Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
Landon.
It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country itwould be light for half an hour or more; but within the closestreets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon thewooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-lookinghouse, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with muchearnestness.The house-door, which was open behind her, wasclose to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so lowthat her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was achilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had madeeverything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares,near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only servedto render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which aboundin those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, thebeautiful snow had lost all its purity.
A great many people were passing to and fro, bent on theirvarious errands of duty or of pleasure; but no one noticed thelittle girl, for there was no one in the world who cared for her.She was scantily clad, in garments of the poorest description.Her hair was long and very thick; uncombed and unbecoming,if anything could be said to be unbecoming to a set of featureswhich, to a casual observer, had not a single attraction, -- being
thin and sharp, while her complexion was sallow, and her wholeappearance unhealthy.
She had, to be sure, fine, dark eyes; but so unnaturally largedid they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face, that they onlyincreased the peculiarity of it, without enhancing its beauty. Hadany one felt any interest in her (which nobody did), had she had amother (which, alas! she had not), those friendly and partial eyeswould perhaps have found something in her to praise. As it was,however, the poor little thing was told, a dozen times a day, thatshe was the worst-looking child in the world; and, what was more,
the worst-behaved. No one loved her, and she loved no one; noone treated her kindly; no one tried to make her happy, or caredwhether she were so. She was but eight years old, and all alonein the world.
There was one thing, and one only, which she found pleasure in.She loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit thestreet-lamp in front of the house where she lived; to see the brighttorch he carried flicker in the wind; and then, when he ran up hisladder, lit the lamp so quickly and easily, and made the wholeplace seem cheerful, one gleam of joy was shed on a little desolateheart, to which gladness was a stranger; and, though he hadnever seemed to see, and certainly had never spoken to her, shealmost felt, as she watched for the old lamplighter, as if he werea friend.
"Gerty," exclaimed a harsh voice within, "have you been forthe milk?"
The child made no answer, but, gliding off the door-step, ranquickly round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight.
"What's become of that child?" said the woman from whomthe voice proceeded, and who now showed herself at the door.
A boy who was passing, and had seen Gerty run, -- a boy whohad caught the tone of the whole neighborhood, and looked upon heras a sort of imp, or spirit of evil, -- laughed aloud, pointed to thecorner which concealed her, and, walking off with his head overhis shoulder, to see what would happen next, exclaimed to himself, as he went, "She'll catch it! Nan Grant 'll fix her!"
In a moment more, Gerty was dragged from her hiding-place,and, with one blow for her ugliness and another for her impudence (for she was making up faces at Nan Grant with all hermight), she was despatched down a neighboring alley with a kettle
for the milk.
She ran fast, for she feared the lamplighter would come andgo in her absence, and was rejoiced, on her return, to catchsight of him, as she drew near the house, just going up his ladder. She stationed herself at the foot of it, and was so engagedin watching the bright flame, that she did not observe when theman began to descend; and, as she was directly in his way, he hitagainst her, as he sprang to the ground, and she fell upon thepavement. "Hollo, my little one!" exclaimed he, "how's this?"as he stooped to lift her up.
She was upon her feet in an instant; for she was used to hardknocks, and did not much mind a few bruises. But the milk! -- it was all spilt.
"Well! now, I declare!" said the man, "that's too bad! -- what'll mammy say?" and, for the first time looking full inGerty's face, he here interrupted himself with, "My! what an odd-faced child! -- looks like a witch!" Then, seeing that she lookedapprehensively at the spilt milk, and gave a sudden glance up atthe house, he added, kindly, "She won't be hard on such a miteof a thing as you are, will she? Cheer up, my ducky! Nevermind if she does scold you a little. I'll bring you something, tomorrow, that I think you'll like, may be; you're such a lonesomesort of a looking thing. And, mind, if the old woman makes a
row, tell her I did it. -- But didn't I hurt you? What was youdoing with my ladder?"
"I was seeing you light the lamp," said Gerty, "and I an'thurt a bit; but I wish I had n't spilt the milk."
