No other than 
 Tom Beadle, in fact, making hay, or trying to make 
 it, not while the sun, but while the moon shone. 
 
 " If you please. Sir!" repeated the boy, " will 
 you give me a copper to buy a bit o' bread ?" 
 
 Then the dawn of faint suspicion loomed upon 
 Mr. Merrywhistle. He placed his hand lightly 
 upon Tom Beadle's shoulder, and said, in a trou- 
 bled voice, "My boy, haven't I seen you before 
 to-day?" 
 
 " No, Sir," boldly answered Tom Beadle, hav- 
 ing no suspicion of the truth ; for when the shil- 
 ling was slipped into his hand, his eyes were to- 
 ward the ground, and he did not see Mr. Merry- 
 whistle's face. 
 
 "Were you not on the Royal Exchange with 
 a little girl, and didn't I give you a — a shil- 
 ling?" 
 
 For a moment Tom Beadle winced, and he 
 had it in his mind to twist his shoulder from 
 Mr. MeiTywhistle's grasp and run away. For a 
 moment only : natural cunning and his inclina- 
 tion kept him where he was. To tell the honest 
 truth, a He was a sweet morsel to Tom Beadle, 
 and he absolutely gloried in " taking people in." 
 So, on this occasioii, he sent one sharp glance at 
 Mr. Merrywhistle — which, rapid as it was, had 
 all the effect of a sun-picture upon him — and 
 whined piteously, " Me 'ave a shillin' guv to me ! 
 Never 'ad sich a bit o' luck in all my bom days. 
 It was some other boy, Sir, some cove who didn't 
 want it. They alius gits the luck of it. And 
 as for a little gal and the Royal Igschange, I 
 wish I may die if I've been near the place for a 
 week!" 
 
 "And you are hungrj-?" questioned Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle, fighting with his doubts. 
 
 " 'Aven't 'ad a ounce o' bread in my mouth 
 this blessed day;" and two large tears gathered 
 in Tom Beadle's eyes. He took care that Mr. 
 Merrywhistle should see them. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle sighed, and with a feeling 
 of positive pain gave twopence to Tom Beadle, 
 who slipped his shoulder from Mr. Merrywhistle's 
 hand with the facility of an eel, and scudded 
 away in an exultant frame of mind. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle walked a few steps, hesita- 
 ted, and then turned in the direction that Tom 
 Beadle had taken. 
 
 "Now, I wonder," he thought, "whether the 
 
32 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 collector was right this morning, and whether I 
 have been assisting in making criminals to-day ?" 
 Truly this proved to be a night of coincidences 
 to Mr. Meny whistle ; for he had not walked a 
 mile before he came upon the queer little old man 
 whom lie had met on the Royal Exchange. The 
 old fellow was leaning against a lamp-post, smok- 
 ing a pipe, and seemed to be as much at home in 
 tlie wide street as he would have been in his own 
 parlor. He looked surly and ill-grained, and his 
 eyebrows were veiy precipitous. His mild eye 
 was toward Mr. Merrywhistle as that gentleman 
 approached him ; and when Mr. Merrywhistle 
 slowly passed him, his fierce eye came in view 
 and liglited upon the stroller. Before he had 
 left the old man three yards behind him, Mr. 
 Meriywhistle fancied he heard a chuckle. He 
 would have dearly liked to turn back and accost 
 the old man, but a feeling of awkwardness was 
 upon him, and he could not muster suflScient 
 courage. Chance, however, brought about an 
 interview. Not far from him was a building that 
 might have been a palace, it was so grand and 
 light. It was a triumph of architecture, with its 
 beautiful pillars, and its elaborate stone-work. 
 Great windows, higher than a man's height, gilt- 
 framed, and blazing with a light that threw 
 every thing around them in the shade, tempted 
 the passer-by to stop and admire. There were 
 three pictures in the windows, and these pictures 
 were so cunningly surrounded by jets of light, 
 that they could not fail to attract the eye. Awful 
 satires were these pictures. Two of them rep- 
 resented the figure of a man under different as- 
 pects. On the left, this man was represented 
 with a miserably attenuated face, every line in 
 which expressed woe and destitution ; his clothes 
 were so ragged that his flesh peeped through ; 
 his cheeks were thin, his lips were drawn in, his 
 eyes were sunken; his lean hands seemed to 
 tremble beneath a weight of misery : at the foot 
 of this picture was an inscription, to the effect 
 that it was the portrait of a man who did not 
 drink So-and-so's gin and So-and-so's stout, both 
 of which life's elixirs were to be obtained within. 
 On the right, this same man was represented with 
 fuU-fleshed face, with jovial eyes, with handsome 
 mouth and teeth, with plump cheeks, with fat 
 hands — his clothes and every thing about him 
 betokening worldly prosperity and happiness : at 
 the foot of this picture was an inscription, to the 
 effect that it was the portrait of the same man 
 who (having, it is to be presumed, seen the en-or 
 of his ways) did drink So-and-so's gin and So- 
 and-so's stout. A glance inside this palace, 
 crowded with misery, would have been sufficient 
 to show what a bitter satire these j>ictures were. 
 
 But the centre picture, in addition to being a bit- 
 ter satire, was awfully suggestive. It was this : 
 
 Whether to the artist or to the manufacturer was 
 due the credit of ingeniously parading "Old 
 Tom" in a coffin, can not (through the ignorance 
 of the writer) here be recorded. But there it 
 shone — an ominous advertisement. As Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle halted for a rhoment before these pic- 
 tures, there issued from the Laboratory of Crime 
 and Disease a man and a woman — he, blotched 
 and bloated ; she, worn-eyed and weary — both of 
 them in rags. The woman, clinging to his ann, 
 was begging him to come home — for his sake ; 
 for hers; for the children's; for God's! With 
 his disengaged hand he struck at her, and she 
 fell to the ground, bleeding. She rose, however, 
 and wiped her face with her apron, and implored 
 him again and again to come home — and again 
 he struck at her : this time with cruel effect, for 
 she lay in the dust helpless for a while. A crowd 
 gathered quickly, and a hubbub ensued. In the 
 midst of the Babel of voices, Mr. Meriywhistle, 
 looking down, saw the strange old man standing 
 Jby his side. The same surly, sneering expression 
 was on the old man's countenance, and Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle felt half inclined to quarrel with him for 
 it. But before he had time to speak, the old man 
 took the pipe out of his mouth, and pointing the 
 stem in the direction of the chief actors in the 
 scene, said, "I knew them two when they was 
 youngsters." 
 
 " Indeed, "replied Mr. Merrywhistle, interested 
 immediately, and delighted at the opportunity of 
 opening up the conversation. 
 
 "She was a han'some gal; you'd scarce be- 
 lieve it, to look at her now. She 'ad eyes like 
 sloes ; though whetlier sloes is bird, beast, or fish, 
 I couldn't tell ye, but I've heard the sayin' a 'un- 
 dred times. Anyways, she 'ad bright black eyes, 
 and was a good gal too ; but she fell in love" — 
 (in a tone of intense scorn) — "with that feller, 
 and married him, the fool!" 
 
 " What has brought them to this ?" 
 
 "Gin!" said the old man, expelling the word 
 as if it were a bullet, and bringing his fierce 
 
BLADE. O'- GRASS. 
 
 33 
 
 eye to bear with all its force upon Mr. Merrj- 
 whistle. 
 
 Short as was the time occupied by this dia- 
 logue, it was long enough to put an end to the 
 scene before them. The woman was raised to 
 her feet by other women, many of whom urged 
 
 to talk of the event over So-and-so's gin and So- 
 and-so's stout. Not that there was any thing 
 new or novel in tlie occuiTence. It was but a 
 scene in a drama of real life that had been played 
 many hundred times in that locality. Presently 
 the street was quite clear, and Mr. Meirywhistle 
 
 her to " Give him in charge, the brute !" but she ' and the old man were standing side by side, alone. 
 
 shook her head, and staggered away in pain. 
 Very quickly after her disappearance the crowd 
 dissolved, by fur the greater part of it finding its 
 way through tlie swing-doors of the gin-palace, 
 C 
 
 A handy lamp-post ser>-ed as a resting-place for 
 the old man, who continued to smoke his pipe, 
 and to chuckle between whiles, as if he knew that 
 Mr. Merrywhistle wanted to get up a conversa- 
 
84 
 
 BLADE- O'- GRASS. 
 
 tion, and did not know how to commence. As 
 he saw that the old man was determined not to 
 assist him, and as every moment added to the 
 awkwardness of the situation, Mr. Merrywhistle 
 made a desperate phmge. 
 
 *'\Vhen I was on the Royal Exchange to- 
 day — " he commenced. 
 
 The old man took his pipe out of his mouth, 
 and expelled a cloud and a chuckle at the same 
 moment. 
 
 "I thought you was a-comin' to that," he said. 
 *' You owe me a bob." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I made a bet with you — to myself— that the 
 first thing you'd speak about was the Royal Ex- 
 change. #bet you a bob — to myself — and I 
 won it." 
 
 Without hesitation Mr. Merrywhistle took a 
 shilling from his pocket and offered it to the old 
 man, who eyed it with his fierce eye for a mo- 
 ment, doubtingly and with curiosity, and then 
 calmly took possession of it and put it in his 
 waistcoat pocket. 
 
 *'When you was on the Royal Exchange to- 
 day," he said, repeating Mr. Menywhistle's words, 
 "you sor a boy and a girl a-beggin'." 
 
 "No," exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, wannly; 
 " they were not begging." 
 
 " YoM may call it what you like," said the old 
 man ; "but / call it beggin' ; and so would that 
 identical boy, if I was to ask him. He wouldn't 
 tell you so, though. The boy he looked as if he 
 was goin' to die, and you give him a copper or a 
 bit of silver ; and you wasn't pleased because I 
 laughed at you for it. Now, then, fire away," 
 
 "Was that boy starving? Was he as ill as 
 he looked? Was' I—" 
 
 "Took in ?" added the old man, as Mr. Merry- 
 whistle hesitated to express the doubt. " Why? 
 D'ye want your money back? Lord! he's a 
 smart little chap, is Tom Beadle ! " 
 
 "You know him, then ?" 
 
 "Know him!" replied the old man, with a 
 contemptuous snort ; "I'd like to be told who it 
 is about 'ere I don't know. And I'd like to know 
 who you are. I'm almost as fond of askin' ques- 
 tions as I am of answerin' 'em. What's sauce 
 for the goose is sauce for the gander. If you 
 expect Jimmy Wirtue to answer your questions, 
 you must make up your mind to answer his'n." 
 
 " You're M-r. Virtue, then ?" 
 
 "You're at it agin. No, I'm not Mr, Virtue" 
 (he had to struggle with the " V" before it would 
 pass his lips), "but Jimmy Wirtue — and that's 
 not Jimmy W^ice. ^Vhat's your'n ?" 
 
 * ' Merrywhistle," replied that gentleman, shortly. 
 
 Jimmy Virtue was pleased at the quick answer. 
 
 "Merrywhistle!" he exclaimed. "That's a 
 rum 'name — rummer than mine. What more 
 would you like to know ? What am I ? I keep 
 a leavin'-shop. Where do I live? In Stoney 
 Alley. Now, what are you ? and where do you 
 live? Are you a Methody parson, or a penny-a- 
 liner, or a detective, or a cove that goes about 
 studyin' human nater, or a feelanthrofist ? We've 
 lots o' them knockin' about 'ere." 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle was constrained to reply, 
 but found himself unexpectedly in a quandary. 
 
 "I'm a — a — oh, I'm Nothing Particular," 
 blurting it out almost in desperation. 
 
 "You look like it," chuckled Jimmy Virtue, 
 so tickled by his smart retort as to be satisfied 
 with Mr. MeiTywhistle's vague definition of his 
 calling. "We've lots of your sort, too, knockin' 
 about 'ere — more than the feelanthrofists, I 
 shouldn't wonder. But I don't think there's any 
 'arm in you. Jimmy Wirtue's not a bad judge 
 of a face ; and he can tell you every one of your 
 organs. 'Ere's Benevolence — you've got that 
 large; 'ere's Ideality — not much o' that; 'ere's 
 Language — shut your eyes ; 'ere's Causality — no, 
 it ain't; you 'aven't got it, I can't see your 
 back bumps, nor the bumps atop o' your 'ead ; 
 but I could ferret out every one of 'em, if I 'ad 
 my fingers there." 
 
 At this moment an individual approached them 
 who would have- attracted the attention of the 
 most unobservant. Mr. Merrywhistle did not 
 see his fiice ; but the gait of the man was so sin- 
 gular, that his eyes wandered immediately in the 
 direction of the man. At every three steps the 
 singular figure paused, and puffed, as if he were 
 a steam-engine, and was blowing off steam. One 
 — two — three; pufF. One — two — three; pufi". 
 One — two — three ; puff. 
 
 " What on earth is the matter with the man ?" 
 exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle to Jimmy Virtue, 
 
 "Nothing that I knows of," replied Jimmy 
 Virtue; "he's been goin' on that way for the 
 last twenty year. If you're lookin' out for char- 
 acters, you'll get plenty of 'em 'ere. Perhaps 
 you're a artist for one of the rubbishy picter-pa- 
 pers — one of the fellers who sees a murder done 
 in a Whitechapel court one day, and takes a pic- 
 ter of it on the spot from nater ; and who sees a 
 shipwreck in the Atlantic the next day, and takes 
 a picter of that on the spot from nater. That 
 there man's worth his ten 'undred golden sover- 
 eigns a year, if he's worth a penny ; and he lives 
 on tuppence a day. The girls and boys about 
 here calls him Three-Steps-and-a-Puff. If you 
 was to go and offer him a ha'penny, he'd take 
 it." 
 
 By the time that Three-Steps-and-a-Puif was 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 85 
 
 out of sight, the tobacco in Jimmy Virtue's pipe 
 had turned to dust and smoke, and he prepared 
 to depart also. But seeing that Mr. Merrywhis- 
 tle was inclined for farther conversation, he said : 
 
 "Perhaps you'd like to come down and see 
 my place ?" 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle said that he tro«W very much 
 like to come down and see Jimmy Virtue's place. 
 
 "Come along, then," said Jimmy Virtue, but 
 paused, and said, "Stop a bit; perhaps you 
 wouldn't mind buyin' a penn'orth o' baked taters 
 first." 
 
 A baked-potato-can, with a man attached to 
 it, being near them, Mr. Merrywhistle invested a 
 penny, thinking that Jimmy Virtue intended the 
 potatoes for supper. 
 
 " Did you ever consider," said the eccentric 
 old man, as they turned down the narrowest of 
 lanes, " that a big city was like a theaytre ?" 
 
 " No, it never struck me." 
 
 "It is, though ; there's stalls, and dress-circle, 
 and pit, and gallery, in a big city like London. 
 The west, that's the stalls and private boxes ; the 
 north, that's the dress-circle ; the south, that's the 
 pit ; the east, that's the gallery. This is the pen- 
 ny gallery of the theaytre ; 'taint a nice place to 
 lay in." 
 
 He stopped before the forais of two children — 
 a boy and a girl — who, huddled in each other's 
 arms, were fast asleep in a gate- way. He stirred 
 them gently with his foot, and the boy started to 
 his feet instantaneously, wide awake, and on the 
 alert for his natural enemies, the police. Mr. 
 Merrywhistle was standing in the abutment of 
 the gate-way, and the boy couldn't see his face ; 
 but the well-known form of Jimmy Virtue was 
 instantly recognized ; and as the boy sank to the 
 ground, he muttered, 
 
 " What's the good of waking us up just as we 
 was a-gettin' warm ? You wouldn't like it your- 
 self, Mr. Wirtue, yoii wouldn't." 
 
 Then he crept closer to his companion, and 
 said, sleepily, 
 
 "Come along, Bladergrass, let's turn in agin." 
 
 The girl, who had been regarding the two dark 
 shadows with a half-frightened, half-imploring 
 look, as if she dreaded that they were about to 
 turn her out of her miserable shelter, nestled in 
 the lad's arms, and the next minute they were 
 asleep again. All blessings were not denied to 
 them. 
 
 " I know that lad," said Mr. Meriywhistle. 
 
 "You ought to; it's Tom Beadle." 
 
 "And he was at the Royal Exchange to-day 
 with that poor little girl ?" 
 
 "Yes, that was him. You thought he was 
 dyin'. What do you think now ?" 
 
 I Jimmy Virtue seemed to take positive pleas- 
 ure in putting the affair in the worst light. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle did not answer the question, 
 but said, in a sad tone, "He begged of me again 
 to-night." 
 
 " Did he, though !" exclaimed Jimmy Virtye, 
 admiringly. 
 
 "And when I asked him if any one had given 
 him a — a shilling on the Royal Exchange to-day, 
 he took an oath that he hadn't been near the Roy- 
 al Exchange for a month, and that he had never 
 had a shiUing given to him in all his life." 
 
 "And did you believe him, and give him any 
 thin'?" 
 
 " Yes" (hesitatingly), "I gave him a trifle." 
 
 Jimmy Virtue stopped by a post, ai.d held his 
 sides. When he had had his laugh out, h3 
 said : 
 
 * ' Tom's a smart little thief. But you're not the 
 first gent he's taken in twice in one day. Come, 
 now, he's taken you in twice with your eyes shut ; 
 let him take you in once more with your eyes 
 open." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 " Them baked taters— " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It wouldn't be a bad thing— like returain' 
 good for evil, as the preachers say — if you was to 
 go and put them taters in the little girl's lap." 
 
 " No — no — no I" exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, 
 a little violently, and pausing between each neg- 
 ative, " it 11 be paying a premium for dishonesty 
 and lies." 
 
 I The good fellow's heart was filled with pain 
 h he uttered these words, which, hotly spoken, 
 served as fuel to flame ; for Jimmy Virtue turned 
 upon him almost savagely, and snarled : 
 
 " You're a nice article, you are, a-givin' and 
 repentin' ! I've been took in by you, I 'ave. If 
 I 'ad my fingere on the back o' your 'ead, I'd find 
 something that would do away with your bumps 
 o' benevolence. Dishonesty and lies! What 
 d'you want, you and the likes ? The boy's got to 
 live, ain't he? The boy's got to eat, ain't he? 
 If he can't work and don't beg, what's he to do ? 
 Steal ? Yah ! D'you think he's got money in the ' 
 bank? D'you think, if he 'ad his pockets full, 
 he'd sleep in the open air, in a gate-way ?" 
 
 "Stop, stop, my good friend!" implored Mr. 
 MeriTwhistle, overcome by remorse at his hard- 
 heartedness. He ran quickly to where the chil- 
 dren were lying, and deposited the baked pota- 
 toes, and a few coppers as well, in the girl's lap 
 and hands. When he came back to where Jim- 
 my Virtue was standing, he found that worthy 
 only half mollified. 
 
 "A-givin' and repentin'," muttered the old 
 
BLADE. 0'- GRASS. 
 
 man, as he walked toward Stoney Alley, " that's 
 a nice kind o' charity!" Impelled by a sudden 
 thought, he turned back to the gate-way, and 
 kneehng by the side of Blade-o'-Grass, opened 
 her hot hand in which the pence were. 
 
 *' He's not a bad chap, after all," he murmur- 
 ed, as he retraced his steps, "but it's enough to 
 rile a feller and put a feller's back up, when a 
 man gives and repents." 
 
 JIMMY VIRTUE INTRODUCES MR. MERRTWIIIS- 
 TLE TO HIS PLACE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 The moment Mr. Men-ywhistle entered the 
 habitation of Jimmy Virtue he felt as if he were 
 mildewed, and an impression stole upon him that 
 he had been lying on a musty shelf for a dozen 
 years at least, and had not been washed during 
 the whole of the time. The place was dark when 
 they entered, and as Mr. Merrjrwhistle advanced 
 cautiously, he came in contact with soft bundles, 
 from which a mouldy smell proceeded, and which 
 so encompassed him on all sides that he was 
 frightened at every step he moved, lest he should 
 bring confusion on himself. When Jimmy Vir- 
 tue lighted two melancholy wicks — tallow twelves 
 — Mr. Merrywhistle looked about him in wonder. 
 It was the queerest and the dirtiest of shops, and 
 was filled with bundles of rags. Pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs, trowsers, coats, waistcoats, and under- 
 clothing of every description met his eye which- 
 ever way he turned ; faded dresses and dirty pet- 
 ticoats (many with mud still on them, as if they 
 had been taken off in the streets in bad weather) 
 so choked the shelves, that some of them were in 
 danger of bursting out ; old boots hung from the 
 ceiling; old crinolines loomed upon him from 
 the unlikeliest of places, and, as he looked timor- 
 ously up at them, yawned to ingulf him. One, 
 hanging behind the parlor door, in the gloomiest 
 comer, was so disposed that Mr. Merrywhistle's 
 disturbed fancy added the lines of a woman's 
 form hanging in it ; and the fancy grew so strong 
 upon him that, although he turned his back to 
 the spot immediately, he could not dismiss the 
 figure of the hanging woman from his imagina- 
 tion. There was an apartment behind the shop 
 which Jimmy Virtue called his parlor ; but that 
 was almost as full of rubbish as the shop. Nei- 
 ther in shop or parlor was there fairly room to 
 turn round in ; if you wanted to perform that 
 movement, you had to tack for it, 
 
 "And this is your dwelling?" observed Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, feeling it incumbent upon him to 
 speak, as Jimmy Virtue led the way into the par- 
 lor and motioned him to a seat. 
 
