FOR OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXI, Issue 259, 1 November 1890, Page 3 (Supplement)

FOR OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

EDITED BY

URS FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

[All Rights Reserved.]

John Merrill's Boy.

By Flora Haines Loughead.

Author of " Was He Guilty," " An Aban.

doned Claim," Etc,

I can't tell you how I felt when I first saw John Merrill, our new gardener. No boy could have helped liking his frank, pleasant face, and I, a lonely, friendless child of 8, felb that here at last was somebody I could depend upon for help and sympathy.

You see, I lived with my uncle, a hard, stern man, and I led a wretched sort of a life, for all the brilliant prospects people declared I had before me. How would you like—you boys who have fathers and mothers ahd happy homes, and blessed commonplace lives —to be the only one saved out of a passenger list of over a hundred persons on a steamer run down in a fog right here in the Golden Gate ? Not that I remember anything about ib ! Bless you ! I was too little for s that; and I'm glad of it. It's bad enough bo dream of it, as I have done, and then to wake and think you sue dead faces round you, and hear the awful cries of drowning -men. Do you suppose any hearty, fun-loving boy likes to find out that the world is expecting all aorta of wonders of him 1 Jusb because I had been miraculously saved from the waves, and was the son and sole heir to a very rich man. Why, if I had been a prig and a genius, and had lived to be a thousand years old, I couldn't have dona all thab those newspaper fellows predicted of me. Ibs an awful thing to have so much expected of you. I couldn't toss a ball to another boy, or join a game of leapfrog on the street, or have a romp with my dog, or munch a bag of peanuts, or yell, or shout, or jump on a moving dummy, without having somebody remind me thab I was behaving in a very indecorous way for fche heir to such a fortune. A3 for my uncle, he never showed a particle of sympabhy or affection for me, but I will say that he did his whole duty by me, according to his ideas of how a boy ought" fco be brought up. He gob the best teachers for me. He kept me from bad or low associates. He dinned manners, manners, manners into me from morning until nighc. I was never allowed to eat what I liked, to run fast, to sit up or lie abed beyond a certain hour, to go oub in the rain, or to get my feet wet, like other boys. But I will assure you that I had jusb as many colds and aches as other boys. I don't know how I should have got along if ifc hadn'fc been for Merrill. He never failed me. I trampled on his lawn, broke down his choicest plants, tore offhis labels, mislaid his tools, did all the thousand and one things by which a boy can worry a man, but Merrill never gave me a cross look or word. I fell into the habit of stealing oub to Merrill's cosy quarters over the stables for a half hour's chat before I wenb bo bed.

I shall ndver forget fcho nighb Merrill first spoke to me of his boy. ' I believe you like boys, Merrill 1' I had Baid in honest surprise, for the idea thab anyone could more than tolerate a boy was new to me. The man answered wibh a 6harp exclamation that was liko the cry of a wounded animal,

' Like boys! Oh, dear ! I loved my own boy.' I didn't need to ask ; his tone told me what ib meant;; bufc after a bit I said softly: »

* When did it happen, Merrill ?' ' Drowned when the Queen of the Sea was Eunk, more than ten years gone by. Wife and child. Both taken and I left.'

It was my turn to choke and feel queer. It always makes me sick and fainb to hear the name of that steamer. For the life of me I couldn't tell him of my parb in the wreck. But 1 don't think he would have heard me if I had spoken. An awful look had come upon hia face. Ib was the first time in my life I had seen a strong man wrestling wifch a grief that was stronger than he.