At this moment Nan Grant came to the door, saw what hadhappened, and commenced pulling the child into the house, amidstblows, threats, and profane and brutal language. The lamplightertried to appease her; but she shut the door in his face. Gertywas scolded, beaten, deprived of the crust which she usually gotfor her supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. Poorlittle child! Her mother had died in Nan Grant's house, five yearsbefore; and she had been tolerated there since, not so much because when Ben Grant went to sea he bade his wife be sure andkeep the child until his return (for he had been gone so long thatno one thought he would ever come back), but because Nan hadreasons of her own for doing so; and, though she considered Gertya dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiriesby trying to dispose of her elsewhere.
When Gerty first found herself locked up for the night in thedark garret (Gerty hated and feared the dark), she stood for aminute perfectly still; then suddenly began to stamp and scream,tried to beat open the door, and shouted, "I hate you, Nan Grant!Old Nan Grant, I hate you!" But nobody came near her; and,after a while, she grew more quiet, went and threw herself downon her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands,and sobbed and cried as if her heart would break. She wept untilshe was utterly exhausted; and then gradually, with only now andthen a low sob and catching of the breath, she grew quite still.By and by she took away her hands from her face, clasped themtogether in a convulsive manner, and looked up at a little glazedwindow by the side of the bed. It was but three panes of glassunevenly stuck together, and was the only chance of light the roomhad. There was no moon; but, as Gerty looked up, she sawthrough the window shining down upon her one bright star. Shethought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. She hadoften been out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and hadnot noticed them much; but this one, all alone, so large, so bright,
and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her;it seemed to say, "Gerty! Gerty! poor little Gerty!" Shethought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long timeago seen or dreamt about. Suddenly it flashed through her mind,"Who lit it? Somebody lit it! Some good person, I know!O! how could he get up so high!" And Gerty fell asleep, wondering who lit the star.
Poor little, untaught, benighted soul! Who shall enlighten thee? Thou art God's child, little one! Christ died for thee.Will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within, tokindle a light that shall never go out, the light that shall shinethrough all eternity!
CHAPTER II.
Who shall assuage thy griefs, "thou tempest-toss'd!"
And speak of comfort, "comfortless!" to thee?
EMILY TAYLOR.
Gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who areroused by each other's merry voices, or by a parent's kiss,who have kind hands to help them dress, and know that a nicebreakfast awaits them. But she heard harsh voices below; knew,from the sound, that the men who lived at Nan Grant's (her sonand two or three boarders) had come in to breakfast, and that heronly chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on thespot when they had finished, to take that portion of what remainedwhich Nan might chance to throw or shove towards her. So shecrept down stairs, waited a little out of sight until she smelt thesmoke of the men's pipes as they passed through the passage, and,when they had all gone noisily out, she slid into the room, lookingabout her with a glance made up of fear and defiance. She metbut a rough greeting from Nan, who told her she had better dropthat ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she wanted it, buttake care and keep out of her way, and not come near the fire,plaguing round where she was at work, or she'd get anotherdressing, worse than she had last night.
Gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so there was nodisappointment to bear; but, glad enough of the miserable foodleft for her on the table, swallowed it eagerly, and, waiting nosecond bidding to keep herself out of the way, took her little oldhood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to hermother, and which had long been the child's best protection fromthe cold, and, though her hands and feet were chilled by the sharpair of the morning, ran out of the house.