 " I don't call it by that name myself," replied 
 Jimmy Virtue, in a not over-polite tone, " It's 
 where I live and gets my livin', and I don't give 
 you more than a quarter of an hour." 
 
 By which Mr. Merrywhistle understood that 
 beyond a quarter of an hour it would not be po- 
 liteness for him to stay. 
 
 "Ever been in a leavin'-shop before?" asked 
 the old man. 
 
 "No,'* replied Mr. Men-ywhistle ; "not that 
 I am aware of. May I ask you what a leaving- 
 shop is ?" 
 
 "This is," said Jimmy. "All them things 
 you see in the shop and in the parlor — all them 
 crinolines and peddicuts, and boots and dresses — 
 belongs to poor people round about 'ere. I lend 
 'em a trifle on 'em, and takes care of 'em ; and 
 charges 'em a trifle when they take 'em out." 
 
 "They don't seem worth much," obseiTed 
 Mr. Menywhistle, reflectively. 
 
 " Perhaps not— to you. But they're worth a 
 deal to them they belongs to. There's a many 
 o' them crinolines and peddicuts that comes in 
 and out like a jack-in-a-box. Their movements 
 are as regular as clock-work. Monday afternoon 
 in, Sunday mornin' out." 
 
 Here, to Mr. Meny whistle's consternation, 
 Jimmy Virtue took out his mild eye — it being a 
 glass one — and with the laconic remark, "A 
 damp night makes it clammy," wiped it calmly, 
 and put it in again. The effect of this upon Mr. 
 Merrywhistle was appalling. To see that mild 
 eye — knowing that it was a glass one, and th:it 
 a damp night made it clammy— side by side 
 with that fierce eye, which, as he had described, 
 seemed inclined to fly out of its owner's head at 
 you, was almost too much for human endurance. 
 And as Mr. Merrywhistle looked at them — ^lie 
 could not help doing so, there was such a fiisci- 
 nation in them — both eyes seemed to glare at 
 him, and the glare of the glass was more dread- 
 ful and overpowering than the glare of the flesh. 
 Jimmy Virtue, whose one organ of sight was as 
 potent as if he were Argus-eyed, remarked Mr. 
 Meriywhistle's perturbation, and quietly enjoyed 
 it ; he did not refer to the subject, however, but 
 considerately treated Mr. Merrywhistle to as 
 much of his glass eye as he could conveniently 
 bestow upon him. 
 
 " Speakin' of crinolines and peddicuts," ob- 
 served Jimmy, recurring to his stock, "they're 
 not the only women's things that's left. We're 
 in the fashion down 'ere, I can tell you. In that 
 box that you're a-settin' on, there's a matter of 
 seven chinons, that I takes care of regularly a 
 week-days — real 'air three of 'em are; them as 
 belongs to 'em I do believe would sooner go with- 
 
BLADE. O'- GRASS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ont their stockin's a Sundays than without their 
 chinons. And now, jumpin' from one thing to 
 another, I should like to know whether you've 
 got over your repentin' fit, and whether you 
 think Tom Beadle ought to be put in quod for 
 takin' your shillin' to-day ?" 
 
 *' No ; I've no doubt he did it out of necessity. 
 But I wish he hadn't told me—" 
 
 "Lies. Don't stop at the word. Out of ne- 
 cessity! Ay, I should think he did, the clever 
 little thief! And necessity's the mother of in- 
 vention — consequently, necessity's the mother o' 
 lies. You want a friend o' mine to talk to you. 
 He'd argue with you ; but I fly into a passion, 
 and ain't got the patience that he's got. He'd 
 talk to you about Tom Beadle and little Blade- 
 o'-Grass, and put things in a way that 'ud stun 
 you to 'ear." 
 
 "Little what?" 
 
 " Blade-o'-Grass — the little girl that's sleepin' 
 with Tom Beadle in the gate-way." 
 
 "What a singular name! — has she a mother 
 and father?" 
 
 " No mother ; I can't say about father. I re- 
 member him before the young uns was born. He 
 lived in this alley, and used to come into the shop 
 and leave his wife's things, and talk about the 
 rights of man. The rights of man ! I tell you 
 what he thought of them : a little while before 
 his wife was brought to bed, he cut away and 
 left her. She was brought to bed with twins — 
 girls — and after that she died." 
 
 "Then Blade-o'-Grass has a sister?" 
 
 "Who said she 'as? I didn't. No, she ain't 
 got a sister. I don't know what came o' the 
 other; but that don't matter to Blade-o'-Grass. 
 Here she is, poor little devil, and that's enough 
 for her, and more than enough, I'll take my davy 
 on. Time's up." 
 
 This was an intimation that it was time for 
 Mr. Merrywhistle to take his departure. Wish- 
 ing to stand well in the eyes of Jimmy Virtue — 
 notwithstanding the dreadful effect the glass eye 
 had upon him — he rose, and said that he hoped 
 they would meet again ; to which Jimmy Virtue 
 said that he had no objection. 
 
 " What do you say, now," suggested Mr. Mer- 
 rj'whistle, " to you and your friend that you would 
 like to talk to me coming to take a cup of tea or 
 a bit of dinner with me ?" 
 
 "Which?" asked Jimmy Virtue. "Tea I 
 don't care for. " 
 
 "Dinner, then." 
 
 "A good dinner?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Wine?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Something very like a twinkle shone in the old 
 man's fierce eye. He rubbed his hand over his 
 chin, and said, 
 
 "It's worth considerin' on. — When?" 
 
 "Next Saturday; any time in the afternoon 
 you like to name." 
 
 " That 'ud suit my friend," said Jimmy Virtue, 
 evidently' impressed by the prospect of a good 
 dinner ; "he leaves off work a Saturdays at two 
 o'clock — " 
 
 " Then we'll consider it settled," said Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle, eagerly. 
 
 " — But I don't know that it 'ud suit we," con- 
 tinued Jimmy, the twinkle vanishing, and a cal- 
 culating look taking its place. "There's the 
 shop. I'd 'ave to shut it up — and then what 
 would the customers do? To be sure, I could 
 put up a notice sayin' that it 'ud be open at nine 
 o'clock. I keep open till twelve, Saturday night." 
 
 "Very well ; manage it that way." 
 
 "I think you told me that you was Nothink 
 Particular when I asked you what you was, and 
 bein' Nothink Particular, time's no account to 
 you. Now it is some account to me — it's mon- 
 ey." Here he turned his blind eye to Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle. "If you want me to shut up my shop 
 for six hours, say, you must make it up to me. 
 If you want Jimmy Wirtue's company, you must 
 pay for Jimmy Wirtue's time." 
 
 "That's fair enough," said Mr. Merrywhistle, 
 readily, scarcely hearing the suppressed chuckle 
 to which Jimmy Virtue gave vent at the answer. 
 " What do you value your time at ?" 
 
 " Sixpence an hour— three shillings for the six 
 hours. Then there's the disappointment to the 
 customers, and the injury to the business ; but 
 I'll throw them in." 
 
 Without a word, Mr. Merrywhistle took three 
 shillings from his pocket and placed them on the 
 table. Still keeping his blind side to Mr. Merr}-- 
 whistle, Jimmy Virtue tried the coins with his 
 teeth, and said, "Done !" 
 
 Whether he meant that he had "done" Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, or that the word referred to the 
 binding of the invitation to dinner, he did not 
 stop to explain, but asked, 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "At the 'Three Jolly Butcher Boys,' Cannon 
 Street, "replied Mr. Merrywhistle, not being con- 
 fident that the resources of his establishment in 
 Buttercup Square would be sufiicient to satisfy 
 his new and eccentric acquaintance. 
 
 "That's settled, then," said Jimmy, "and 111 
 bring my friend at four o'clock. And now, if 
 you don't mind takin' a bit of advice, take this — 
 never you go talkin' to strangers agin at such a 
 time o' night as this, and never you accept an- 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 other invitation to visit a man you don't know 
 nothin' of." 
 
 "But I knew I could trust you," said Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, smiling. 
 
 "Did you?" exclaimed Jimmy. "Then I 
 wouldn't give the snufF of a candle for your 
 judgment. I'll see you out of this, if you please. " 
 
 So saying, he led his visitor out of the shop. 
 Mr. Merrywhistle could not, for the life of him, 
 help casting a hurried glance over his shoulder 
 in the direction of the special crinoline which 
 had so distressed him ; and again the fancy came 
 upon him that he saw a woman hanging behind 
 the door. When he was in the open, however, 
 this fancy vanished, and he breathed more free- 
 ly. They stopped to look at the sleeping forms 
 of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass in the gate- 
 way. The children were fast locked in each 
 other's arms, and were sleeping soundly. 
 
 In the wider thoroughfare, Jimmy Virtue bade 
 Mr. Merrywhistle "good-night," and as he walk- 
 ed back to his shop in Stoney Alley, amused him- 
 self by polishing his glass eye with a dirty pock- 
 et-handkerchief, and chuckling over the remem- 
 brances of the night. 
 
 In the mean time Mr. Merrywhistle made his 
 way to Buttercup Square, not ill pleased with his 
 adventure. But in the night he was tontnented 
 by singular dreams, the most striking one of which 
 contained the horrible incident of Jimmy Virtue 
 glaring at him with his glass eye, and swallowing 
 at one gulp a huge baked potato, with Tom Bea- 
 dle and Blade-o'-Grass sticking in the middle 
 of it. 
 
 THE STRANGE IDEA OP HALLELUJAH ENTER- 
 TAINED BY BLADE-o'-GRASS. 
 
 Punctually at four o'clock on Saturday, Jim- 
 my Virtue, accompanied by his friend, presented 
 himself to Mr. Merrywhistle at the "Three Jolly 
 Butcher Boys." It might reasonably have been 
 expected that Jimmy would have made some 
 change for the better in his appearance, in honor 
 of the occasion ; but Mr. Merrywhistle fancied 
 that, out of defiance, Jimmy had allowed the 
 accumulated dust of days to lie thick upon his 
 clothes, and that he had purposely neglected to 
 brush them. Indeed, he almost asserted as much 
 by his manner : You saw what I was, and you 
 forced yourself upon me ; you invited me and my 
 friend to dinner, and you must take the conse- 
 quences. His only eye, as it blazed at Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistle from under its precipice of bushy hair, 
 seemed to be asking of that gentleman how he 
 liked its owner's appearance : and it softened 
 somewhat in the kindly glances from Mr. Mer- 
 
 ry^vhistle, Avhose countenance was beaming with 
 amiability and good-nature. 
 
 " This is my friend that I spoke of," said Jim- 
 my Virtue ; "his name is Truefit — Robert True- 
 fit. Truefit by name, and Truefit by nature. 
 This is Mr. Merrywhistle, who sometimes gives 
 and repents." 
 
 Robert Truefit came forward with a manly 
 bow, and, when Mr. Meriywhistle offered his 
 hand, shook it cordially. 
 
 "My friend, Mr. Virtue, here — " he said, and 
 was about to proceed, when the old man struck 
 in with, 
 
 "Now, I won't have it. Bob ; I won't have it. 
 None of your misters because we're before com- 
 pany. It's Jimmy Wirtue when we are alone, 
 and it's Jimmy Wirtue now ; and if you're a-go- 
 in' to say any thin' in apology for me, don't. I 
 don't want apologies made for me, and I won't 
 'ave 'em." 
 
 Robert Truefit laughed, and said, "We must 
 let old Jimmy have his way. Sir, so I won't say 
 what I was going to say." Robert Truefit was 
 about thirty years of age, and was a stone-mason 
 by trade. He had a shrewd, intelligent face, and 
 clear brown eyes, which, young as he was, al- 
 ready showed the signs of much thought. He 
 was as manly a fellow as you would wish to look 
 upon, and in his speech and manner there was a 
 straightforwardness which at once won for him 
 the good opinion of those with whom he came 
 in contact. So conspicuous was this straightfor- 
 wardness of speech and manner, that he was oft- 
 en called Straightfonvard Bob by his comrades 
 and those who knew him intimately. Directly 
 you set eyes upon him, you received the impres- 
 sion, not only that he was a man to be depended 
 upon, but that he was one who was apt to form 
 his own opinions, and would stand by them 
 through thick and thin, unless absolutely con- 
 vinced, through his reason, that they were wrong. 
 He had a wife who adored him, and children wl;o 
 looked up to him in love and respect as to a king. 
 He was a ti'ue type of English manhood and En- 
 glish shrewd common sense. 
 
 By the time the few words were exchanged, 
 dinner was on the table, and Mr. Merrywhistle 
 motioned his guests to be seated. But Jimmy 
 Virtue, turning his blind eye to his host, said, 
 with an odd smile, "I've got two more friends 
 outside. May I bring them in ?"' 
 
 Without waiting for Mr. MeiTywhistle's con- 
 sent, he went to the door and brought forward 
 Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. Presenting 
 them to Mr. Merrywhistle, he went through a 
 kind of mock-introduction. Mr. Thomas Beadle, 
 Miss Blade-o'-Grass, Mr. Merrywhistle. 
 
BLADE-O'-GRASS. 
 
 Tom Beadle made an awkward bow, and Blade- 
 o'-Grass made a still more awkward courtesy. 
 Blade-o'-Grass was the only one of the four guests 
 who had thought fit to do honor to the occasion 
 ia the matter of dress. Jimmy Virtue, as you 
 have seen, had made himself shabbier than usual ; 
 Robert Truefit was in his working clothes ; and 
 it would have been simply impossible for Tom 
 Beadle to have made any change in his garments, 
 unless he had stolen them, or had had them given 
 to him. But Blade-o'-Grass, who, like Tom Bea- 
 dle, possessed no other clothes than those she 
 stood upright in — and those were as ragged as 
 clothes could be — had by some strange means ac- 
 quired a bonnet, and it was on her head now. Such 
 a bonnet ! If it had been gifted with a tongue. 
 
 my Virtue, and mi 
 
 and elbows to ward^ 
 
 expected to receive. 
 
 chuckled (knowing the 
 
 Beadle), and as Mr. Merrywhi 
 
 itself, the lad, after a time, became reassured, 
 
 though he still kept his elbows ready. 
 
 "You sit down in the comer," said Jimmy 
 Virtue to the children, "and when we've finish- 
 ed dinner you may eat what's left." 
 
 "Nay," said Mr. Merry whistle, chiming in 
 with the humor of his guest ; " there is more 
 than enough for all. Let them eat with us." 
 And he placed the children at the table, where 
 they sat watching the filling of their plates with 
 gloating wonderment. 
 
 R A BOW, AND BLADB-O'-OEASS A OOXriM 
 
 it could doubtless have told a strange story of its 
 career. For although now it was only fit for a 
 dunghill, it had been a fine bonnet once ; and toni 
 and soiled as it was, the semblance of a once fash- 
 ionable shape was still dimly recognizable. But 
 Blade-o'-Grass was proud of it, wrecked and fall- 
 en as it was from its high estate. 
 
 Now it may as well be confessed at once, that 
 Tom Beadle was not at his ease. Wlien he had 
 made his awkward bow, he raised his eyes to the 
 face of Mr. Merrywhistle, and recognized him. 
 lie did not know where he was going to when 
 Jimmy Virtue had asked him if he would like to 
 have a good dinner ; and when he recognized Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, he sent a reproachful look at Jim- 
 
 "Stop a minute, young uns," said Jimmy 
 Virtue, arresting their uplifted forks, which they 
 were clumsily handling. " Grace before meat. 
 Repeat after me : For this bit o' luck—" 
 
 " For this bit o' luck," they repeated. 
 
 "Let us say — " he. 
 
 "Let us say — " they. 
 
 "Hallelujah!" 
 
 "AUeloojah." 
 
 " Now you can fire away." 
 
 And fire away they did, eating as hungry 
 children only can eat — never lifting their heads 
 once from their plates until they had cleaned 
 them out ; then they looked up for more. 
 
 Jimmy Virtue was quite as busily employed 
 
40 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 as the children, and ate and drank mth an air 
 of intense enjoyment. Robert Truefit had more 
 leisure. He ate verj' little, having had his din- 
 ner at one o'clock. Scarcely any conversation 
 took place until dinner was over. Tom Beadle 
 and Blade-o'-Grass had eaten their fill, but they 
 still held their knives and forks in their hands, 
 and looked eagerly at the remains of the meal. 
 Jimmy Virtue's face had a purplish tinge on it, 
 and his fierce eye had a mellow light in it, as he 
 saw the children looking eagerly at the food. 
 
 " What was it you found in your lap the other 
 momin' ?" he asked of Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 " Nothin','' was the reply. 
 
 *'Not baked taters ?" 
 
 *'No; we didn't 'ave 'em in the momin'. 
 Tom and me woke up in the middle o' the night 
 and eat 'em." 
 
 "Wasn't you astonished to find baked taters 
 in your lap when you woke up ?" 
 
 *'No; we was pleased." 
 
 *' Do you know who put 'em there ?' 
 
 *'The baked-tater man?" asked Blake-o'- 
 Grass, after a little consideration. 
 
 "No; it wasn't him. Guess agin." 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass considered, and shook her 
 head ; but suddenly a gleam lighted up her face. 
 She pulled Tom Beadle to her, and whispered in 
 his ear. 
 
 "She ses, if yer please," said Tom, "that 
 p'r'aps it was AUeloojah." 
 
 At this suggestion Jimmy Virtue was seized 
 with one of his fits of noiseless laughter ; but 
 both Mr. Merrywhistie and Robert Truefit look- 
 ed grave. Blade-o'-Grass and Tom Beadle saw 
 nothing either gi-ave or ludicrous in the sugges- 
 tion, for their attention was fully occupied in 
 the contemplation of the food that was on the 
 table. ]\Ir. Merrywhistie, who was observing 
 their rapt contemplation of the remains of the 
 feast, observed also Jimmy Virtue's fiery eye 
 regarding him. 
 
 "It's your'n?" questioned the old man of his 
 host. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "You pay for it, whether it's eat or not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Give it to the young uns." 
 
 " How will they take it away ?" 
 
 " In a newspaper. " 
 
 Sharp Tom Beadle followed every word of the 
 dialogue, and his lynx eyes were the first that 
 saw a newspaper on a sofa in the room. He 
 jumped from his seat and brought forward the 
 paper, his eyes glistening with hope. Mr. Mer- 
 rywhistie and Jimmy Virtue wrapped up what 
 remained of the joint of meat in the newspaper. 
 
 "Food for mind and body," said Robert 
 Truefit, as the parcel was given to Tom. 
 
 Tom ducked his head, without in the least 
 knowing what Robert Truefit meant — and not 
 caring either. His great anxiety was to get 
 away, now that he had as much as was likely to 
 be given to him. Blade-o'-Grass shared his 
 anxiety. The gift of the food was such a splen- 
 did one — there really was a large qui\ntity of 
 meat left on the joint — that she feared it was 
 only given to them ' ' out of a lark, " as she would 
 have expressed it, and that it would be taken 
 from them presently. A premonition was upon 
 her that she would be hungry to-morrow. 
 
 The children stood in painful suspense before 
 the grown-up persons. Their anxiety to be dis- 
 missed was so great that they threw restless glances 
 around them, and shuffled uneasily with their 
 feet. But Mr. Merrywhistie had something to 
 say first. He had great difficulty in commencing, 
 however. He coughed and hesitated and almost 
 blushed, and looked at Jimmy Virtue in a shame- 
 faced kind of way. 
 
 "The other day," at length he commenced, 
 addressing himself to Tom Beadle, "when I 
 saw you and Blade-o'-Grass on the Royal Ex- 
 change — " 
 
 Tom, in the most unblushing manner, was 
 about to asseverate, upon his soul and body, that 
 he was not near the Royal Exchange, when Jim- 
 my Virtue's warning finger and Jimmy Virtue's 
 ominous eye stopped the lie on his lips. 
 
 " — On the Royal Exchange," continued Mr. 
 Merrywhistie, "and gave you — a — a shilling, 
 were you really ill, as you seemed to me to 
 be?" 
 
 A look of triumphant delight flashed into Tom 
 Beadle's eyes. " Did I do it well. Sir ?" he cried, 
 nudging Blade-o'-Grass. "Did I look as if I 
 was a-dyin' by inches ?" 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistie winced, as if he had received 
 a blow. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, Tom !" he exclaimed, gently, "are 
 you not ashamed of yourself?" 
 
 " No," answered Tom, without hesitation, his 
 manner instantly changing. 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass, perceiving, with her quick in- 
 stinct, that something was wrong, and that Tom 
 was likely to get into disgrace because he had 
 made the gentleman believe that he was dying 
 by inches, stepped forward chivalrously to the 
 rescue. 
 
 "If you please. Sir," she said, "you mus'n't 
 blame Tom. It was all along o' me he did 
 it." 
 
 Thereupon the following colloquy took place : 
 
 RoBKRT Trcefit. Bravo, Blade-o'-Grass ! 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 41 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle [only too ready to receive 
 justijicaliori]. Come here, child. How was it 
 all along of you ? 
 
 Tom Beadle [taking moral shelter behind 
 'Blade-o'- Grass]. Tell the gent the truth, Blader- 
 grass ; he won't 'urt you. Tell him about the 
 tiger. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle [in amazement']. The 
 tiger r 
 
 Blade-o'-Gra8S [c/ravely]. Yes, Sir ; I got a 
 tiger in my inside. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. Who on earth put such 
 a monstrous idea into the child's head ? 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass. Mr. Wiftue knows all about 
 it, and so does all the others in Stoney Alley. 
 
 JiMMT Virtue [nodding gravely in conjirma- 
 tion]. Yes, she's got a tiger. Tell the gentleman 
 what it does to you, Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 Blade-o'-Gra88. Eats up every think as goes 
 down my throat, Sir ; swallers every blessed bit 
 I puts in my mouth ; and when I ain't got noth- 
 ink to give it, tears at me like one o'clock. 
 Tom's giv me grub for it orfen and orfen, Sir : I 
 don't know what I should a' done lots o' times 
 if it 'adn't been for 'ira. [Mr. Merrywhistle sheds 
 a kindly glance on Tom Beadle^ who receives it 
 with an air of injured innocence]. Well, Sir, 
 last Monday the tiger was a-goin' on orfle, and 
 I was so sick that I begins to cry. Then Tom 
 comes up, and arks me what I'm cryin' for ; and 
 I tells 'im that the tiger's a-worryin' the inside 
 out o' me. Tom feels in 'is pockets, but he ain't 
 got a copper to give me ; so he ses, *' Come along 
 o' me," ses Tom; and he ketches 'old of my 
 'and, and takes me to the Royal Igschange. 
 Then he ses, ses Tom, " If any body arks you, 
 Bladergrass, just you say that I'm your brother, 
 a-dyin' of consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, 
 I am." And I cries out. Sir, for Tom looked 
 jist as if he was a-dyin* by inches. [A smile of 
 triumph wreathes Tom Beadle's lips ; he has the 
 proper pride of an artist.] But Tom tells me 
 not to be frightened, for he's only a-shammin'. 
 Then the peeler tellS us to move on, and you 
 comes up and gives Tom a shillin' ; and the first 
 thing Tom does is to buy a poloney for me and a 
 'unk o' bread for the tiger. 
 
 Tom Beadle. I wish I may die, Sir, if she 
 ain't told the truth, the 'ole truth, and nothin' 
 but the truth, so 'elp me Bob ! 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass gazes at Mr. Merryw'aistle ea- 
 gerly, and with glistening eyes, and seeing that 
 her vindication of Tom has raised him in the es- 
 timation of their benefactor, nods at her ragged 
 companion two or three times in satisfaction. 
 Mr. Merrywhistle, in his heart of hearts, forgives 
 Tom for the deception — nay, finds justification 
 
 for it ; and the children are allowed to depart 
 with their spoil. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. That's a sad sight and 
 a sad tale. 
 
 Robert Truefit. England's full of such sights 
 and such tales. 
 
 Jimmy Virtue pricked up his ears. He knew 
 when his friend Bob was "coming out," and he 
 prepared himself to listen by taking out his glass 
 eye and contemplating it with his fierce eye, pol- 
 ishing it up the while. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle [rjently]. Not full of such 
 sights, surely ? 
 
 Robert Truefit. Yes, full of them, unfortu- 
 nately. Take London. There are thousands 
 and thousands of such children in such positions 
 as Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, hanging 
 about the courts and alleys — pushed out of 
 sight, one might almost say. And as London 
 is, so every other large English city is. If they 
 haven't shoals of boys and girls growing up to 
 men and women in one bad way, they have them 
 in another bad way. I know what old Jimmy 
 got me here for to-day— he wanted me to talk ; 
 he knows I'm fond of it. 
 
 JiMMT Virtue. Bob ought to be in Pailey- 
 ment. He'd tell 'em somethin'. 
 
 Robert Truefit. That's a specimen of old 
 Jimmy's flattery. Sir. I don't see what good I 
 could do in Parliament. I've got to work for 
 my living, and that takes up all my time. If I 
 were in Parliament, I should have to get money 
 somehow to support my wife and family, and it 
 isn't in my blood to become a pensioner. Be- 
 sides, I should be contented enough with what's 
 called "the ruling powers" if they'd only turn 
 their attention more to such social questions as 
 this. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. Ah, I'm glad of that ; 
 I'm glad you're not a republican. 
 
 Robert Truefit. Not I, Sir, though I don't 
 know what I might become by-and-by ; for there's 
 no denying that things are unequal, and that 
 working-men are talking of this inequality more 
 and more every year. You'd be surprised to 
 know what they think about this and that. And 
 although I don't go so far as some of them do, I 
 can't help agreeing with them in many things. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. But what do they want ? 
 Equality ? Such a thing is impossible. 
 
 Robert Truefit. I know it is. You'd have 
 to do away with brains before you got that; 
 though there are a many who believe that it is to 
 be arrived at. Some of them are fools, and some 
 of them are rogues ; but some of them have real- 
 ly worked themselves up into absolute belief. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. Discontented people are 
 
42 
 
 BLADE- O'- GRASS. 
 
 to be found eveiy where, and under any form of 
 government. 
 
 Robert Tkuefit. Ay, that's the way a great 
 many sum up ; when they say that, they think 
 they have found out the cause, and that the mat- 
 ter is settled. 'Tisn't the sensible way to view it. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. What is the reason, 
 then, of this spread of feeling among working- 
 men? 
 
 Robert Truefit. That's a large question, 
 and would take too long to answer. But I think 
 the penny newspaper is partly accountable for it. 
 They can afford to buy the penny and half-penny 
 newspaper, and they read them, and talk more 
 among themselves. You see, things press upon 
 them. They are arriving at a sort of belief that 
 the laws are made more for the protection and 
 benefit of property than for the protection and 
 benefit of flesh and blood ; and as their value in 
 the market doesn't lie in land and money, but 
 in bone and muscle, the idea isn't pleasant to 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. But surely they are 
 not right in this idea? 
 
 Robert Truefit. Are they not ? Read the 
 newspapers, and you'll find they are. Why, a 
 man may do any thing to flesh and blood, short 
 of murder, and the law won't be very hai-d on 
 him. But let him touch property, ever so little, 
 and down it comes on him like a sledge-hammer. 
 I'll tell you what I read in the police reports this 
 moiTiing. A man is had up at the police court 
 for beating his wife. The woman is put mto the 
 box, with marks on her face and with her head 
 bandaged ; the man doesn't deny that he beat 
 her, and half a dozen witnesses prove that he 
 beat her cruelly ; the floor of the room in which 
 they lived was covered with blood-stains. There 
 is no excuse for him; no aggravation on her 
 part is set up ; a doctor states that if one of the 
 blows she received had been a little more on the 
 left of her head, she would have been killed ; 
 and the man gets three months' hard labor. 
 Afterward a man is brought up for stealing 
 three-and-sixpence. He is miserably dressed, 
 and there is want in his face. The evidence in 
 this case is quite as clear as in the other. The 
 prisoner snatched a purse, containing three-and- 
 sixpence, out of a man's hand, and ran away. 
 Being searched, not a farthing is found upon 
 him, nor any thing of the value of a farthing. 
 The man does not deny the theft, and says he 
 wanted a meal ; the police know nothing of him ; 
 and he gets three months' hard labor. Compare 
 these equal sentences with the unequal offenses, 
 and you will see the relative value of property 
 and human flesh in the criminal market. 
 
 Jimmy Virtue. Bob puts it plainly, doesn't 
 he? 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle. But these cases must 
 be rare. 
 
 Robert Truefit. They are very common ; 
 and these two cases that I have put side by side 
 are two of the mildest. Listen to this — another 
 wife-beating case : Husband comes home at noon. 
 What kind of man he is may be guessed from 
 his words to his wife: ^'I've something to tell 
 
 thee, you ! I'm going to murder thee, 
 
 you !" He takes off his jacket, calls his 
 
 bull-dog, and sets it at his wife. As the dog 
 flies at the woman, her husband hits her in the 
 face ; the dog drags her from the sofa, with its 
 teeth in her flesh (it is almost too horrible to tell, 
 but it is true, every word of it), and the husband 
 jumps upon her, and kicks her on the head and 
 shoulders. Imploring him to have mercy upon 
 her, crying for help, the woman is dragged by 
 the dog from room to room, tearing flesh out of 
 her. The frightful struggle continues for some 
 time, until the woman manages to make her es- 
 cape from the house. It is dreadful to read the 
 doctor's description of the state of the woman, 
 and how he feared, for three or four days, that 
 mortification would set in. The man is sentenced 
 to — what do you think? Six months' hard la- 
 bor. About the same time, a very young man 
 is found guilty of stealing twenty shillings' worth 
 of metal, and he gets seven years' penal servi- 
 tude. But I could multiply these instances. 
 You may say that such cases as these have noth- 
 ing to do with the broad question of misgovern- 
 ment ; but I maintain that they have. You get 
 your criminal material from such places as Stoney 
 Alley, where poor Blade-o'-Grass lives ; and 
 yet Stoney Alley is as bad now — ay, and worse 
 than it was fifty years ago. The law knows of 
 its existence, has its wakeful eye upon it ; but 
 what has the law done for its good, or for the 
 good of those who live there? Take the case 
 of Blade-o'-Grass. What does the law do for 
 her ? — and by the law you must understand that 
 I mean the governing machinery for keeping so- 
 ciety in order, and for dispensing justice to all 
 — out of our police courts as well as in them. 
 Think of the stoiy she told, and the way in 
 which she told it. There is capacity for good in 
 that child — ay, and in Tom Beadle too. Can 
 you doubt that, but for your charity, she might 
 have died of hunger ? 
 
 Mr. Merrtwhistle [eagerly']. Then you 
 don't disapprove of indiscriminate charity ? 
 
 Robert Truefit. Not I : I don't disapprove 
 of a man putting his hand into his pocket, and 
 exercising a benevolent impulse. Your lip-phi- 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 43 
 
 lanthropists, who preach against indiscriminate 
 charity — what would they do for Blade-o'-Grass ? 
 What would they do! What do they do? 
 "Work," they say. But they don't give her 
 work; don't even teach her how to work, if 
 such a miracle happened to fall in her way. 
 And all the while the policeman says, " Move 
 on." I know something, through Jimmy here, 
 of Blade-o'-Grass — a hapless waif, an incum- 
 brance, a'blot, serving as a theme for countless 
 meetings and oceans of words. What business 
 has she in the world ? But she came, unfortu- 
 nately for herself, and she is so legislated for, 
 that to live is her greatest affliction. 
 
 Jimmy Virtue. It's my opinion that a good 
 many of the fellers who preach agin indiscrimi- 
 nate charity only do so as an excuse for but- 
 tonin' up their pockets. 
 
 Eohert Truefit [laughing]. And their 
 hearts as well, Jimmy. You put me in mind of 
 something I saw last Sunday in Upper Street, Is- 
 lington. The people were coming out of church. 
 A couple — evidently man and wife — were walk- 
 ing before me, talking on religious matters — or, 
 rather, he was talking and she was listening. I 
 passed them just as he was saying, "If I haven't 
 got the grace of God in my heart, I'd like to 
 know who has got it?" and at the same moment 
 as forlorn-looking a woman as ever I set eyes 
 on intercepted him, and courtesied, and held 
 out her hand imploringly. He pushed her aside 
 surlily, and with a sour look on his face, and 
 walked along talking of the grace of God. The 
 woman may have been an impostor — in other 
 words, a professional beggar ; but I should be sor- 
 ry to call that Grace-of-God man my friend. No, 
 Sir, I don't think that it is a good thing to crush 
 a kindly impulse, or that we should treat our 
 best feelings and emotions as so many figures in 
 a sum. It is not the giver who makes beggars. 
 The fault i^ in the system, which opens no road 
 for them at the proper time of their lives. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle [sadly']. But tell me : 
 do you see no remedy for these ills ? 
 
 lioBEUT Truefit. The remedy is simple. 
 Commence at the right end. Train up a child 
 in the way it should go, and wlien it is old it 
 will not depart from it. And by the same rule. 
 Train up a child in the way it shouldn't go, and 
 when it is old it will not depart from it. It is 
 almost time for me and Jimmy to be off. Jim- 
 my wants to open his shop, and I want to get 
 home to my wife ; but I'll just tiy to explain what 
 I mean. Two poor boys, one six and one nine 
 years of age, lost their mother ; a few weeks aft- 
 envard they were caught taking some potatoes 
 ftom a garden. The presumption is that they 
 
 were hungry. The potatoes were valued at one 
 penny. The boys were sent to prison for four- 
 teen days, and the state thus commenced their 
 education. I will conclude with a personal ex- 
 perience. I had occasion to go to Liverpool 
 some little time ago, and on the day that I was 
 to return to London I saw a girl standing against 
 a wall, crj-ing bitterly. She was a pretty girl, 
 of about sixteen years of age. I went and spoke 
 to her, and soon saw that the poor girl was utter- 
 ly bewildered. It appeared that she had landed 
 that morning in Liverpool, having been brought 
 by her sister from Ireland, and that her sister 
 had deserted her. A more simple, artless girl I 
 never met, and she hadn't a penny in her pocket, 
 nor a friend in the Liverpool wilderness. I 
 thought to myself, This girl will come to harm. 
 Hungry, friendless, pretty — I went to a po- 
 j liceman, and told him the story. The police- 
 man scratched his head. "Is she a bad girl?" 
 he asked. I was shocked at the question, and 
 said no, I was sure she was not ; that she was a 
 simple, good girl, almost a child — and was as 
 complete an outcast as if she were among sav- 
 ages. The policeman shrugged his shoulders, 
 and said, civilly enough, that he couldn't do any 
 thing. " What did you mean by asking if she 
 was a bad girl?" I asked. "Well, you see," 
 he answered, "if she was a bad girl, and want- 
 ed to be took care of, I could take her some- 
 where." " Wliere she would be taken care of?" 
 I asked. "Yes," he answered. "And have food 
 given to her?" "Yes." "But a good girl," 
 I said, " homeless, friendless, and hungrj- — " 
 " Can't interfere with them,'' said the policeman. 
 "She'll have to qualify herself for a refuge, then," 
 I could not help saying, bitterly, as I turned 
 away, leaving the poor girl in her distress ; for 
 I could do nothing, and had only enough money 
 to take me third-class to London. There, Sir! 
 You can draw your own moral from these things. 
 Many a working-man is drawing conclusions 
 from such-like circumstances, and the feeling 
 that statesmen are ignoring the most important 
 problems of the day is gaining strength rapidly. 
 For my own part, I honestly confess that, with- 
 out one tinge of socialism or even republicanism 
 in my veins, I am not satisfied with things as 
 they are. 
 
 With these words, spoken vci^' earnestly, Rob- 
 ert Truefit, accompanied by Jimmy Virtue, took 
 his departure. But Jimmy Virtue found time 
 to whisper in Mr. Merrywhistle's ear, 
 
 "Didn't I tell you Bob 'ud talk to you? It 
 ain't dear at sixpence an hour, is it ?" 
 
 Mr. JMerrjwhistle said no; it was not at all 
 dear, and he hoped soon to see them again. 
 
44 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 "AH right," said Jimmy Virtue, with a last 
 flash from his fierce eye ; "when you like ;" and 
 so departed. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 THE INTERLUDE. 
 
 In times gone by it used to be the sometime 
 fashion in the theatres to have an interlude be- 
 tween the acts of the melodrama, so that the 
 mind might find some relief from the thrilling 
 horrors which had just been enacted, and might 
 prepare itself for the more profound horrors to 
 come. Usually there was an interval of time 
 between the acts— in most cases seven years — 
 duringwhich the performers neither changed their 
 linen nor grew any older. This was probably 
 owing to the joyous efforts of those who enacted 
 the interlude, which was invariably composed of 
 songs and dances. Of such material as these 
 shall part of this interlude be composed ; strik- 
 ing out the songs, however, and introducing 
 flowers in their stead, as being infinitely more 
 innocent and graceful than the gross and impure 
 lessons taught by the popular songs of the day, 
 which unfortunately flow too readily into such 
 neighborhoods as that of which Stoney Alley 
 forms a limb. Such teaching, in its own sad 
 time, will bear bitter fruit — nay, it is bearing it 
 even now, and the poisofaed branches are bend- 
 ing beneath the weight. 
 
 Blade-o'- Grass was very young ; but the few 
 years she had lived contained many imminent 
 crises — any one of which, but for some timely 
 act of human kindness, might have put an end 
 to her existence. But her life had not been all 
 shade, although it may appear to you and me 
 to have been so : there were lights in it, there 
 were times when she enjoyed. You and I stand 
 in the sun, and contemplate with sadness our 
 fellow-creatures struggling and living in the dark. 
 But it is not dark to them, as it is to us ; they 
 were born in it, they live in it, they are used to 
 it. Such sunlight as we enjoy, and are, I hope, 
 thankful for, might make them drunk. 
 
 Said Tom Beadle one day to Blade-o'-Grass, 
 
 "1 say, Bladergrass, why don't yer do some- 
 thin', and make a few coppers ?" 
 
 And Blade-o'-Grass very naturally answered, 
 
 "What shall I do, Tom?" 
 
 Tom was prepared with his answer. 
 
 "Lookee 'ere: why don't you be a flower- 
 gal?" 
 
 "Oh, Tom!" exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, her 
 face flushing, her heart beating, at the prospect 
 of heaven held out to her. " A flower-gal, Tom ! 
 A flower-gal ! Oh, don't I wish I could be !" 
 
 "You'd 'ave to wash yer face, yer know," 
 
 said Tom, regarding the dirty face of Blade-o'- 
 Grass from a business point of view, " and put 
 a clean frock on." 
 
 Down to zero went the hopes of Blade-o'- 
 Grass. A clean face she might have compassed. 
 But a clean frock ! That meant a new frock, of 
 course. Blade-o'-Grass had never had a new 
 frock in her life. A new frock ! She had never 
 had any thing new — not even a new boot-lace. 
 Despair was in her face. Tom saw it, and 
 said, 
 
 "Don't be down in the mug, Bladergrass. 
 We'll see if it can't be done some'ow. " 
 
 What a hero Tom was in her eyes ! 
 
 "Oh, Tom," she cried, "if I could be a 
 flower-gal — if I could! I've seen 'em at the 
 Royal Igschange" — she was pretty well acquaint- 
 ed with that locality by this time — "and don't 
 they look prime!" She twined her fingers to- 
 gether nervously. " They've all got clean faces 
 and nice dresses. Oh, 'ow 'appy they must be !" 
 
 " And they make lots o' money," said Tom. 
 
 "Do they ? Oh, don't I wish I was them !" 
 
 " And they go to theaytres." 
 
 "Do they? Oh, don't I wish I could go to 
 the theaytre !" 
 
 " There's Poll Buttons. Why, two year ago, 
 Bladergrass, she was raggeder nor you. And 
 now she comes out — she does come out, I can 
 tell yer! She sells flowers at the Royal Igs- 
 change, and she looks as 'appy — as 'appy" — 
 Tom's figures of speech and similes were invari- 
 ably failures — " as 'appy as can be. Why, I see 
 her the other night at the Standard, and she was 
 in the pit. There was a feller with her a-suckin* 
 a stick. Didn't she look proud ! And I 'eerd 
 Bill Britton say as how he saw her at 'Ighbury 
 Barn last Sunday with another feller a-suckin' a 
 stick." 
 
 " Do all the swells suck sticks, Tom?" asked 
 Blade-o'-Grass, innocently. 
 
 "All the real tip-toppers do," answered Tom. 
 
 "Perhaps there's somethin' nice in the knobs," 
 suggested Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 " Perhaps ; but I don't think it. You see, it 
 looks swellish, Bladergrass." 
 
 " If you 'ad a stick, would you suck it, Tom?" 
 
 " I think I should," replied Tom, after a little 
 consideration ; " and I'd 'ave one with a large 
 knob. They're all the go." Then Tom came 
 back to the subject of Poll Buttons. " She makes 
 a 'eap o' money. Why, I 'eerd tell as 'ow she sells 
 crocuses and wilets for a tanner a bunch at first. 
 The swells buy a bunch of wilets, and then she 
 coaxes 'em, and ses as 'ow wilets and crocuses 
 ought to go together, and she uses 'er eyes and 
 smiles sweet. Stand up, Bladergi-ass !" 
 