Back of the building where Nan Grant lived, was a large woodand coal yard; and beyond that a wharf, and the thick muddywater of a dock. Gerty might have found playmates enough inthe neighborhood of this place. She sometimes did mingle with
the troops of boys and girls, equally ragged with herself, whoplayed about in the yard; but not often, -- there was a leagueagainst her among the children of the place. Poor, ragged andmiserably cared for, as most of them were, they all knew thatGerty was still more neglected and abused. They had often seenher beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child, toldthat she belonged to nobody, and had no business in any one's
house. Children as they were, they felt their advantage, andscorned the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have been thecase if Gerty had ever mingled freely with them, and tried to beon friendly terms. But, while her mother lived there with her,though it was but a short time, she did her best to keep her littlegirl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of avoidance,but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her fromjoining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left herto do as she liked. As it was, she seldom had any intercoursewith them. Nor did they venture to abuse her, otherwise than inwords; for, singly, they dared not cope with her; -- spirited, sudden and violent, she had made herself feared, as well as disliked.Once a band of them had united in a plan to tease and vex her;but, Nan Grant coming up at the moment when one of the girlswas throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from Gerty's feet,into the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping, and put themall to flight. Gerty had not had a pair of shoes since; but NanGrant, for once, had done her good service, and the children now
left her in peace.
It was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when Gerty ran awayfrom the house, to seek shelter in the wood-yard. There was animmense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out ofsight of any of the houses. Of different lengths and unevenlyplaced, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps,by means of which it was easy to climb up. Near the top was alittle sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forminga miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, andfrom that looking out upon the water.
This was Gerty's haven of rest, her sanctum, and the only placefrom which she never was driven away. Here, through the longsummer days, the little, lonesome child sat, brooding over her griefs,her wrongs and her ugliness; sometimes weeping for hours. Nowand then, when the course of her life had been smooth for a fewdays (that is, when she had been so fortunate as to offend no one,and had escaped whipping, or being shut up in the dark), shewould get a little more cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors
belonging to a schooner hard by, as they labored on board theirvessel, or occasionally rowed to and fro in a little boat. The warm sunshine was so pleasant, and the men's voices at their work solively, that the poor little thing would for a time forget her woes.
But summer had gone; the schooner, and the sailors, who hadbeen such pleasant company, had gone too. The weather was nowcold, and for a few days it had been so stormy, that Gerty hadbeen obliged to stay in the house. Now, however, she made the
best of her way to her little hiding-place; and, to her joy, the sunshine had reached the spot before her, dried up the boards, so thatthey felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright andpleasant, that Gerty forgot Nan grant, forgot how cold she had
been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. Her thoughtsrambled about some time; but, at last, settled down upon the kindlook and voice of the old lamplighter; and then, for the first timesince the promise was made, it came into her mind, that he had
engaged to bring her something the next time he came. She couldnot believe he would remember it; but still, he might, he seemedto be so good-natured, and sorry for her fall.
What could he mean to bring? Would it be something to eat?O, if it were only some shoes! But he wouldn't think of that.Perhaps he did not notice but she had some.
At any rate, Gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to beback before it was time to light the lamp, so that nothing shouldprevent her seeing him.
The day seemed unusually long, but darkness came at last; andwith it came True -- or rather Trueman -- Flint, for that was thelamplighter's name.
Gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude NanGrant's observation.
True was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry.He had only time to speak a few words in his rough way to Gerty;but they were words coming straight from as good and honest aheart as ever throbbed. He put his great, smutty hand on herhead in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt,and said "It was a plaguy shame she should have been whippedtoo, and all for a spill o' milk, that was a misfortin', and no
crime."
"But here," added he, diving into one of his huge pockets,"here's the critter I promised you. Take good care on't; don't'buse it; and, I'm guessin', if it's like the mother that I've gotat home, 't won't be a little ye'll be likin' it, 'fore you're done.Good-by, my little gal;" and he shouldered his ladder and went off,leaving in Gerty's hands a little gray-and-white kitten.
Gerty was so taken by surprise, on finding in her arms a livekitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, thatshe stood for a minute irresolute what to do with it. There werea great many cats, of all sizes and colors, inhabitants of the neigh-
boring houses and yard; frightened-looking creatures, which, likeGerty herself, crept or scampered about, and often hid themselvesamong the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubtsabout their having a right to be anywhere. Gerty had often felt
a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one,carry it home and tame it; for she knew that food and shelterwere most grudgingly accorded to herself, and would not certainlybe extended to her pets. Her first thought, therefore, was to throwthe kitten down and let it run away.