BLADE. O'- GRASS. 
 
 45 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass stood up, and Tom Beadle scru- 
 tinized her. 
 
 "Poll Buttons is a reg'lar beauty, they say. 
 But I wish I may die if you won't be a reg'larer 
 beauty when you're as old as Poll is. " 
 
 " Shall I, Tom ? Shall I ?" And the eyes of 
 Blade-o'-Grass sparkled, and a bright color came 
 into her cheeks. Even in her ragged frock, and 
 with her dirty face, she looked pretty. "Then 
 I shall get a tanner a bunch for my crocuses and 
 wilets, and when the roses comes in, I'll— I'll — " 
 But her voice trailed oflf as she looked at her 
 ragged frock, and her lips trembled, and the lit- 
 tle glimpse of heaven that lay in the imaginary 
 basket of flowers faded utterly away. • 
 
 "Don't take on so, Bladergrass," said Tom 
 Beadle; "who knows? I may 'ave a bit o' 
 luck. And if I do, I wish I may die if I don't 
 set you up as a flower-gal ! You jist keep up 
 your 'art, and wait a bit." 
 
 And one day Tom Beadle really went to Jim- 
 my Virtue's leaving-shop, and asked the price 
 of a new cotton frock, which, after much bar- 
 gaining, he bought for two shillings and four- 
 pence. 
 
 "Who's it for, Tom?" asked Jimmy, testing 
 the coins before he delivered the frock to Tom. 
 " Got a new sweet'art ?" 
 
 " It's for Bladergrass," replied Tom, compla- 
 cently. "I'm a-goin' to set her up as a flower- 
 gal. I promised 'er I would when I 'ad a bit o' 
 luck." 
 
 " And you've 'ad a bit o' luck ?" 
 
 "Yes, a reg'lar slice." 
 
 " How was it, Tom ?" • 
 
 "Arks no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," 
 responded Tom, saucily, walking away with his 
 precious purchase. 
 
 Neither will we be too curious about how the 
 means were acquired which enabled Tom to give 
 Blade-o'-Grass an honest start in life. 
 
 That first new common cotton dress ! What 
 joy and delight stirred the heart of Blade-o'- 
 Grass as she surveyed it ! She devoured it with 
 her eyes, and was as delicate in handling it as if 
 its texture had been of the finest silk. All that 
 she could say was, " Oh, Tom ! oh, Tom !" She 
 threw her arms round Tom's neck, and kissed 
 him a hundred times ; and Tom felt how sweet 
 it is to give. But Tom's goodness did not end 
 here. He conducted Blade-o'-Grass to a room 
 where she could wash herself and array herself 
 in her new dress. She came out of that room 
 transformed. She had smoothed her hair and 
 washed her face, and the dress became her. She 
 smiled gratefully at Tom when she presented 
 herself to him. 
 
 " I'm blessed if Poll Buttons '11 be able to 'old 
 a candle to you !" exclaimed Tom, admiringly ; 
 and Blade-o'-Grass thrilled with joy. 
 
 Thus it came about that Mr. Merrywhistle, 
 walking near the Royal Exchange one day, saw 
 a clean little girl, with a basket of humble flowers 
 on her arm, and a bright little face looking ear- 
 nestly at him. 
 
 "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the benevolent 
 gentleman. ' ' Blade-o'-Grass ! " 
 
 "Yes, Sir, if you please. Tom's set me up as 
 a flower-gal." 
 
 "Tom!" 
 
 "Tom Beadle, Sir; 'im as you guv a shillin* 
 to once, and as come along o' me when we 'ad 
 that jolly dinner." 
 
 ' ' Dear me ! Dear me ! " said Mr. Merrywhis- 
 tle, honest pleasure beaming in his eyes. "And 
 Tom's set you up, eh ? And you're getting an 
 honest living, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir, if you please. Sir. Do you want a 
 flower for your button-'ole. Sir ? 'Ere's a white 
 rose, Sir — a reg'lar beauty ; and 'ere's a piece o' 
 mingyonet to show it ofl*, Sir, and a bit o' maiden 
 'air to back it up." 
 
 And before Mr. Merrywhistle knew where he 
 was, he had put the flowers in his button-hole, 
 aftd, instructed by Blade-o'-Grass, had fastened 
 them with a pin she took out of her frock. It 
 was thirty years since he had worn a flower, the 
 good old fellow ! and as he looked upon them 
 now, there came to him the memory of a few 
 sunny months when he was young. The crowds 
 of people, the busy streets, the noise and tiu- 
 moil, vanished from sight and sense ; and for 
 one brief moment — which might have been an 
 hour, the vision was so distinct — he saw fair 
 fingers fastening a piece of mignonnette in his 
 coat, and a fair head bending to his breast — It 
 was gone ! But as Mr. Merr}'whistle awoke to 
 the busy hum about him, there was a sweet 
 breath in his nostrils, and a dim, sweet light in 
 his eyes. Most unwisely he gave Blade-o'-Grass 
 a shilling for the flowers, and patted her head, 
 and walked away ; while Blade-o'-Grass herself, 
 almost fearing that the shilling was a bad one, 
 bit it with her strong teeth, and, being satisfied 
 of its genuineness, executed a double-shufile on 
 the curb-stone. 
 
 That very afternoon Blade-o'-Grass, having 
 had a good day, purchased a walking-cane of a 
 street vendor. It was a cano with the largest 
 knob he had in his stock. This cane she pre- 
 sented to Tom Beadle the same evening. Tom 
 was immensely delighted with it. To the ad- 
 miration of Blade-o'-Grass, he put the knob in 
 his mouth, to the serious danger of that fea* 
 
46 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 ture, and comported himself as became a tip-top 
 swell. 
 
 "You're a reg'lar little brick," said Tom; 
 '**and I'm blessed if I don't take you to the 
 theaytre." 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass jumped for joy, and clapped 
 her hands. How she had longed to go to a 
 theatre ! And now the magic hour had come. 
 She had been rich enough lately to pay two- 
 pence a night for a bed, and she went to the 
 cheap lodging-house she patronized and washed 
 her face and combed her hair, and made herself 
 as smart as she could. Tom Beadle had also 
 smartened himself up, and to the theatre they 
 went, arm in arm, he with the knob of tiie stick 
 in his mouth, and she, in her rags, as proud as 
 any peacock. 
 
 In what words can the awe and wonder of 
 Blade-o'-Grass be described ? She had her own 
 ideas of things, and she was surprised to find 
 the interior of the theatre so different from what 
 she had imagined. Boxes, pit, and gallery she 
 knew there were. But she had set down in her 
 mind that the boxes were veritable boxes, in 
 which the people were shut, with little eye-holes 
 to peep through ; and the pit she had imagined 
 as a large dark space dug out of the earth, very 
 low down, where the people were all huddled 
 together, and had to look up to see what was 
 going on. It was to the pit they went, and for 
 some time Blade-o'-Grass was too astonished to 
 speak. A very, very large O would fitly de- 
 scribe her condition. Tom Beadle, on the con- 
 trary, was quite composed: theatres were but 
 ordinary places to him. But used up as he was 
 to the pleasures of the town, he derived a new 
 pleasure from the contemplation of the wonder- 
 ment of Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 "Oh, Tom! oh, Tom!" she whispered, in ec- 
 stasy, edging closer to him, when at last she 
 found courago jo use her tongue. It was a 
 large theatre, v/ith a great deal of gold-leaf 
 about it ; and the audience were evidently bent 
 upon enjoying themselves, and vehemently ap- 
 plauded at every possible opportunity. Thus, 
 when the lights are turned up, and a bright blaze 
 breaks out upon the living sea of faces, there is 
 much clapping of hands, and much stamping 
 of feet, and other marks of approval. When 
 the musicians straggle into the orchestra they 
 are also vehemently applauded ; but those " high 
 and mighty" might have been by themselves in 
 the Desert of Sahara for all the heed they pay 
 to the audience. The occupiers of the gallery 
 are very noisy in their demonstrations, and issue 
 their commands with stentoiian lungs. "Now, 
 then ; scrape up, catgut !" " Hoo-o-o-o ! scrape 
 
 up! up with the rag!" with cries and shouts 
 and whistles, which strike fresh wonderment to 
 the soul of Blade-o'-Grass. She is not fright- 
 ened at the noise ; for even Tom Beadle puts 
 his two little fingers to the corners of his lips, 
 and adds shrill whistles to the general confusion 
 — in the perfoimance of which duty he stretches 
 his mouth to such an extent that, as a feature, 
 it becomes a hideous mockery. But at length 
 the band strikes up with a crash, the sound of 
 which is speedily drowned in the roar of delight 
 that follows. In due time — but not in time to 
 satisfy the impatient audience — the music ceases, 
 and a general shifting and rustling takes place 
 among the audience. A moment's breathless 
 expectation follows, a cracked bell gives the 
 meanest of tinkles ; and Blade-o'-Grass bends a 
 little more forward as that awful and magic 
 green curtain is drawn upward by invisible 
 hands. The piece that is there and then rep- 
 resented to the wondering soul of Blade-o'- 
 Grass is a "strong domestic drama," as the 
 play-bill has it, and Blade-o'-Grass gasps and 
 sobs and catches her breath at the "striking" 
 situations with which the play is filled. The 
 piece is a narration of the struggles and vicissi- 
 tudes of the poorest class of the community — 
 the class, indeed, the lower stratum of which is 
 occupied by just such persons as Tom Beadle 
 and Blade-o'-Grass ; and a curious commentary 
 is made on it the next day by Blade-o'-Grass, 
 who, dilating upon its wonders and entrance- 
 ments, declares that she "never seed sich a 
 thing in all her born daj'S." There are, of 
 course, in the piece a painfully virtuous wife, a 
 desperate villain, to whom murder is child's 
 play, a delirium-tremens beggar, a Good Young 
 Man, and a vilified Jew ; and as these charac- 
 ters play their parts, Blade-o'-Grass thrills and 
 quivers with delicious excitement. Tom Beadle 
 also enters into the excitement of the represen- 
 tation, and stamps and claps his hands and 
 whistles as vigorously as any one there. But 
 when the "strong domestic drama" is con- 
 cluded, and the glories of the burlesque are un- 
 folded to the ravished senses of Blade-o'-Grass, 
 then, indeed, is she in heaven. Never has she 
 conceived any thing so enchanting as this. It 
 is the first fairy-story that has ever been pre- 
 sented to her. How she screams over the mean- 
 ingless songs ! How she devours with her eyes 
 the display of female limbs ! " Oh, 'ow lovely, 
 Tom !" she whispers. " Oh, don't I wisli I was / 
 them !" 
 
 "You'd look as well as any of 'em, Blader- 
 gra^s," says Tom, who knows every thing, "if 
 you was took in 'and, and if you could darnce." 
 
BLADE. O'- GRASS. 
 
 47 
 
 **0h no, Tom — oh no!" exclaims Blade-o'- 
 Grass. "I ain't got sich legs." 
 
 Tom laughs, and whispers confidentially that 
 "them legs ain't all their own. He knows a 
 covB who knows a balley-gal, and she pads her 
 legs like one o'clock." Blade-o'-Grass, in her 
 heart of hearts, can't believe it ; but she is too 
 much absorbed in the performance to enter into 
 argument. So the pageant passes before her 
 eyes until all the songs are sung and all the 
 dances danced ; and when the curtain falls upon 
 the brilliant last scene, she looks solemnly at 
 Tom, and a great sob escapes her because it is 
 all over. She can scarcely repress her tears. 
 It is a wondrous night for Blade-o'-Grass, and 
 lives in her memory for long afterward. Tom 
 Beadle proposes "a eel supper," and they sit 
 in state, like the best nobles in the land, in a 
 dirty box in a dirty eel-pie shop ; and as they 
 eat their eels off a dirty plate, with a dirty 
 spoon and fork, Blade-o'-Grass looks up to her 
 companion as to a god ; and Tom, noticing the 
 girl's sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, says, 
 with an approving nod, "I'm blessed if you 
 won't beat Poll Buttons into fits." Then they 
 go home, and Blade-o'-Grass dreams that she 
 is an angel hanging from the flies. 
 
 That first night at a theatre filled Blade-o'- 
 Grass wrth a new ambition, and her better pros- 
 pects inspired her with confidence. She deter- 
 mined to learn to dance. 
 
 You will, I am sure, be amazed to hear that 
 eveiy night in Stoney Alley, when the weather 
 was in any way propitious, there was a ball — an 
 open-air ball ; the orchestra, an Italian organ- 
 grinder ; the company, nearly all the dirty boys 
 and girls in the neighborhood. At a certain 
 hour every evening an Italian organ-grinder, on 
 whose dark face a fixed expression of stolid, 
 gloomy melancholy for ever rested, mjide liis ap- 
 pearance in Stoney Alley ; and, as if he were a 
 lost soul, and this agony was his penance, ground 
 out of his aftiicted organ a string of waltzes and 
 polkas and quadrilles so inexpressibly dismal 
 that the very dogs howled in despair and fled. 
 But directly the first note sounded — and that 
 first note always came out with a wail — the chil- 
 dren, from two years old and upward, began to 
 congregate, and without any courtesying, or bow- 
 ing, or engaging of partners, the strangest ball 
 commenced that ever was seen. Girls with ba- 
 bies in their arms glided round and round in the 
 entrancing waltz ; children who could scarcely 
 toddle toddled round ; and young ladies with- 
 out incumbrances clasped each other by the 
 waist, and spun round in a state of beatific 
 bliss. When the waltz music ended with a 
 
 groan, and the polka commenced with a wheeze, 
 the big children hopped and the toddlers toddled 
 in perfect contentment. Then came the qua- 
 drilles, in which many new figures were in- 
 troduced, which Belgravia might have profited 
 by. But the strangest dance of all was a Scotch 
 reel, which, by some unearthly means, had got 
 into this decrepit organ, and which, being set to 
 work by the inexorable handle, came out of its 
 hiding-place spasmodically, and with stitches in 
 its side. It was a sight to remember to see these 
 ragged children dance this Scotch reel, with their 
 toes up to their knees, their right arms elevated 
 above their heads, and their left hands stuck in 
 their sides as if they grew there. Blade-o'- 
 Grass had never had courage to join in the rev- 
 els ; she had been too ragged and forlorn to claim 
 equality with even this ragged and forlorn troop. 
 But now her prospects were biightening, and 
 her ambition was roused. The very evening 
 following that on which she visited the theatre 
 she boldly joined the dancers. And there she 
 hopped and twirled and glided until the music 
 ceased ; and every evening thereafter she made 
 her appearance at the entertainment as punctu- 
 ally as some people attend their places of worship, 
 and with more devotion than many. She was 
 looked upon as a guest of high distinction at the 
 ball, for she was liberal with her farthings and 
 half-pence. In course of time she became one 
 of the very best dancers in the alley, and often 
 and often dreamed that she was a ballet-girl, and 
 was twirling before an admiring audience, in the 
 shortest of short spangled skirts, and the pink- 
 est of pink legs. 
 
 These were the happiest days she had ever 
 known. Now and then the tiger set up its claims, 
 and was not satisfied ; but these occasions were 
 very rare. She went to the theatre often, and 
 sometimes treated Tom Beadle, who did not 
 show a stupid pride and independence. She 
 sold flowers in the season, and lived how she 
 could when there were no flowers to sell. "I 
 wish they growed all the yeer round," she said 
 to Tom many and many a time. She and Tom 
 were always together, and it was understood that 
 they had " taken up with one another." 
 
 This being an interlude, in which the promise 
 set forth has been faithfully carried out — for 
 dances and flowers have been introduced in pro- 
 fusion — it will perhaps be considered out of place 
 to mention that, excepting that she knew how to 
 speak an intelligible language, Blade-o'-Grass 
 was as ignorant of morals and religion as if she 
 had been a four-footed animal. But it is neces- 
 sary to state this, or you might condemn her 
 unjustly, and look down upon her uncharitably. 
 
48 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 And while she grew in deeper and deeper igno- 
 rance, how the great world labored in which she 
 lived and moved and had her being ! One sec- 
 tion was in agony because a man of science had 
 by his writings thrown doubt on the grand story 
 of Creation, and had attempted to prove that 
 Adam and Eve were not created; and nine- 
 tenths of the people shrunk in horror from a man 
 who denied the truth of Biblical miracles. Yet 
 one and all believed in a future state — a better 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE PRISON WALL. 
 
 Seven years have passed, and the curtain rises 
 upon a high gloomy stone-wall. Grouped about 
 the pavement which skirts the wall are nearly a 
 score of persons waiting in a state of painful ex- 
 pectancy. They are waiting for friends and 
 relatives, and this gloomy stone-wall incloses a 
 prison. 
 
 'SUE UOLDLY JOINEJJ THE PANOEBS. 
 
 one than this, a higher one than this, a holier 
 one than this— to be earned by living a good life, 
 and by doing unto others as we would wish oth- 
 ers should do unto us. And Blade-o'-Grass had 
 never raised her eyes and hands to God; she 
 had never said a prayer. 
 
 Although it is broad day, the aspect of the scene 
 is inexpressibly depressing. It is September; 
 but the treacherous month has crept upon No- 
 vember, and stolen one of its cheerless days, when 
 dull sky and dull atmosphere conspire to send 
 the spirits down to zero. Not that these unhap- 
 py mortals require any outward influence to ren- 
 der them miserable ; their countenances and at- 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 49 
 
 titude sliow that clearly enough. There are 
 among them young women, almost children, and 
 they stand about the prison Avith pale faces and 
 clasped hands, with eyes cast down to the earth. 
 Th'ey exchange but few words ; they have suf- 
 ficient special occupation in their thoughts to 
 render them indisposed for conversation. They 
 are poorly clad, and some of them shiver as the 
 damp wind steals round the massive wall which 
 shuts out hope. 
 
 and the shriveled hands that peep from out tha 
 folds of a faded shawl, it might reasonably have 
 been supposed it covers the limbs of a child. 
 The bonnet has moved several times in the direc- 
 tion of the girl-woman, as if its owner were cu- 
 rious about her companion ; but the girl takes 
 no notice. At length a piping voice asks, "Are 
 you waiting for some one, my dear ?" 
 
 The girl answqpg "Yes," but does not look at 
 the questioner. 
 
 "near to TUK PBIBON DOOn ARE A YOCNQ AND AN OLD WOMAN." 
 
 Near to the prison door are a young and an 
 old woman — one seventeen years of age on her 
 last birthday, the other seventy. The young 
 woman has no covering on her head ; the old 
 woman wears an ancient bonnet, which was the 
 fashion once upon a time. Her little wrinkled 
 face is almost hidden in the bonnet, and her an- 
 cient cotton dress falls in such straight lines 
 about her that, but for the pale, wrinkled face 
 D 
 
 "Who for, my dear?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "You needn't mind me," pipes the old wom- 
 an ; "I don't mean any harm ; and it does my 
 old heart good to talk. Perhaps you've got a 
 mother of your own." 
 
 "Mother !" echoes the girl, somewhat bitterly, 
 and yet with a certain plaintiveness. " No, I've 
 got no mother ; I never 'ad one as I knows of." 
 
60 
 
 BLADE -O- GRASS. 
 
 "Poor dear, poor dear! Come, my dear, 
 talk kindly to an old woman who might be your 
 grandmother. Ay, I might, my dear. I'm sev- 
 enty-one come the 10th of November, and I'm 
 waiting for my daughter. You've got a long 
 time before you, my dear, before you come to 
 my age." 
 
 " Seventy-one ! " exclaims the girl. "7 shall 
 never be seventy-one. I shouldn't like to be. 
 What's your daughter in for ? How old is she ? 
 She must be older than me." 
 
 " She's thirty, my dear, and she's in for beg- 
 ging. What's yours in for ?" 
 
 "My what in for?" shai*ply and sullenly. 
 
 " Your friend. You needn't be so sharp with 
 an old woman like me. You may h6 a mother 
 yourself one day, poor dear!" 
 
 The girl turns with a gasp — it may be of joy 
 or pain — and takes the old woman's hand and 
 begs her pardon. 
 
 Her friend is in for worse than beggin', the girl 
 says, and relapses into silence, retaining the old 
 woman's hand in hers, however, for a little while.' 
 
 Many persons pass this way and that, but few 
 bestow a second glance upon the group; and 
 even if pity enters the heart of one and another, 
 it does not take practical shape, and in its passive 
 aspect it is, as is well known, but cold charity. 
 One man, however, lingers in passing, walks a 
 few steps, and hesitates. He has caught a glimpse 
 of a face that he recognizes, and it is evident 
 that he is distressed by it. He turns boldly, and 
 pauses before the forms of the old woman and 
 the girl. 
 
 "Blade-o'-Grass!" he exclaims. 
 
 She raises her head, and looks him in the face. 
 No shame, no fear, no consciousness of degrada- 
 tion, is in her gaze. She drops him a courtesy, 
 and turns her face toward the prison doors. 
 
 Girl as she is, she is a woman, and well-look- 
 ing. Her dress is of the poorest, and she is not 
 too tidy ; but the grace of youth is upon her. 
 It is not upon all who are brought up as she has 
 been. But she has this charm, and good looks 
 as well ; and she is grateful for them, for she 
 likes to be called pretty. Remember that, at 
 that momentous period in the life of Blade-o'- 
 Grass when her future hung on a chance, Mrs. 
 Manning "kept the prettiest one, the one with 
 the dimple." 
 
 What is it that causes the gi-avest of expres- 
 sions to pass into the countenance of Mr, Mer- 
 ry whistle as Blade-o'-Gras8 looks up ? He does 
 not say ; but the grave expression remains upon 
 his face during the interview. He has not seen 
 her since the spring. Somehow or other, he lost 
 sight of her. Years ago, when Tom Beadle " set 
 
 her up" as a flower-girl, he had a strong inclina- 
 tion to do some substantial good for her — to re- 
 move her from the associations by which she was 
 surrounded, and which dragged her down to the 
 lowest level. But, in the first place, he could 
 ill aflbrd it ; and, in the second, when he had 
 spoken of his wish to Jimmy Virtue, that worthy 
 had asked him if he thought he could take all 
 the world's work upon his one pair of shoulders. 
 "And after all," Jimmy Virtue had said, "isn't 
 the gal gettin' a honest livin' ?" 
 
 The old woman peers into Mr. Merrywhistle's 
 face, and as her ancient bonnet goes up iii the 
 air, it seems capacious enough to bury her whole 
 body in. Mr. Merry whistle gives her a kind 
 look, and addresses himself to Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 * ' This is not a fit place for you — " He is about 
 to add, "my poor child," but her womanly ap- 
 pearance checks him. 
 
 "Ain't it?" she replies, with a smile on her 
 lips that is not pleasant to see. ' ' What is, then ?" 
 
 He is surprised at her reckless manner. 
 "Have you business here? Are you waiting 
 for any one?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "For whom?" 
 
 "Ah, that's what I asked her," pipes the old 
 ■woman ; " but she wouldn't tell me." 
 
 "I'm waitin' for Tom," she says, answering 
 him. 
 
 "Tom Beadle?" 
 
 "Yes, Tom Beadle." 
 
 "Is he in prison, then?" he asks, very gentl}'. 
 
 "Yes ; he's been doin' a month." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " What does it matter? Priggin' — any thin'. " 
 
 Perceiving that Blade-o'-Grass does not wish 
 to pursue the conversation, Mr. Merrywhistle 
 steps aside, sad at heart; but lingers, looking 
 pityingly at Blade-o'-Grass. As he does so a 
 clock strikes the hour, and the eyes of the ex- 
 pectant group turn eagerly to the prison door, 
 which presently opens. Six or seven persons 
 walk out. The women blink their eyes as they 
 come into the light ; the men shake themselves 
 like dogs ; some raise their hands to their brows, 
 and look about them as Gulliver might have 
 done when he found himself in a strange land. 
 The little old woman hastens to her daughter, a 
 patient-looking woman, and for a moment two 
 faces are hidden in the ancient bonnet. One 
 man, who has seven or eight friends waiting for 
 him, shakes his fist at the prison, and kicks the 
 stone-wall savagely. 
 
 " That's how I'd like to serve the guvner of 
 that there cussed hole!" he exclaims. "Give 
 me something to drink, or I shall choke!" 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 51 
 
 Another man looks around with a vacant 
 stare : there is no one to meet him. With 
 something like a sigh his head sinks into his 
 shoulders, and he slinks away, hugging the wall 
 as he goes. 
 
 The last to come out is Tom Beadle. Blade- 
 o'-Grass is by his side in an instant. 
 
 *' Gome along, Tom," she says, clinging fond- 
 ly to his arm, and pulling his face down to hers 
 and kissing it; "I've got something nice to eat 
 at home." 
 
 "You're a good sort, Bladergrass," says the 
 thief. "Let's get away from this place quick, 
 and go home." 
 
 Home ! Yes, to Stoney Alley, no't twenty yards 
 from where her mother had died — a room in 
 an attic, which had been thoroughly cleaned and 
 made tidy for the return of the prodigal. No 
 furniture to speak of; a fire, and a saucepan on 
 the hob ; a mug of beer, a flat bottle with gin in 
 it; one chair and a stool and a table; a bed in 
 the corner. 
 
 Tom surveys the room with satisfaction beam- 
 ing in his eyes. Blade-o'-Grass looks at him, 
 and joy breaks like sunlight over her face be- 
 cause he is pleased. 
 
 "Drink some beer, Tom." 
 
 He takes a deep drauglit, puts the jug down, 
 heaves a long breath, and repeats, 
 
 ' ' You're a real good sort, Bladergrass. Give 
 us another kiss, old gal!" 
 
 ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS. 
 
 But that the gray streaks are thickening in 
 Mrs. Silver's hair, and that her husband is fast 
 growing bald, it might have been but yesterday 
 that we were sitting with tliem in the cozy par- 
 lor in Buttercup Square. Every thing inani- 
 mate is the same as it was seven years ago, and 
 does not appear to have grown any older or 
 shabbier; the very cuckoo in the clock retains 
 its youth, and its tones, as it asserts itself to be 
 the great "I am," are as fresh as ever they were. 
 Hark! it is speaking now, and "Cuck-oo!" is- 
 sues six times from its throat, sparklingly, as if 
 defying time. It is six o'clock. The days are 
 drawing in, and it is dark enough for lights. 
 But Mr. and Mrs. Silver sit in the dusk before 
 the fire, talking of the matters nearest to their 
 hearts. Their married life has been a happy 
 one — with clouds in it, of coarse. Natural griefs 
 and sorrows have come to them, as to others. 
 At first a storm threatened their future, but it 
 did not burst over them. The exercise of kind- 
 ly impulse ; the wise and good desire to oocept 
 
 ' the inevitable, and to make the loneliness of their 
 , lives a means of happiness to others ; their de- 
 [ pendence on one another, and mutual love and 
 faith ; their recognition, in their every action, 
 of higher duties of life than are generally ac- 
 knowledged in practice — turned the storm to 
 sunshine, brought happiness to them. If they 
 were to die now, they would be blessed with th* 
 happy assurance that their lives had been pro- 
 ductive of good to others. So might we all live ; 
 so should we all live. The world would be the 
 better for it. No man or woman is unblessed 
 with the want of continual opportunity for doing 
 good or being kind. 
 
 "Christmas will very soon be here once 
 more," says Mr. Silver. 
 
 " We'll have a merry gathering," Mrs. Silver 
 answers. "There will be changes before the 
 next comes round." 
 
 ' ' Yes ; our little children are men and women 
 now." 
 
 "Good men and women, thank God!" 
 
 "Wife," he says, "I have thought many 
 times of your words when I brought little Char- 
 ley home twenty-three years ago. The child 
 was lying in your lap, and you said, 'Perhaps 
 this is the reason why God has given us no chil- 
 dren.'" 
 
 She looks at him with a tender light in her 
 eyes. Between these two love does not show it- 
 self in words, but in ministering to each other 
 unselfishly. 
 
 "They have been a blessing to us, dear," she 
 saj's. "Our household will be smaller present- 
 ly. Charley and Ruth, I think, are fond of each 
 other. He brings her home now every night." 
 
 "What did Charley earn last week?" 
 
 "Thirty-eight shillings." 
 
 " Is that sufficient to marry on ?"' 
 
 "Quite sufficient, and to spare; and Charley 
 has money put by to start with. They must live 
 near us. Charley would hke to, I know, and 
 Ruth too ; but it will be time enough to talk of 
 these things by-and-by." 
 
 " Carry your mind ten years on, my dear." 
 
 "Well, I do so." 
 
 "What do you see?" 
 
 "If we live ?'* 
 
 "If we live." 
 
 She muses a little, looking into the fire. 
 
 "Ourselves old people; Charley and Ruth 
 happily married, with children of their own ; 
 Mary married also, although her prince is not 
 yet come, and is a stranger to us. Richard will 
 go abroad : I can tell, by his reading and con- 
 versation, that his heart is set upon it. And 
 Rachel— poor Rachel! — stopping sometiriies 
 
52 
 
 BLADE- O'- GRASS. 
 
 with us, and sometimes — nearly always, indeed 
 —with Ruth and Chai'ley. I can see myself 
 with hair perfectly white, and you with only a 
 fringe of white hair round your head." 
 
 He laughs softly and pleasantly, and caresses 
 her hand. 
 
 *'I can see nothing but happiness, dear." 
 
 They sit quietly before the fire, and the dark- 
 ness grows deeper. The door opens, and Mr. 
 Merrywhistle enters softly. 
 
 "Don't stir," he says; "and don't light the 
 gas. I was told you were here, and I know how 
 fond you are of sitting in the dark." 
 
 It was indeed a favorite habit with them when 
 they were alone. He sits by them in silence ; 
 for a minute or two no word is spoken. Then 
 Mrs. Silver places her hand lightly on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 " I understand, I understand," he says ; "you 
 are waiting for me to speak. You always know 
 when I am in trouble. " 
 
 " How can I help knowing ? Your face I can 
 not see, but I hear your heart in your voice." 
 
 " Tell me : is it a good thing to make other 
 persons' troubles ours ?" 
 
 " What is sympathy for?" she answers, in re- 
 turn. 
 
 "I have spoken to you now and again of a 
 child — a girl — whom I have seen occasionally — " 
 
 "The flower-girl?" 
 
 "Yes, the flower-girl; the girl whom I met 
 for the first time in the company of a boy who 
 deceived me — a boy who told me the most un- 
 blushing 1 — stories, and who yet had some hu- 
 manity in him." 
 
 " That is many years ago. The girl must be 
 almost a woman now." 
 
 " She is a woman, God help her ! — more wom- 
 an than her years warrant. I should think she 
 Is about the same age as Ruth. And it comes 
 upon me again, that fancy, when I speak of Ruth 
 and think of this poor girl." 
 
 " Yes ; you have told us there is a singular 
 likeness between them." 
 
 "It is striking — wonderfully striking. But 
 there can be nothing in it ; for Ruth, you have 
 said, was the only child of a poor woman who 
 died a fortnight after the little thing was bom." 
 
 "Yes, my friend." 
 
 ' ' So that it is pure accident ; but the fancy 
 remains, for all that. I shall never forget the 
 sad story that this poor Blade-o'-Grass told me 
 of the tiger that worried her, and clamored for 
 food. It was hunger, my dear friends, hunger. 
 I shall never forget her notion that Hallelujah 
 came to her while she was asleep, and put baked 
 potatoes in her lap. I shall never forget my 
 
 pleasure when I first saw her with a basket of 
 flowers, and bought a flower of her. But I have 
 told you of these things before, and here I am 
 babbling of them again, like an old man that has 
 lost his wits." 
 
 "Never mind, friend ; go on." 
 
 " I saw poor Blade-o'-Grass this morning. I 
 haven't seen her for many months. I had occa- 
 sion to pass by a certain prison early, and I saw 
 her, with a dozen others, waiting outside. She 
 was waiting for this boy that was — this man and 
 thief that is. I lingered until the prison doors 
 were opened, and let him and others out. And j 
 when he came" — there were tears in the old man's 
 voice as he spoke — "and when he came, this un- 
 happy girl kissed him and clung to him as with 
 less shame she might have kissed and clung to a 
 better man, had she been taught something good 
 when she was younger." 
 
 "My dear, dear friend!" says Mrs. Silver, 
 taking his hand in hers. 
 
 "I can not tell you what I feared as I saw her, 
 and spoke to her before the prison doors were 
 opened. Poor Blade-o'-Grass! poor child! 
 Nay, let me have my way." 
 
 And this good old man, whose heart is as 
 tender as that of a good woman, sheds tears and 
 trembles ; if a daughter's happiness had been at 
 stake, he could not have been more moved. 
 Wisely, Mr. and Mrs. Silver do not disturb him, 
 but talk together of other subjects until Mr. Mei- 
 rywhistle exclaims, with something of his usual 
 cheerfulness, ' ' What on earth are we sitting in 
 the dark for ?" Whereat Mr. Silver smiles, and 
 lights the gas. As if the light is the means of 
 suddenly waking up the cuckoo from a nap, it 
 immediately proclaims seven o'clock, and in an- 
 other hour the whole of Mrs. Silver's family are 
 assembled in the parlor. Rachel, the blind givl, 
 has no out-door occupation, but all the others 
 have. Charley, as you know, is a printer, and, 
 being out of his time, is earning good wages ; 
 Richard is a watch-maker, still an apprentice, 
 and making famous progress ; and Mary and 
 Ruth are both of them in the postal telegraph 
 office. For it has been part of Mrs. Silver's plan 
 to give her family the opportunity of making 
 their way in the world, and boys and girls have 
 been taught that to work is one of the chief du- 
 ties and one of the best blessings of life. Char- 
 ley and Ruth come in together. He has grown 
 quite a man since we last saw him, and Ruth, 
 Blade-o'-Grass's sister, is as bright and cheerful- 
 looking a lass as one can meet. She is partic- 
 ularly bright just now, and looks particularly 
 happy, for she and Charley have had a brisk 
 walk; her cheeks are glowing healthfully, and 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 there is a bright sparkle in her eyes. Then 
 questions are asked and answered. The events 
 of the day are narrated, and it is wonderful what 
 interest is manifested in these trifles. Every 
 few minutes the comfortable parlor in Butter- 
 cup Square is filled with merry laughter. 
 
 "Come, come, children," says Mr. Silver, 
 after nearly an hour has been spent in this man- 
 ner ; " are we to have any reading to-night ?" 
 
 The books are instantly brought forward, and 
 tlie youngstem are busy turning over the leaves. 
 When last we were in their company they were 
 deep in the beautiful story of "Paul and Virginia." 
 Since then they have had rare nights with their 
 favorite authors, and have laughed and cried, as 
 hundreds of thousands of others have done, over 
 the sayings and doings of the men and women 
 and children who play their parts in the pages of 
 Thackeray and Scott and Dickens and Jerrold, 
 and authors of long ago. It is not a novel that 
 engages their attention now ; this is one of their 
 "play" nights, when scenes from Shakspeare 
 are read. When the rustling of the leaves has 
 ceased, they all with one accord turn to Rachel, 
 the blind girl. She knows they are looking at 
 her, and her face flushes as she says, "Yes, 
 I am ready." Then says Richard, in a deep 
 bass voice, laying his finger on the first line of 
 the fomth act of "The Merchant of Venice," 
 " What, is Antonio here ?" And Charley forth- 
 with answers, "Ready, so please your grace;" 
 and the play commences. They all take parts, 
 with the exception of Mr. Merrywhistle, who is 
 the audience, and who applauds as if the house 
 is packed, and there is not standing room for 
 one. Mr. Silver takes Shylock (the villain's part 
 generally falls to his share), and Ruth reads the 
 few lines that Nerissa has to say. But the great 
 wonder of the reading takes place when Rich- 
 ard, as the Duke, says, 
 
 " You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes : 
 And here, I take it, is the doctor come." 
 
 Up rises Rachel, the blind girl. 
 
 " Give me your hand. Come you from old BeUario ?" 
 
 And Rachel bows, and answers, in a gentle 
 voice, "I did, my lord." The scene proceeds, 
 and Rachel speaks Portia's lines with grace and 
 power, and does not falter at a word. How they 
 all praise her and cluster round her when the act 
 is finished, and the books are closed ! 
 
 But this is only one of very many such 
 nights passed in that happy home in Buttercup 
 Square^ 
 
 "imE, TtT SO i/nliKE. 
 
 [TSfrfiirday Ruth and Char- 
 il^L/yfith the sanqtion of y 
 
 FACE TO face- 
 On the followii 
 ley had a holiday,^ 
 
 their kind guardians7Sli^^taft4iMled to spend at 
 the International Exhibitio^^^==5fee-holiday had 
 been planned a month before its arrival, and 
 had, indeed, been the occasion of an innocent 
 conspiracy between Ruth and Rachel and Char- 
 ley, and of much mysterious conversation. Ra- 
 chel was to accompany them. The day, which 
 had been looked forward to with such rapturous 
 anticipation as only the young can experience 
 and enjoy, at length arrived. In a very flutter 
 of delight, the two girls and their hero — for 
 Charley was Rachel's hero as well as Ruth's-— 
 bade Mrs. Silver good-morning, and went out 
 into the streets with joy in their hearts. Very 
 tender were they to each other, and very tender 
 were Ruth and Charley to their blind compan- 
 ion. No words of love had passed between 
 Ruth and Rachel, although their attachment was 
 known to their kind guardians, as you have read. 
 But, indeed, no words were required ; their al- 
 most unconsciously exercised tenderness toward 
 one another were sufficient confirmation of mu- 
 tual affection. These two young persons were 
 enjoying the purest, happiest dream that life 
 contains. May all the grown-up people who 
 read these pages have enjoyed such a pure and 
 happy dream ! May all others live to enjoy it ! 
 Ruth and Charley, of course, with the usual 
 blindness of lovers, believed that no one noticed 
 any thing particular in their behavior; but in 
 this respect they were as blind as Rachel — more 
 so, indeed, if there be degrees in blindness, for 
 even she guessed their secret. In the course of 
 their rambles through the Exhibition, she sat 
 down and asked to be left alone for a while, and 
 when Ruth and Charley demurred, insisted, with 
 a pretty and affectionate willfulness, on having 
 her own way. 
 
 "And don't hurry," she said, turning her face 
 to them and smiling sweetly. "You will find 
 me here when you come back. I am tired, and 
 want a long, long rest." 
 
 And there the blind girl sat, seeing nothing, en- 
 joying every thing, while unsuspecting Ruth and 
 Charley wandered away into fairy-land, arm in 
 arm. Soft strains of music came to Rachel's ears, 
 and she listened and drank them in, with clasped 
 hands and head inclined. She was as one in- 
 spired ; visions of beauty passed before her, and 
 the melodious notes were imbued with palpable 
 loveliness for her. Many a passer-by paused to 
 look at her beautiful face, and felt the better for 
 it, and a great lady came and sat down beside 
 
54 
 
 BLADE-O'- GRASS. 
 
 her. When the music ceased, the lady said, " My 
 dear, are you here alone ?" 
 
 "Oh no,*' replied Rachel, "I have friends; I 
 asked them to let me sit by myself. I wanted to 
 listen to the music. They will come for me pres- 
 ently." 
 
 " You love music ?" 
 
 *' Who can help loving it. I can see it." 
 
 The lady's voice was soft and sweet, and Ua- 
 c\ie\ felt goodness in her manner. "Tell me," 
 she said, "what is before me." 
 
 They were sitting opposite a piece of sculpture 
 — a perfect work — and the lady described it, and 
 described it well, and told the story that it illus- 
 trated. 
 
 "Ah," sighed the blind girl, " it is beautiful!" 
 
 The lady was accompanied by her husband and 
 child. 
 
 "Is this your little daughter?" asked Rachel. 
 
 "My dear," exclaimed the lady, "I thought — 
 thought—" 
 
 "That I was quite blind," said Rachel, smil- 
 ing. " So I am. But see — your little girl's hand 
 is in mine." 
 
 And indeed the child, who was standing by her 
 mother's side, had placed her hand in Rachel's, 
 beneath the folds of the blind girl's shawl. 
 
 "And without that I think I could tell," add- 
 ed Rachel. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, it is my little girl," said the 
 lady. 
 
 Rachel stooped and kissed the child, whose 
 hand stole round Rachel's neck, and caressed it. 
 Lips purer and more innocent had never met. 
 So they sat, talking for a little while longer, until 
 Rachel raised her face, and smiled a happy greet- 
 ing to Ruth and Charley, who were standing be- 
 fore her. The lady and the child bade good-bye 
 to Rachel, and kissed her ; and when they met 
 again, an hour afterward, the child gave Rachel 
 a flower. 
 
 Like the incense of a breeze tliat has been wan- 
 dering among sweet-smelling plants ; like the soft 
 plash of water on a drowsy day ; like the singing 
 of birds, are such small circumstances as these. 
 Thank God for them! 
 
 And what had Ruth and Charley been doing? 
 Dreaming — nothing more — walking almost in 
 silence among the busy, eager, bustling crowd, 
 standing before works of beauty, and enjoying. 
 Every thing was beautiful in their eyes. Per- 
 fect harmony encompassed them ; the commonest 
 tilings were idealized ; their souls were filled with 
 a sense of worship. 
 
 How quickly the hours passed ! It seemed to 
 them that they had been in the place but a few 
 ipinutes, and it was already time for them to go. 
 
 They left with many a sigh, and many a parting 
 glance at the wonders which lined the spaces 
 through which they walked. Ruth's hand was 
 clasped in Charley's beneath her mantle, and a 
 tender light was in her eyes as they made their 
 way through the restless throng. It was still light 
 when the omnibus put them down within a mile 
 of Buttercup Square, The tram-way carriage 
 would have carried them to the avenue that led 
 to Buttercup Square; but both Ruth and Rachel 
 expressed a desire to walk, wishful perhaps to 
 prolong the happy time. Charley, nothing loath, 
 gave an arm to each of the girls, and they walk- 
 ed slowly onward, Rachel being nearest to the 
 wall. They were passing a man and a girl, who 
 were talking together. The girl had just utter- 
 ed some words to the man, who was leaving 
 her, when Rachel cried suddenly, in a voice of 
 alarm, 
 
 " Ruth, was it you who spoke ?" 
 
 Her face was deadly pale, and her limbs were 
 trembling. 
 
 "No, Rachel," answered Ruth, surprised at 
 the blind girl's agitation. 
 
 As she replied, both she and Charley turned, 
 and saw Blade-o'-Grass. Thus, for the first 
 time since their infancy, the sisters looked each 
 other in the fixce.' Each saw, instantaneously, 
 such a resemblance to.herself, that they leaned to- 
 ward each other in sudden bewilderment. Their 
 gaze lasted scarcely as long as one might count 
 three, for Cliarley hurried Ruth and Rachel on; 
 he also had seen with amazement the likenciis 
 that Blade-o'-Grass bore to Ruth, and that there 
 should be any resemblance to his treasure in such 
 a forlorn, disreputable-looking creature as Blade- 
 o'-Grass, smote him with a sense of pain. Ruth 
 walked along, dazed ; but befoi*e they had gone 
 a dozen yards she stopped, and pressed her hand 
 to her heart. 
 
 " Ruth! dear Ruth !" exclaimed Charley, plac- 
 ing his arm round her, for indeed she was almost 
 falling. She released herself, and said, in a faint 
 voice, 
 
 " Rachel, why did you ask if it was I who 
 spoke ?" 
 
 "The tone was so exactly like yours, Ruth," 
 answered Rachel, * ' that the words slipped out 
 from me unaware. Who was it that spoke ?" 
 
 "It must have been a poor girl whom we 
 have just passed." 
 
 "What is she like?" 
 
 Ruth's lips trembled, but she did not answer 
 the question. 
 
 "Why must the words have slipped from you 
 unaware, Rachel ?" 
 
 ' ' Because, if I had considered an instant, I 
 
BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 55 
 
 should not ha^e asked. You could not have said 
 such a thing." 
 
 "What thing? — Nay, Charley, don't interrupt 
 me," said Ruth, in such an imploring tone, that 
 he was mute from fear, for Ruth's eyes were filled 
 with tears, and her face was very pale. " What 
 thing, Rachel?" 
 
 *' Just then," answered Rachel, slowly and sol- 
 emnly, *'a voice said. Tor God's sake, Tom, 
 bring home some money, for there's not a bit of 
 bread in the cupboard !' " 
 
 *' Charley !" cried Ruth, hurriedly, " stand here 
 with Rachel for a few moments. Don't follow 
 me ; let me go alone." 
 
 She was his queen, and he obeyed her ; but his 
 apprehensive looks followed her, although he did 
 not stir from the spot. Ruth hastened to where 
 Blade-o'-Grass was standing. The poor outcast 
 was very wan and wretched. Ruth knew part 
 of her own history ; for Mrs. Silver, when her 
 adopted children arrived at a proper age, had 
 told them, gently, as much of the story of their 
 lives as slie deemed it right and necessary for 
 them to know. The hours in which she unfold- 
 ed their stories to her children were quiet and 
 solemn ; there was no one present but she and 
 her adopted one ; and she told them their his- 
 tory so gently, and with such sweet words of love, 
 that they were never unhappy when they learned 
 the truth. Ruth, therefore, knew that she was 
 an oi-phan ; and she, in common with the others, 
 had shed many grateful tears, and had oifered 
 up many grateful prayers, for the merciful heart 
 that had made life a blessing to her. As she 
 stood before her sister, so like, yet so unlike — her 
 sister never to be recognized, or acknowledged as 
 of her blood — the thought came to her, "But 
 for my dear good mother I miglit have been like 
 this — ragged, forlorn, hungiy, with not a bit of 
 bread in the cupboard!" 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass, whose wistful eyes had follow- 
 ed the strange likeness to herself, saw Ruth turn 
 back, and dropped a courtesy as her sister, in her 
 warm, soft dress, stood before her. 
 
 Then said Ruth, timidly, "It was you who 
 said that?" She herself might have been the 
 suppliant, her voice and manner were so quiet 
 and humble. 
 
 "Said what, miss?" 
 
 " That you hadn't a bit of bread in the cup- 
 board. " 
 
 "It's true, miss, and to-morrow's Sunday." 
 
 Ruth thought of what a happy day the Sabbath 
 was to her and hers in Buttercup Square, the 
 goodness of it, the peacefulness of it ! And this 
 forlorn girl before her, the sight of whom had so 
 strangely unnerved her, had only one thought of 
 
 that happy Sabbath to-morrow — whether she 
 would be able to get bread to eat. Tears choked 
 her voice as she asked, "Will you tell me your 
 name?" 
 
 "Blade-o'-Grass, miss." 
 
 Ruth looked up in surprise. "Is that your 
 real name?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, I ain't got no other." 
 
 Ruth's hand had been in her pocket from the 
 first, with her purse in it ; but she could scarcely 
 muster sufficient courage to give. She judged 
 poor Blade-o'-Grass with the eyes of her own 
 sensitive soul, and felt that if money were ofi*er- 
 ed to her she would sink to the earth in shame. 
 
 "Will you pardon me," she said, hesitatingly, 
 the hot blood flushing her neck and face ; " will 
 you pardon me if I offer you — if I beg of you to — 
 to—" 
 
 The hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out ea- 
 gerly, imploringly, and Ruth emptied her purse 
 into it. Blade-o'-Grass wondered at the munifi- 
 cence of the gift, and the modesty with which it 
 was given, and her fingers closed greedily on the 
 silver coins. 
 
 " God Almighty bless you, miss !" she exclaim- 
 ed, taking Ruth's hand and kissing it. "God 
 Almighty bless you !" The tears were streaming 
 down both their faces. A warm hand pressure, 
 a last grateful look from Blade-o'Grass, and the 
 sisters parted. 
 
 " Oh, Charley ! Charley !" sobbed Ruth, as she 
 clasped his arm, "I might have been like that!' 
 They walked in silence to their home, and Ruth 
 whispered to her companions not to say any 
 thing to their kind guardians of what had taken 
 place. " It might make them sad," she said. 
 
 It was dusk when they went in-doors. Rachel 
 went to her room first, and Ruth and Charley 
 lingered in the passage. 
 
 " Ruth !" he whispered. 
 
 She laid her head upon his breast with the con- 
 fidence and innocence of a child. He stooped 
 and kissed her cheek, still wet with her tears. 
 She clung to him more closely — hid her face in 
 his neck. A wondering hai)piness took posses- 
 sion of them. 
 
 KOBERT TRUEFIT ALLOWS HIS FEELINGS TO 
 MASTER HIM. 
 
 The chance acquaintanceship which had so 
 strangely syrung up seven years ago between Mr. 
 Merrj'whistle, Robert Truefit, and Jimmy Virtue 
 had ripened into intimacy, and it was not un- 
 usual for the three to meet in the old man's leav- 
 ing-shop in Stoney Alley. The shop and the 
 stock were, on the whole, less fragrant than ou 
 
56 
 
 BLADE -O'-GEASS. 
 
 the occasion of Mr. Merry whistle's first introduc- 
 tion to them. An additional seven years' mouldi- 
 ness lay heavy on the shelves ; but fomiliarity had 
 rendered the musty vapor less objectionable to 
 the benevolent gentleman. There was no per- 
 ceptible change of importance in Jimmy Virtue ; 
 his skin certainly had got tougher and dryer and 
 
 ners ; the same crinolines loomed from unlikely 
 places; the same old boots hung from the ceil- 
 ing ; and doubtless the same vanities of vanities 
 were inclosed in the box which served as a rest- 
 ing-place in Jimmy Virtue's parlor. 
 
 It was a dull, miserable November night. A 
 thick fog had lain upon Stoney Alley during the 
 
 "euth emitied hee pdkse into bladb-o'-6ba.bs's hands." 
 
 yellower, but otherwise he did not seem to be a 
 day older. His eyebrows were as precipitous, 
 and his glass eye as mild, and his fierce eye as 
 fierce, as ever they were. No perceptible change, 
 either, was to be observed in the articles which 
 filled his shop : the same faded dresses and dirty 
 petticoats were crammed into inconvenient cor- 
 
 day, necessitating the use of candles and gas ; 
 toward the evening the fog had cleared away, 
 and a dismal rain had set in ; Stoney Alley and 
 its neighboring courts and lanes were overlaid 
 with dirty puddles. It was by a strange chance, 
 therefore, that Mr. Merrywhistle and Kobert 
 Truefit found themselves in Jimmy Virtue's par- 
 
BLADE- O'- GRASS. 
 
 57 
 
 lor on this evening ; they said as much to each 
 other. Each of them had some special business 
 which brought them in Jimmy's neighborhood, 
 and he expressed his pleasure when he saw them. 
 They were the only living friends he had ; other 
 friends he had, but they were not human ; not- 
 withstanding which, some hours would have hung 
 dreadfully upon Jimmy's hands if he had been 
 deprived of them. These friends were aces, 
 deuces, knaves, and the like ; in other words, a 
 pack of cards. Very dirty, ver}-- greasy, very 
 much thumbed and dog's-eared, but very useful. 
 Jimmy spent comfortable hours with these friends. 
 Sitting in his chair, he would place an imaginary 
 opponent on the seat opposite to him, and would 
 play blind All-Fours with his unreal foe for large 
 sums of money. "Jack" was the name of his 
 opponent ; and Jimmy often talked to him, and 
 called him a fool for playing, and abused him 
 generally for incapacity. For Jimmy nearly al- 
 ways won ; and many and many a night Jack 
 was dismissed a ruined and broken-hearted shad- 
 ow, while Jimmy, after putting up his shutters, 
 let down his turn-up bedstead, and went to bed a 
 winner of hundreds, sometimes of thousands of 
 pounds. For Jack's wealth was enormous ; he 
 never refused a bet, never declined "double or 
 quits. " So reckless a player was he — ^being egged 
 on by Jimmy — that it was impossible he could 
 have come by his money honestly. Be that as it 
 may, his ill-gotten gains were swept into Jimmy's 
 imaginaiy coffers, to the old man's delight and 
 satisfaction. It is a positive fact, that Jimmy 
 had grown into a sort of belief in Jack's exist- 
 ence, and often imagined that he saw a shadowy 
 opponent sitting opposite him. There was a 
 very good reason why Jimmy so invariably won 
 and Jack so invariably lost. Jimmy cheated. 
 He often slipped into his own cards an ace or a 
 knave that properly belonged to Jack. When 
 Jimmy did this, his manner was as wary and 
 cautious as though flesh and blood opposed him. 
 It was a picture to see this old man playing All- 
 Fours with Jack for ten pounds a game, or for 
 "double or quits," and cheating his helpless ad- 
 versary. 
 
 When Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit 
 entered Jimmy's parlor — they had met at the 
 door of tiie leaving-shop — he was playing greasy 
 All-Fours with Jack, and had just scored a win- 
 ning game. Robert Truefit always had some- 
 thing new to speak of: a trade-union outrage, a 
 strike, a flagrant instance of justices' justice, a 
 mass meeting and what was said thereat, and 
 other subjects, of which a new crop springs np ev- 
 ery day in a great country where tens of millions 
 of people live and have to be legislated for. The 
 
 late war, of course, was a fruitful theme with 
 Robert Truefit, who spoke of it as an infamous 
 outrage upon civilization. Especially indignant 
 was he at the sacrilege which lay in one king in- 
 voking "the God of Battles," and in the other 
 praying to the Supreme to assist him in bringing 
 desolation and misery to thousands of homes. 
 But this is no place for the outpourings of Rob- 
 ert's indignation on those themes. From those 
 lofty heights they came down, after a time, to 
 Blade-o'-Grass. It was Mr. Merrywhistle who 
 introduced her name. He asked Jimmy if he 
 had seen her lately. No ; Jimmy hadn't seen 
 her for a month. 
 
 "You see," said Jimmy, "she's a woman 
 now, and 'as been on 'er own 'ook this many a 
 year. Besides which, once when I spoke to her 
 she was sarcy, and cheeked me because I wanted 
 to give 'er a bit of advice — good advice, too. 
 But she was up in the stirrups then." 
 
 "Has she ever been prosperous?" inquired 
 Mr. Merrywhistle. 
 
 "Well, not what you would call prosperous, I 
 dare say; but she's 'ad a shillin' to spare now 
 and agin. And then, agin, she 'asn't, now and 
 agin. She's 'ad her ups and downs like all the 
 other gals about 'ere ; you couldn't expect any 
 thin' else, you know. And of course you've 
 'eerd that Tom Beadle and 'er — " 
 
 "Tom Beadle and her — what?" asked Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, as Jimmy paused. 
 
 ' ' Oh, nothin ', " replied Jimmy, evasively ; " it's 
 sich a common thing that it ain't worth mention- 
 in'." 
 
 " I saw her myself about six weeks ago," said 
 Mr. Merrywhistle ; and he narrated how he had 
 met Blade-o'-Grass outside the prison, and what 
 had passed between them, and what he had seen. 
 "Tell me," he said, "is she married to Tom 
 Beadle?" 
 
 Jimmy Virtue's eye of flesh expressed that Mr. 
 Menywhistle outrivaled Simple Simon in sim- 
 plicity. " I do believe," thought Jimmy, " that 
 he gits greener and greener every time I see him." 
 Then he said aloud, contemptuously, " Married to 
 Tom ! As much as I am I " 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle twisted his fingers nervous- 
 Iv, and otherwise so comported himself as to 
 show that he was grieved and pained. 
 
 "I wouldn't 'ave a 'ait as soft as yours," 
 thought Jimmy, as Mr. Merrywhistle rested his 
 head upon his hand sadly, "and as green as 
 yours — no, not for a 'atful of money." 
 
 "Poor child! poor child I" exclaimed Mr. 
 Merrywhistle. "I wish I could do something 
 for her." 
 
 "Too late," said Jimmy, shortly. 
 
58 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 *' Yes, too late, I'm afraid," said Robert True- 
 fit. *'Blade-o'- Grass is a woman now. Her 
 ideas, her principles, her associations are rooted. 
 When she was a sapling, good might have been 
 done for her, and she might have grown up 
 straight. But she had no chance, poor tiling ! 
 And Jimmy's tone and your fears point to some- 
 thing worse than hunger. You fear she is lead- 
 ing a bad life. " 
 
 "No, no!" interposed Mr. Merrywhistle, ear- 
 nestly ; ' ' not that — indeed, not that. But I would 
 give more than I could afford if I knew that she 
 ■was married to Tom Beadle." 
 
 "Thief as he is ?" questioned Robert Truefit. 
 
 "Thief as he is," replied Mr. Merrywhistle. 
 
 His grief was contagious : Robert Truefit turn- 
 ed away, with a troubled look on his face ; Jim- 
 my Virtue preserved a stohd silence, as was his 
 general habit on such occasions. "What can 
 one good man do ?" presently said Robert True- 
 fit, in a low tone ; but his voice was singularly 
 clear. "What can a hundred good men do, 
 each working singly, according to the impulse 
 of his benevolent heart ? I honor them for their 
 deeds, and God forbid that I should harbor a 
 wish to check them! Would that more money 
 were as well spent, and that their numbers were 
 increased a hundred-fold! They do some good. 
 But is it not cruel to know that Blade-o'-Grass 
 is but one of thousands of human blades who 
 are cursed, shunned, ignored, through no fault of 
 theirs, and who, when circumstances push them 
 into the light, are crushed by System ? If they 
 were lepers, their condition would be better. 
 And they might be so different ! To themselves, 
 and all around them. To the State ; to society. 
 Is it not enough almost to make one believe that 
 our statesmen are blind or grievously misled, or 
 that they are playing at politics, or that they have 
 set themselves in such high places that they can't 
 stoop to give a hand where help is most needed, 
 where good advice and good example are most 
 needed ? What do they do for such poor places 
 as these? Give them gin-shops and an extra 
 number of pohce. No effort made for improve- 
 ment; no clearing away of nest-holes where 
 moral corruption and physical misery fester and 
 ripen. And while they legislate, Blades-o'-Grass 
 are springing up all around them, and living poi- 
 soned lives. And while they legislate, if there 
 be truth in what preachers preach, souls are be- 
 ing damned by force of circumstance. What 
 should be the aim of those who govern ? So to 
 govern as to produce the maximum of human hap- 
 piness and, comfort, and the minimum of human 
 misery and vice. Not to the few — to the many, 
 to all." He paused, and turned to Mr. Merry- 
 
 whistle. ' ' Seven years ago, " he continued, ' ' we 
 talked of poor Blade-o'-Grass. I told you then 
 — I remember it well — that England was full of 
 such pictures as that hungry, ignorant child, with 
 the tiger in her stomach, presented. Seven yeare 
 before that it was the same. During that time 
 Blade-o'-Grass has grown up from a baby to a 
 woman. What a childhood must hers have been ! 
 I wonder if she ever had a toy ! And see what 
 she is now : a woman for whom you fear — what 
 I guess, but will not say. What will she be — " 
 where will she be — in seven years from now? 
 Seventy years is the fullness of our age. Carry 
 Blade-o'-Grass onward for seven years more, and 
 find her an old woman long before she should 
 have reached her prime. What has been done 
 in the last seven years for such as she? What 
 will be done in the next — and the next ? There 
 are thousands upon thousands of such babes and 
 girls as she was seven years and twice seven years 
 ago growing up as I speak ; contamination is eat- 
 ing into their bones, corrupting their blood, poi- 
 soning their instincts for good. What shall be 
 done for them in the next seven years ? Pardon 
 me," he said, breaking off suddenly ; " I have let 
 my feelings run ahead of me, perhaps; but I'll 
 stick to what I've said, nevertheless." 
 
 With that he wished them good-night, and 
 took his leave. Mr. Merrywhistle soon followed 
 him, first ascertaining from Jimmy Virtue the 
 address of Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 Jimmy, being left to his own resources, went 
 to the door to see what sort of a night it was. 
 The rain was still falling drearily. It was too 
 miserable a night for him to take his usual pipe 
 in the open air, and too miserable a night for hira 
 to expect to do any business in. So he put up 
 his shutters, and retired to his parlor. Then he 
 took out his greasy pack of cards, and conjured 
 up Jack for a game of All-Fours. With his eye 
 on his opponent, he filled his pipe carefully, liglit- 
 ed it, puffed at it, and cut for deal. He won it, 
 and the first thing he did after that was to turn 
 up a knave (slipping it from the bottom of the 
 pack) and score one. He was in a more than 
 usually reckless and cheating mood. He staked 
 large sums, went double or quits, and double or 
 quits again, and cheated unblushingly. He won 
 a fortune off Jack in an hour ; and then con- 
 temptuously growled, "I'll try you at cribbage, 
 old fellow." The cribbage-board was his table, 
 and he scored the game with a bit of chalk. 
 Jack fared no better at cribbage than he had 
 done at All-Fours. Jimmy had all the good 
 cribs, Jack all the bad ones. By the time that 
 the table was smeared all over with chalk figures, 
 Jimmy was sleepy. He played one last game for 
 
BLADE -O'. GRASS. 
 
 69 
 
 an enormous stake, and liaving won it and ruined 
 Jack, he went to bed contentedly, and slept the 
 sleep of the just. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Me. Mebrtwhistlb had no very distinct plan 
 in his mind when he left Jimmy Virtue's shop to 
 visit Blade-o'-Grass. Sincerely commiserating 
 
 plied ? By what means was she to be lifted out 
 of that slough into which she had been allowed 
 to sink ? And then he feared that she was past 
 training. As Robert Truefit had said, Blade-o'- 
 Grass was a woman now, with a grown-up per- 
 son's passions and desires firmly rooted in her 
 nature. And he feared something else, also. 
 But he would see her and speak to her freely ; 
 good might come of it. 
 The room she occupied was at the extreme 
 
 TOOK OUT mS QBEABY PACK OF CARDS. 
 
 her condition, he wished to put her in the way 
 
 to get an honest and respectable living, but was 
 deeply perplexed as to the method by which she 
 was to arrive at this desirable consummation. 
 Some small assistance in money he might man- 
 age to give her ; but in what way could it be ap- 
 
 end of Stoney Alley, and Mr. ]Merr}'whistle was 
 soon stumbling along dark passages and up flights 
 of crippled stairs. When he reached the top of 
 the house, as he thought, he tapped at a door, 
 and, receiving no answer, turned the handle and 
 entered. A very old woman, sitting before a 
 
60 
 
 BLADE- O'- GRASS. 
 
 Tery small fire, smiled and mumbled in reply to 
 his questions ; and he soon discovered that she 
 was deaf and childish, and that he was in the 
 wrong apartment. As he stumbled into the 
 dark again, a woman, with a child in her arms, 
 came on to the landing with a candle in her 
 hand, and showed Mr. Merrywhistle that there 
 was still another flight of stairs to mount. Blade- 
 o'-Gi-ass lived up there, the woman said; first 
 door on the right. She didn't know if the girl 
 was at home. And then she asked if he was a 
 doctor. No, he answered, sui'prised at the ques- 
 tion ; he was not a doctor. The crazy stairs 
 complained audibly as he trod them. He knock- 
 ed at the first door on the right, and paused. 
 
 *' You'd better go in, and see, Sir," called the 
 woman from below; "perhaps she's asleep." 
 Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated. What right, he 
 thought, had he to intrude on the girl's privacy, 
 and at this time of night ? But the knowledge 
 that he was there for no bad purpose made him 
 bold, and he opened the door. A candle that 
 was buraing on the table threw a dim light 
 around, but the corners of the miserable apart- 
 ment were in shade. The woman was right in 
 her conjecture ; Blade-o'-Grass was in the room, 
 asleep. She was lying on the ground, dressed, 
 before a mockery of a fire ; her head was resting 
 on a stool, round which one arm was thrown. 
 The faintly -flickering flames threw occasional 
 gleams of light on the girl's face, over which, 
 strange to say, a smile was playing, as if her 
 dreams were jjleasant ones. The benevolent 
 old gentleman looked round upon the miserable 
 apartment, and sighed. It was a shelter, noth- 
 ing more — a shelter for want and destitution. 
 Then he looked down upon the form of the sleep- 
 ing girl, clothed in rags. Child-woman, indeed, 
 she was. Her pretty face was thin and pale; 
 but there was a happy expression upon it, and 
 once her arm clasped the stool with fond emo- 
 tion, as if she were pressing to her breast some- 
 thing that she loved. Yet, doubtless, there are 
 many stem moralists, philanthropic theorists, and 
 benevolent word-wasters, who would have looked 
 coldly upon this sleeping child, and who — self- 
 elected teachers as they are of what is good 
 and moral — would only have seen in her and 
 her surroundings a text for eff*ervescent plati- 
 tudes. But the school in which they learn their 
 lessons is as cruel and harsh as the school in 
 which Blade-o'-Grass learns hers is unwholesome 
 and bitter. 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle was debating with himself 
 whether he should arouse her, when a slight mo- 
 tion on his part saved him the trouble of decid- 
 ing. "Is that you, Tom?" she asked, softly. 
 
 opening her eyes, and then, seeing a strange fig- 
 ure before her, scrambled to her feet. 
 
 "I have come to see you," said Mr. Merry- 
 whistle. 
 
 Although she courtesied, she was scarcely awake 
 yet. But presently she said, "Oh yes, Sir; I 
 arks yer pardon. It's Mr. Merrywhistle ?" 
 
 " Yes, child ; may I sit down ?" 
 
 She motioned him to the only chair the room 
 contained. " It's very late, ain't it?" she asked. 
 And then, anxiously, "Is any think up?" 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle was sufficiently versed in vul- 
 gar vernacular to understand her meaning. No, 
 he said, there was nothing the matter. 
 
 She gave a sigh of relief as she said, "I 
 thought you might 'ave come to tell me some- 
 thin' bad." 
 
 " How long have you lived here?" 
 
 " Oh, ever so long." 
 
 "Alone?" he asked, after a slight pause. 
 
 But to this question she made no reply. 
 
 "Times are hard with you, are they not, my 
 child ?" he said, approaching his subject. 
 
 "Very 'ard," she answered, with a weary shalce 
 of the head. 
 
 "Have you given up selling flowers?" 
 
 "'Tain't the season for flowers," she answer- 
 ed ; " wilets won't be in for three months." 
 
 He felt the difficulty of the task he had set 
 himself. "How do you live when there are no 
 flowers ?" 
 
 "Any 'ow ; sometimes I sells matches ; I can't 
 tell you 'ow, and that's a fact. " 
 
 " But why don't you work ?" he inquired, with 
 a bold plunge. 
 
 ' ' Work ! " she exclaimed. * ' What work ? I 
 don't know nothin'. But I've been arksed that 
 lots of times. A peeler told me that once, and 
 when I arksed him to get me some work that I 
 could do, he only larfed." 
 
 " Suppose now," said Mr. Merrywhistle, " that 
 I were to take you away from this place, and put 
 you somewhere where you could learn dress- mak- 
 ing or needle- work." 
 
 She gave him a grateful and surprised look. 
 "I don't think it'd answer. Sir. I knoAvs lots 
 o' gals who tried to git a livin' by needle-work, 
 and couldn't do it. I knows some as set up till 
 two o'clock in the mornin', and got up agin at 
 eight, and then couldn't earn enough to git a shoe 
 to their foot. And they couldn't always git work ; 
 they'd go for weeks and couldn't git a stitch." 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Merrywhis- 
 tle, who was as ignorant as a child in such mat- 
 ters. " What did they do then ?" 
 
 Blade-o'-Grass laughed recklessly. "Del 
 what do you think ? Beg, or — somethin' else." 
 
BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 61 
 
 He was pained by her manner, and said, " My 
 poor child, I have only come here out of kind- 
 ness, and to try if I could do some good for you." 
 
 "I know. Sir," she said, gratefully; "you've 
 always been kind to me as long as I can remem- 
 ber; I don't forget. Sir. But there's some things 
 I know more about nor you do. Sir. A gal can't 
 git a livin' by needle-work — leastways, a good 
 many of 'em can't. There was a woman livin' 
 in the next room : she worked 'er fingers to the 
 bone, and couldn't git enough to eat. Last win- 
 ter was a reg'lar 'ard un ; and then she lost her 
 work, and couldn't git another shop. She took 
 to beggin', and was 'ad up afore the beak. She 
 was discharged with a caution, I 'eerd. It was 
 a caution to her : she died o' starvation in that 
 there room !" 
 
 Grieved and shocked, Mr. Merrywhistle was si- 
 lent for a little while ; but he brightened up pres- 
 ently. He was sincerely desirous to do some tan- 
 gible good for Blade-o'-Grass. He thought of the 
 situations held by Ruth and Mary in the Postal 
 Telegi-aph Oflfice. Suppose he was to take Blade- 
 o'-Grass away from the contaminating influences 
 by which she was surrounded ; give her decent 
 clothes, and have her taught the system, so that 
 she might be an eligible candidate. He could 
 set some influence at work ; Mr. Silver would 
 do his best, and there were others also whom he 
 could induce to interest themselves. He felt quite 
 hopeful as he thought. He mooted the idea to 
 Blade-o'-Grass. She listened in silence, and when 
 she spoke, it was in a low voice, and with her 
 face turned from him. 
 
 "I've see'd them gals, and I'd like to be one 
 of 'em ; but — " 
 
 " But what, Blade-o'-Grass?" he asked, kindly, 
 almost tenderly ; for there was a plaintiveness in 
 her voice that deeply affected him. 
 
 " They must be able to read, mustn't they ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; they would be useless without that." 
 
 "And they must be able to write, too. Where 
 do you think / learned to read and write? I 
 don't know one letter from another." 
 
 Here was another difficulty, and a gigantic 
 one ; but it seemed as if each fresh obstacle only 
 served to expand Mr. Meny whistle's benevolent 
 heart. 
 
 " Why then, "he said, cheerfully, " suppose we 
 teach you to read and write. You'd learn quick- 
 ly, I'll be bound." 
 
 A sudden rush of tears came to her eyes, and 
 she sat down on the floor, and sobbed, and rock- 
 ed herself to and fro. 
 
 ' ' It's too late ! " she cried. " Too late ! " 
 
 Too late! The very words used by Robert 
 Truefit. They fell ominously on Mr. MeiTy whis- 
 
 tle's ears. He asked for an explanation ; but he 
 had to wait until the girl's giief was spent, before 
 he received an answer. She wiped her eyes in 
 a manner that showed she was mad with herself 
 for giving way to such emotion, and turned on 
 her would-be benefactor almost defiantly. 
 
 "Look 'ere," she said, in a hard, cold voice, 
 "all them gals are what you call respectable, 
 ain't they ?" 
 
 "Yes, my child." 
 
 " Don't call me your child ; it 'urts me — oh, it 
 'urts me." She was almost on the point of giv- 
 ing way again ; but she set her teeth close, and 
 shook herself like an angry dog, and so checked 
 the spasms that rose to her throat. ' ' They must 
 show that they're respectable, mustn't they, or 
 they couldn't git the billet ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then, I ain't respectable, as you call 
 it; 'ow can I be? A nice respectable gal I'd 
 look, comin' out of a orfice! Why, they've got 
 nice warm clothes, every one of 'em, and muffs 
 and tippets, and all that. I've see'd 'em, lots of 
 times." 
 
 "But you can leave your past life behind 
 you," urged Mr. Merrywhistle, overleaping all 
 obstacles; "you can commence another life, 
 and be like them. " 
 
 "Be like them! I can't be. It's too late, I 
 tell you. And I'll tell you somcthin' more," she 
 added, slowly and very distinctly: "I wouldn't 
 leave Tom Beadle to be the best-dressed gal 
 among 'em." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why!" she echoed, looking into his face 
 with wonder. "Why! Tom Beadle's been the 
 best friend I ever 'ad. He's give me gnib lots 
 and lots o' times. When I was a little kid, and 
 didn't know what was what ; when the tiger was 
 a-tearin' my veiy inside out ; Tom Beadle's come 
 and took pity on me. No one else but 'im did 
 take it. I should 'ave starved a 'undred times, 
 if it 'adn't been for Tom. Why, it was 'ira na 
 set me up for a flower-gal, and 'im as took me to 
 the theaytre, and 'im as told me I should lick 
 Poll Buttons into fits. And so I did, when I 
 'ad a nice dress on ; they all said so. And there's 
 another i*eason, if you'd care to know. No, I 
 won't tell yon. If you arks about 'ere, I dare 
 say you can find out, and if you wait a little while, 
 you'll find out for yourself." She stood up bold- 
 ly before him, and said, in a low, passionate 
 voice, "I love Tom, and Tom loves me! I 
 wouldn't leave *im for all the world. I'll stick 
 to 'im and be true to 'im till I die." 
 
 Here was an end to Mr. Merrj-^vhistle's benev< 
 olent intentions ; he had nothing more to urge. 
 
62 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 The difficulties 31ade-o'-Grass herself had put in 
 the way seemed to him to render her social re- 
 demption almost impossible. Blade-o'-Grass saw 
 trouble in his face, and said, as if he were the one 
 who required pity : 
 
 " Don't take on, Sir ; it can't be 'elped. Next 
 to Tom, no one's been so good to me as you've 
 been. Perhaps I don't understand things as you 
 would like me to understand 'em. But I can't 
 'dp it. Sir." 
 
 Mr. Merrywhistle rose to go. He took out his 
 purse, and was about to offer Blade-o'-Grass mon- 
 ey, when she said, in an imploring tone : 
 
 " No, Sir, not to-night ; it'll do me more good, 
 if you don't give me nothin' to-night. I shall be 
 Sony to myself afterward, if I take it. And don't 
 believe, Sir, that I ain't grateful ! Don't believe 
 it!" 
 
 " I won't, my poor girl," said Mr. Merrywhis- 
 tle, huskily, putting his purse in his pocket. " I 
 am sorry for all this. But, at all events, you can 
 promise me that if you want a friend, you'll come 
 to me. You know where I live." 
 
 "Yes, Sir; and I'll promise you. When I 
 don't know which way to turn, I'll come to 
 you." 
 
 He held out his hand, and she kissed it, and 
 went down stairs with him with the candle, to 
 show him the way. He walked home with a 
 very heavy feeling at his heart. " There's some- 
 thing wrong somewhere," was his refrain. He 
 was conscious that a great social problem was 
 before him, but he could find no solution for it. 
 Indeed, it could not be expected of him. He was 
 ready enough (too ready, many said) with his six- 
 pences and shillings when his heart was stirred, 
 but he was not a politician. 
 
 When Blade-o'-Grass re-entered her cheerless 
 room, she set the candle on the table and began 
 to cry. Her heart was very sore, and she was 
 deeply moved at Mr. Merrywhistle's goodness. 
 She started to her feet, however, when she heard 
 the sounds of a well-known step on the stairs. 
 Wiping her eyes hastily, she hurried into the 
 passage with the candle. Tom Beadle smiled as 
 he saw the light. He was a blackguard and a 
 thief, but he loved Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 " I've got some trotters, old gal," he said, when 
 they were in their room, ' ' and 'arf a pint o' gin. 
 Wliy, I'm blessed if you 'aven't been turain' on 
 the water-works agin!" 
 
 Her eyes glistened at the sight of the food. 
 
 "Look 'ere, old woman," said Tom Beadle, 
 with his arm round her waist. "'Ere's a slice o' 
 luck, eh ?" And he took out a purse and emp- 
 tied it on the table. A half-sovereign and about 
 a dozen shillings rolled out. She handled the 
 
 coins eagerly, but she did not ask him how he 
 came by them. 
 
 Half an hour later, Tom Beadle and Blade-o'- 
 Grass, having finished their supper, were sitting 
 before the fire, on which the girl had thrown the 
 last shovelful of coals. In the earlier part of the 
 night she had been sparing of them ; but when 
 Tom came home rich, she made a bright blaze, 
 and enjoyed the comforting warmth. Tom sat 
 on the only chair, and she on the ground, with 
 her arm thrown over his knee. She was happy 
 and comfortable, having had a good supper, and 
 seeing the certainty of being able to buy food for 
 many days to come. Then she told him of Mr. 
 Merrywhistle's visit, but did not succeed in rais- 
 ing in him any grateful feeling. All that he saw 
 was an attempt on the part of Mr. Merrywhistle 
 to take Blade-o'-Grass away from him, and he 
 was proportionately grateful to that gentleman. 
 
 "I'd 'ave punched 'is 'ead, if I'd been 'ere," 
 was Tom's commentary. 
 
 "No, Tom, you wouldn't, "said Blade-o'-Grass, 
 earnestly. "He only come to tiy to do me some 
 good, and he's give me money lots o' times. " 
 
 "He didn't give you any to-night," grumbled 
 Tom. 
 
 "He wanted to, but I wouldn't take it; I 
 couldn't take it." 
 
 "Blessed if I don't think you're growin' soft, 
 old woman ! Wouldn't take his tin !" 
 
 "Somethin' come over me, Tom; I don't 
 know what. But iie'll make it up to me another 
 time." 
 
 There was a soft dreaminess in her tone, as 
 she lay looking into the fire with her head upon 
 Tom's knee, that disarmed him. He took a good 
 drink of gin-and-water, and caressed her face with 
 his hand. Just then the candle went out. Blade- 
 o'-Grass placed her warm cheek upon Tom's hand. 
 They sat so in silence for some time. Tender 
 fancies were in the fire even for Blade-o'-Grass. 
 As she gazed she smiled happily, as she had done 
 in her sleep. What did she see there? Good 
 God ! A baby's face ! So like herself, yet so 
 much brighter, purer, that thrills of ineffable hap- 
 piness and exquisite pain quivered through her. 
 Eyes that looked at hers in wonder; laughing 
 mouth waiting to be kissed. It raised its little 
 hands to her, and held out its pretty arms ; and 
 she made a yearning movement toward it, and 
 pressed her lips to Tom's fingers, and kissed them 
 softly, again and again, while the tears ran down 
 her face. 
 
 "Oh, Tom ! " she whispered, ' ' 'ow I love you ! " 
 
 What a rock for her to lean upon ! What a 
 harbor for her to take shelter in ! 
 
BLADE. 0'- GRASS. 
 
 She fell into a doze presently, and woke in ter- 
 ror. 
 
 "What's the matter, old gal?" asked Tom, 
 himself nodding. 
 
 And then she gasped, between her sobs, that 
 she dreamed it was bom with a tiger in its in- 
 side! 
 
 Hark ! What was that ? HeaAy steps com- 
 ing up stairs. No shuffling ; measured, slow, and 
 certain, as though they were bullets being lifted 
 from stair to stair. Tom started to his feet. 
 Nearer and nearer came the sounds. 
 
 " Give me the money, Bladergrass ; give me 
 the money, or you might get into trouble too!" 
 He tore the money out of her pocket ; when he 
 came in he had given it to her to keep house with. 
 Then he cried, ' ' The purse ! Where's the purse ? 
 Throw it out on the tiles — put it on the fire !" 
 
 "I 'aven't got it, Tom," answered Blade-o'- 
 Grass, hurriedly, her knees knocking together with 
 fright. "What's up?" 
 
 "The peelers ! Don't you 'ear 'em ?" Curse 
 the light! why did. it go out? If they see the 
 purse, I'm done for!" 
 
 They groped about in the dark, but could not 
 find it. For a moment the steps halted outside 
 the door. Then it opened, and the strong light 
 fiom the policemen's bull's-eye lamps was thrown 
 upon the crouching forms of Tom Beadle and 
 Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 "You're up late, Tom," said one of the police- 
 men. . 
 
 "Yes," said Tom, doggedly, and with a pale 
 face ; "I was jist goin' to bed." 
 
 The policeman nodded carelessly, and kept his 
 eye upon Tom, while his comrade searched about 
 tiie room. 
 
 "Got any money, Tom ?" 
 
 "What's that to you?" 
 
 "Come, come; take it easy, my lad. You 
 haven't been long out, you know." 
 
 "And what o' that?" exclaimed Tom, begin- 
 ning to gather courage, for the policeman's search 
 was almost at an end, and nothing was found. 
 " You can't take me up for not bein' long out." 
 
 "But wfi can for this," said the second police- 
 man, lifting a purse from the mantel-shelf. Is 
 this yours. Sir ?" 
 
 A man, who had been lingering by the door, 
 came forward and looked at the purse by the 
 light of the lamp. " Yes, it is mine." 
 
 "And is this the party?" — throwing the light 
 full upon Tom Beadle's face. He bore it bold- 
 ly ; he knew well enough that the game was up. 
 
 "I can't say ; the purse was snatched out of 
 
 
 63 
 
 see the face of 
 
 ((w 
 
 my hand suddenly, an 
 the thief. I followed him" 
 him run down this alley 
 
 "And a nice hunt we've had 
 en houses, and only came to the right one at last. 
 How much was in the purse, Sir, did you say ?" 
 
 " Twenty-three shillings — alialf-sovereign, and 
 the rest in silver." 
 
 "Now, Tom, turn out your pockets." 
 
 Tom did so without hesitation. A half-sover- 
 eign and twelve shillings were placed on the ta- 
 ble. 
 
 "Just the money, with a shilling short. What 
 have you been having for supper, Tom ?" 
 
 "Trotters." 
 
 " Ay ; and what was in the bottle?'* 
 
 "Gin, of course." 
 
 " Trotters, fourpence ; gin, eightpence. That's 
 how the other shilling's gone, Sir. Come along, 
 Tom ; this'll be a longer job than the last." 
 
 As Tom nodded sullenly, Blade-o'-Grass, who 
 had listened to the conversation with a face like 
 the face of death, sank to the ground in a swoon. 
 The policemen's hands were on Tom, and he 
 struggled to get from them. 
 
 "Come, come, my lad," said one, shaking liim 
 rouglily; "that's no good, you know. Best go 
 quietly." 
 
 "I want to go quietly," cried Tom, with a 
 great swelling in his throat that almost choked 
 his words; "but don't you see she's fainted? 
 Let me go to her for a minute. I hope I may 
 drop down dead if I try to escape !" 
 
 They loosened their hold, and he knelt by 
 Blade-o'-Grass, and sprinkled her face with water. 
 She opened her eyes, and threw her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 "Oh, Tom!" she cried; "I thought- 
 thought—" 
 
 "Now, my girl," said the policeman, raising 
 her to her feet in a not unkindly manner; "it's 
 no use making a bother. Tom's got to go, you 
 know. It isn't his first job." 
 
 ' ' Good-by, old gal, " said Tom, tenderly ; ' ' they 
 can't prove any thin'. They can't lag me for 
 pickin' up a empty purse in the street ; and as 
 for the money, you know 'ow long I've 'ad that, 
 don't you ?" 
 
 She nodded vacantly. 
 
 "That's well trumped-up, Tom," said the po- 
 liceman ; "but I don't think it'll wash." 
 
 Tom kissed Blade-o'-Grass, and marched out 
 with his captors. When their steps had died 
 away, Blade-o'-Grass shivered, and sank down 
 before the fire, but saw no pictures in it now to 
 bring happy smiles to her face. 
 
64 
 
 BLADE -O'-GEASS. 
 
 HELP THE POOR. 
 
 Merry peals of bells herald the advent of a 
 bright and happy day. Care is sent to the right- 
 about by those upon whom it does not press too 
 heavily; and strangers, as they pass each other 
 in the streets, are occasionally seen to smile ami- 
 ably and cheerfully — a circumstance sufficiently 
 rare in anxious, suspicious London to be recorded 
 and made a note of. But the great city would 
 be filled with churls indeed if, on one day during 
 the year, the heart was not allowed to have free 
 play. The atmosphere is brisk and clear, and 
 the sun shines through a white and frosty sky. 
 Although the glories of spring and summer are 
 slumbering in the earth, nature is at its best; 
 and, best thing of all to be able to say, human 
 nature is more at its best than at any other time 
 of the year. The houses are sweet and fresh, 
 and smiles are on the faces and in the hearts of 
 the dwellers therein. Men shake hands more 
 heartily than is their usual custom, and voices 
 have a merry ring in them, which it does one 
 good to hear. It is an absolute fact that many 
 men and women to-day present themselves to 
 each other unmasked. Natural kindliness is in 
 the enjoyment of a pretty fair monopoly, and 
 charity and good-will are preached in all the 
 churches. One minister ends an eloquent exor- 
 dium with "God help the poor I" and the major- 
 ity of his congregation whisper devoutly, "Be it 
 so!" — otherwise, *'Amen!" 
 
 In the church where this is said are certain 
 friends of ours whom, I hope, we have grown to 
 respect; Mr. and Mrs. Silver with their flock, 
 and Robert Truefit with his. Mr. Blenywhistle 
 has brought Robert Truefit and the Silvers to- 
 gether, to their mutual satisfaction ; and Robert 
 has agreed to spend Christmas-day in Buttercup 
 Square with his family — wife and four young 
 ones. Thus it is that they are all in church to- 
 gether. They make a large party — fourteen in 
 all, for Mr. Merrywhistle is with them — and there 
 is not a sad heart among them. 
 
 "If I had been the minister preaching," says 
 Robert Truefit to Mrs. Silver, as they come out 
 of church, "I should not have ended my sermon 
 with * God help the poor !' " 
 
 "With what, then?" 
 
 "With ' Man, help the poor !' " answered Rob- 
 ert Truefit, gi-avely. 
 
 Here Charley and Ruth come forward with a 
 petition. They want permission to take a walk 
 by themselves ; they will be home within an hour. 
 
 "Very well, my dears," says Mrs. Silver; 
 "don't be longer, if you can help it." 
 
 It is Ruth who has suggested the walk, and 
 
 j slie has a purpose in view which Charley does not 
 know of as yet. But Charley is happy enough 
 j in his ignorance ; a walk on such a day with his 
 heart's best treasure by his side is heaven to him. 
 He is inclined to walk eastward, where glimpses 
 of the country may be seen ; but she says, " No, 
 Charley, please ; you must come my way." Per- 
 fectly contented is he to go her way, and they 
 walk toward the City. 
 
 " You remember the day we went to the Ex- 
 hibition, Charley ?" 
 
 What a question to ask him ! As if it has not 
 been in his thoughts ever since, as if they have 
 not talked of it, and lingered lovingly over the 
 smallest incidents, dozens and dozens of times ! 
 But he answers simply, "Yes, Ruth." 
 
 "And what occurred when we came back, 
 Charley?" 
 
 "The poor girl do you mean, Ruth ?" 
 
 "Yes, the poor girl — so much like me!" 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "I have never forgotten her, Charley dear ! I 
 want to pass by the spot where we met her, and 
 if I see her, I want to give her something. I 
 should dearly like to do so to-day. Do you re- 
 member, Charley? — when we saw her, she had 
 not a bit of bread in the cupboard. Perhaps she 
 has none to-day." 
 
 "Take my purse, Ruth, and let us share to- 
 gether." 
 
 "I shall tell her, Charley, that it is half from 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, my dear." 
 
 But though they walk past the spot, and, re- 
 tracing their steps, walk past it again and again, 
 and although Ruth looks wistfully about hei*, she 
 sees nothing of Blade-o'-Grass. They walk 
 homeward, Charley very thoughtful, Ruth very 
 sad. 
 
 "Come, Ruth," says Charley, presently, "we 
 must not be unhappy to-day. Let us hope that 
 the poor girl is provided for ; indeed, it is most 
 reasonable to believe so." 
 
 "I hope so, Charley, with all my heart." 
 
 "What you hope with all your heart, dear 
 Ruth, is sure to be good and true. Is there any 
 thing else you hope with all your heart ?" 
 
 There is a tender significance in his tone, and 
 she glances at him shyly and modestly, but does 
 not answer. 
 
 " You can make this happy day even happier 
 than it is, Ruth ; you can make it the happiest 
 remembrance of my life if you will say Yes to 
 something ! " 
 
 Her voice trembles slightly as she asks^ "To 
 what, Charley ?" 
 
 " Let me tell our dear parents how I love you. 
 
BLADE-O'- GRASS. 
 
 65 
 
 Let me ask them to give you to me. Is it Yes, 
 Ruth dear ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear Chailcy." But so sof:ly, so tender- 
 ly whispered, that only ears attuned as his were 
 could have heard tlie words. 
 
 Presently, 
 
 "And do you love me with all your heart, 
 Ruth r 
 
 "With all my heart, Charley." 
 
 Oh, happiest of happy days ! Ring out, sweet 
 bells! A tenderer music is in your notes than 
 they have ever yet been charged with ! 
 
 It is twilight, and all the elderly people are in 
 the parlor in Buttercup Square. The children 
 are in another room, engaged in mysterious prep- 
 aration. 
 
 "I think we shall have snow soon," says Mr. 
 Merrywhistle. 
 
 "I'm glad of it, "says Robert Trucfit. "Some- 
 thing seems to me wanting in Chi i- 1 mas when 
 there is no snow. When it snows, the atmos- 
 phere between heaven and earth is bridged by the 
 purity of the happy time." 
 
 Mrs. Silver is pleased by the remark ; the fire- 
 light's soft glow is on her face. Charley enters, 
 and bends over her chair. 
 
 " My dear mother," he whispers. 
 
 She knows in an instant, by the tremor in his 
 voice, what he is about to say. She draws him to 
 her, so that the fire-light falls on his face as well 
 as on hers. 
 
 "Is it about Ruth?" she asks, softly. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he answers, in a tone of eager 
 wonder. " How did you know?" 
 
 She smiles sweetly on him. 
 
 "I have known it for a long tfane, Charley. 
 Have you spoken to her?" 
 
 "Yes ; and this is the happiest day I have ever 
 known. Oh, mother, she loves me ! She gave 
 me permission to ask you for her." 
 
 Mrs. Silver calls her husband to her side. 
 
 "Charley has come to ask for Ruth, my dear." 
 
 " I am glad of it. Where is Ruth ?" 
 
 " I will bring her," says Charley, trembling 
 with happiness. 
 
 "Did I not tell you, my dear?" Mrs. Silver 
 asks of her husband. 
 
 "It is a happy Christmas, indeed," he an- 
 swers. 
 
 Ruth is glad that it is drnk when she enters the 
 room. Mrs. Silver folds the girl in her arms. 
 
 " My darling child ! And this wonderful news 
 is really true ?" 
 
 "Yes, my dearest mother," kissing Mrs. Sil- 
 ver's neck, and crying. 
 
 "What are you people conspiring together 
 E 
 
 about?" asks Mr. MenjAvhistle, from the win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Come here, and join the conspirators," says 
 Mre. Silver. " Our plots will fail without your 
 assistance and consent." 
 
 Mr. Merrjwhistle joins the party by the fire, 
 and Robert Truefit steals quietly out of the room. 
 " It is eighteen years this Christmas," says Mrs. 
 Silver, " since Ruth was given to us. She has 
 been a comfort and a blessing to us, and will con- 
 tinue to be, I am sure." Ruth sinks on her 
 knees, and hides her face in Mrs. Silver's lap. 
 This true woman lays her hand on Ruth's head, 
 and continues : " It is time that Ruth should 
 know who is her real benefactor." 
 
 "Nay, my dear madam," expostulates Mr. 
 Merrywhistle, blushing like a girl. 
 
 " My dear friend," says Mrs. Silver, " it is nec- 
 essary. A great change will soon take place in 
 Ruth's lii>, and jour sani\'cn must be given. — 
 Ruth, my dear, look up. EcTore \ou were bom, 
 this friend — whom we all Jove ard honor — came 
 to me avA asl;ed to be o^'ovved to contribute out 
 of his means toward the support of our next child. 
 You can understand with what joy his offer was 
 accepted. Shortly aftenvard, my dear — eighteen 
 years ago this day — ^j-ou came to us, and com- 
 pleted our happy circle. You see before yon 
 your benefactor — your father — to whom you owe 
 j every thing ; for all the expense of your training 
 and education has been home by him. It is 
 right that you and Charley should know this. 
 And, Charley, as but for this our dearest friend 
 the happiness which has fallen upon you could 
 not have been yours, it is of him you must ask for 
 Ruth." 
 
 " Sir — " says Charley, advancing toward Mr. 
 Merrywhistle. 
 
 "Not another word," cries Mr. Meny-whistle, 
 with Ruth in his arms; "not another word 
 about me, or I'll go and spend my Christmas-ere 
 elsewhere. If, as Mrs. Silver says, my consent 
 is necessary, I give you Ruth with all my heart." 
 — He kisses Ruth, and says: "A happy future 
 is before you, children. No need for me to tell 
 you where your chief love and duty lie — no need 
 for me to remind you to whose parental care and 
 good example you owe all your happiness. To 
 me, an old man, without kith or kin, their friend- 
 ship and love have been priceless; they have 
 brightened my life. It comes upon me now to 
 say, my dear girl and boy, that once— ah, how- 
 many years ago! — such a prize as the love which 
 animates you seemed to be within my reach ; but 
 it slipped from me, and I am an old man now, 
 waiting to hear my name called. Cling to your 
 love, my dears ; keep it in your hearts as a sacred 
 
66 
 
 BLADE -0'- GRASS. 
 
 thing ; let it show itself daily in your actions to- 
 ward each other: it will sweeten your winter 
 when you are as old as I am, and every thing 
 shall he as bright and fresh to you then as in this 
 your spring-time, when all the future before you 
 seems carpeted with flowers. Ruth, ray child, 
 God bless you ! Charley, I am proud of you ! 
 Let your aim be to live a good life." 
 
 Mrs. Silver kisses the good old man, and they 
 at round the fire undisturbed ; for it appears to 
 be understood in the house that the parlor must 
 not be invaded until permission is given. It is 
 settled that Cliarley and Ruth shall wait for 
 twelve months ; that Charley shall be very sav- 
 ing ; that Ruth shall leave her situation and 
 keep house for the family, so that she shall enter 
 her own home competent to fulfill the duties of 
 a wife. But. indeed, this last clause is scarcely 
 necessary ; for all Mrs. Silver's girls have been 
 carefully instructed in those domestic duties, 
 without a knowledge of which no woman can be 
 a proper helpmate to the man to whom she gives 
 her love. 
 
 The shadows thicken, and the snow begins to 
 fall. There is peace without, and love within. 
 Mrs. Silver, as she watches the soft snow-flakes, 
 thinks that it will be just such a night as that on 
 which, eighteen years ago, she and her husband 
 brought Ruth home from Stoney Alley. She re- 
 calls every circumstance of her interview with the 
 landlady, and hears again the pitiful story of the 
 motherless babe. Then she looks do^vn upon 
 the pure, happy face of Ruth, and her heart is 
 filled with gratitude to God. 
 
 And Ruth's twin-sister, Blade-o'-Grass ? 
 
 She was sitting in the same miserable attic 
 from which Tom Beadle was taken to prison. 
 He was not in prison now, having escaped just 
 punishment by (for him) a lucky chance. When 
 Tom was brought before the magistrate, lie told 
 his tnimped-up story glibly : he had picked up 
 the empty purse in the street, and the money was 
 the result of his own earnings. "When asked 
 how he had earned it, he declined to say; and 
 he advanced an artful argument. The policeman 
 had reckoned up the money which the man who 
 had lost the purse said it contained — twenty-tliree 
 shiUings. Twenty-two shillings were found in 
 Tom's pocket, and the other shilling was spent, 
 according to ths policeman's version, in trotters 
 and gin. Not another penny, -n addition to the 
 twenty-two shillings, was discovei'ed in the room. 
 Now, said Tom, it wasn't likely that he would be 
 without a penny in his pocket, and the fact that 
 "Vj had just the sum the purse had contained was 
 simply a cohicidence. He argued that it would 
 
 be much clearer against him if a few coppers 
 more than the actual money lost had been found. 
 Of course this defense was received with derision 
 by the police, and with discredit by the magis- 
 trate. But it happened that the prosecutor was 
 too unwell to attend on the morning that Tom 
 made his appearance in the police court, and he 
 was remanded for a week. Before the week 
 passed by the prosecutor died, and Tom was set 
 free. Blade-o'-Grass was overjoyed ; it was like 
 a reprieve from death to her. But the police 
 were angry at Tom's escape, and kept so sharp a 
 watch on him that he found it "nore than ever 
 difficult to live. I am not pleading, Tom's cause, 
 nor bespeaking compassion for him I am sim- 
 ply relating certain facts in connection with him. 
 When Christmas came, things were at their very 
 worst. They had no Christmas dinner, and Tom 
 was prowling about in search of prey. 
 
 On the night before Christmas Blade-o'-Grass 
 listened to the merry bells with somewhat of bit- 
 terness in her soul. . Every thing about her was 
 so dreary, the prospect of obtaining food was 
 so faint, that the sound of the bells came to her 
 ears mockingly. What she would have done 
 but for her one comfort and joy, it is difficult to 
 say. 
 
 Her one comfort and joy. Yes, she had a baby 
 now, as pretty a little thing as ever was seen. 
 All her thought, all her anxiety was for her 
 child. Blade-o'-Grass possessed the same ten- 
 derness of nature that had been so developed in 
 Ruth as to make her a pride of womanhood. 
 How proud Bkde-o'-Grass was of her baby! 
 How she wondered, and cried, and laughed over 
 it ! As she uncovered its pretty dimpled face, 
 and gazed at it in worship, all the bitterness of 
 her soul at the merry sound of the bells faded 
 away, and for a little while she was happy. She 
 talked to the babe, and, bidding it listen to the 
 bells, imitated the glad sound with her voice, un- 
 til the child's face was rippled with smiles. But 
 the hard realities of her position were too press- 
 { ing for her to be able to forget them for more than 
 a few minutes, Tom had not been home since 
 
 the morning, and she had had but little food dur- 
 ing the day. . Not for herself did she care ; but 
 her baby must be fed. If she did not eat and 
 drink, how could . she give milk to her child ? 
 " I'll go and arks Jimmy Wirtue for somethin'/' 
 she thought; and, so that her appeal to the old 
 man might be fortunate, she cunningly took her 
 baby out with her. Jimmy was playing All- 
 Fours with Jack, who, having come into another 
 fortune, was dissipating it recklessly, as usual, for 
 the benefit of his remorseless foe. 
 
 " What do you want ? What's that bundle in 
 
BLADE- O- GRASS. 
 
 67 
 
 your arms ?" growled Jimmy, as Blade-o'-Grass 
 peeped into his parlor. 
 
 "It's my baby," said Blade-o'-Grass; "I've 
 come to show it to you." 
 
 "And what business have you with a baby?" 
 exclaimed Jimmy, in an excited manner. "Ain't 
 you ashamed of yourself? Take it away ; I don't 
 want any babies 'ere." 
 
 "it's now nigh on eighteen year ago since Mrs. 
 Manning — you remember Mrs. Manning?" 
 
 "Oh yes, "sighed Blade-o'-Grass. 
 
 " It's now nigh on eighteen year ago since she 
 come round a-beggin' for you ; and now you come 
 round a-beggin' for your babby." 
 
 "I can't 'elp it," said Blade-o'-Grass; "don't 
 speak to me unkindly ; I am weak and 'ungiy.** 
 
 UES8IN0 HER UAUE TO UEB UOBOM, SUE WAITED.' 
 
 But Blade-o'-Grass pleaded her cause so meek- 
 ly and patiently, and with so much feeling, that 
 Jimmy was bound to listen and sympathize, hard 
 as he was. 
 
 " Lookee *ere,"ho said harshly, holding up his 
 finger, as she stood looking at hira entreatingly : 
 
 "Why, you was only a babby yourself then — 
 what's the matter?" 
 
 Blade-o"-Grass was swaying fonvard, and would 
 have fallen if he had not caught her. His tone 
 was so hai-sh, that the poor girl's heart was fiiint- 
 ing within her at the prospect of being sent awaj 
 
C8 
 
 BLADE -O'- GRASS. 
 
 empty-handed. Jimmy assisted her into his chair ; 
 and without considering that he was about to up- 
 set Jack, who was sitting on the box, opened it, 
 and produced a bottle of spirits. He gave her 
 some in a cup, and she revived. Then, grum- 
 bhngly, he took a sixpence out of a dirty bag, 
 and gave it to her, saying, 
 
 "There! And don't you come botheriu' me 
 agin!" 
 
 How grateful she was ! She made him kiss 
 baby, and left him with that soft touch upon his 
 lips. He stood still for a few moments with his 
 fingers to his lips, wondering somewhat ; but he 
 recovered himself very soon, and, glaring at Jack, 
 took swift revenge in All-Fours for his softness 
 of heart, and ruined that shadowy creation for 
 ,Jhe hundredth time. 
 
 When -Blade-o'-Grass quitted Jimmy's shop, 
 she felt as if she would have liked to sing, she 
 was so bhthe and happy. She spent the whole 
 sixpence, and treated herself to half a pint of 
 stout, "This is for you, pet!" she said to her 
 baby, as she drank. She drank only lialf of 
 it ; the other half she saved for Tom. But al- 
 though she waited up, and listened to the bells — 
 gratefully now — until long past midnight, Tom 
 did not come home. And when she rose on 
 Christmas moraing, he was still absent. She 
 wandered out to look for him, but could not find 
 him ; and then hurried back, hoping that he might 
 have come in her absence. As the day wore on, 
 she grew more and more anxious, and tormented 
 herself with fears and fancies as to what could 
 have happened to him. So she passed her Christ- 
 mas-day. In the afternoon she fell asleep, with 
 her baby in her arms. At first she dreamed of 
 all kinds of terrors, and lived over again, in her 
 dreams, many of the miseries of her past life; 
 but after a time her sleep became more peaceful, 
 and her mind wandered back to the time when, 
 a child of three years of age, she sat on the stones 
 in the dirty yard, looking in silent deliglit at the 
 Blades of Grass springing from the ground. 
 
 When she awoke it was dark. She went to 
 
 the window, shivering ; it was snowing fast. All 
 the food was gone, and she was hungry again. 
 What should she do ? Suddenly a terrible fear 
 smote her. Baby was very quiet. She looked 
 at the sleeping child's white face by the white 
 light of the snow, and placed her ears to the pret- 
 ty mouth. Thank God ! she felt the child's warai 
 breath. But it would wake up presently, and she 
 had no milk to give. The child's lips and fingers 
 were wandering now to the mother's bosom. She 
 could not stand this agony of hunger and dark- 
 ness and solitude any longer ; she must go into 
 the streets. 
 
 Out into the streets, where the snow was falling 
 heavily, she went. She looked wistfully about 
 for Tom, but saw no signs of him. Into the 
 wider thoroughfares she wandered. How white 
 they were ! how pure ! how peaceful ! A virgin 
 world had taken the place of the old ; a new-bom 
 world seemed to lie before her, with its pure white 
 page ready for the finger of God to write upon. 
 She wandered on and on, until she came to a 
 square. She knew it immediately — Buttercup 
 Square. Why, here it was that Mr. Merrywhis- 
 tle lived, and he had made her promise that she 
 would come to him when she wanted a friend. 
 "When I don't know which way to turn, I'll 
 come to you," she had said. Well, she didn't 
 know which way to turn. She walked slowly 
 toward a house, through the shutters of Mhich 
 she could see pleasant gleams of light. It was 
 Mrs. Silver's house, and she paused- before it, and 
 thought to herself, "I'll wait 'ere till I see 'im." 
 And so, pressing her babe to her bosom, she wait- 
 ed, and listened to the music of happy voices that 
 floated from the house into the peaceful square. 
 Did any heavenly-directed influence impel her 
 steps hitherward? And what shall follow for 
 poor Blade-o'-Grass ? I do not know, for this 
 is Christmas, eighteen hundred and seventy-one, 
 and I can not see into the future ; but as I pre- 
 pare to lay down my pen, I seem to hear the 
 words that Robert Truefit uttered this morning — 
 "Man, help the poor!" 
 
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