'lb was hard enough to loae her,' he groaned, 4 but to losb the boy. too ! The pretty baby—Such a dimpled, laughing, loving little fellow. We were living up country, you know, and she had just been down to the city to see some friends and buy some things for herself and ,the boy. He spoke my name the first time the day they left. And the last sight I had of him he was tossing kisses to me from the deck of the boat. Oh, my boy, my pretty boy !' He had jumped up from his chair and was raging up and down the room. Ib didn't Beam like' Merrill, always such an easy-go-ing, quieb-tempered man. His eyes were blood-shob and his hands clenched hard. The man seemed in a perfect frenzy. I'd have given my right hand not to have asked him about the boy. 'They talk about ■bowing to the will of Providence.' he cried, ' and tbey say one should thank the Creator for His kindness in removing a little child from a world of trouble; bubitien'fcthebleedingheartfchafcis torn by undying sorrow thab can be healed by empfcy words. I didn't love my child the common way. He was a part of me—the breath of my life. It's been the hardest thing to think of hia growing up away from >»c. I can'b get; used to tbe idea that he's gone from me. I've counted the months and the years and his birthdays as they passed. I've followed along the street after boys that seemed the same age as piine, and often and often it seems to me as if they were my little chap, alive and well, readyto turn to me with a bright word and a loving look. You, most of all, Ned Bryant, when you've hung about me with your boy's fool notions and questions wibhOnfcend. I've humoured you and helped you, thinking all the bimo of'my own little Rob, and half the time, fooling myself with thfe fancy I had him in your place.' I couldn't stand it a moment longer. • I tore cut of the room like mad, and rushed a way down the street;. Oh, the cruelty of it! The rank injustice of it ! That all bhis low. should be wasted on the little child that lay at the bottom of the sea, and I, a toy nobody cared for, should not even be able to remember the parents whose bones 'ay bleaching beside those of Merrill's child. If he, a man advanced in years, could feel SO keenly his desolation, what should I feel, * boy still in his childhood, with a long, unloved life stretching out before him? Ifc was late that night when I crept humbly through the front gate and stole into the house. There was a light in lib""7. and that told my uncle was still up. My heart leaped at the.thought that perhaps he had felt anxious about me; perhaps ™ did care. sTou see I was just about starving for Some little portion of affection aneh as other boys have and half of tbe time Bo nob car e f or# j sfcooc j there trembling in go door, ready to fall down at bis feet or jpss his hand, or do any other silly thing «ttasingle word of sympathy. Bufc when

be turned to see me his face showed nothing bufc displeasure. • You have been out late to-night. Don't let it happen again,' was all he said. John Merrill left us soon after this. He went into the gardening business on his own account, and set up a little nursery on the other side of town. I don't think he heard anything of my story before he left. Uncle never encouraged gossip aboub tha house.

Once in a while L wenb over to see him, bub my visits were a long time apart-. When I did see him he was as kind and pleasanb as ever, bub after a while I didn't care much to go there, To tell the truth, 1 was a conceited idiot, and fancied myself a peg or two higher in the world than my old friend. I actually thought ib more honourable to inherit a dead man's money than to earn a living by bhe work of one's own hands, like bonesb Jim Merrill.

I waa beginning to enjoy my privileges a3 a rich man's son. My uncle seemed to feel that I had reached an age when I ought fco begin fco learn how to handle money and act for myself, so he gave me more liberty, and he increased my allowance fco whab waa really a princely sum for a boy of fifbeen to spend. Bufc I tell you I made tho money fly. I fell in with a seb of boys of my own age, nob bad fellows, but careless and snobbisb and worthless, as boys are apt to be who haven't anything in life to do but to spend the money their fathers have made before them. We rode in the park, and went to the theatre, and trained in an amateur military club, and spouted in private theatricals, and contrived generally to geb a great deal of fun and precious little profib oub of life.

I'll never forget the day when I was brought up with a round turn. I came in to luncheon and found by my plate a line from my uncle, asking me to meet him ab 2 o'clock in the library. This made me wretchedly uncomforbable, for I know, as well as if he had said so, that bhere was going to be a row over a big diamond scarfpin I had bought bhe day before—the moat absurd thing for a boy to wear; bub one > of my boy friends had a set; of diamond shirfcstuds, and I wanted to outshine him, and as my quarter's allowance was gone, the bill had to be sent home to my uncle.

So I marched up fco the library, a libble frightened, bub bound to assert my rights ; and fche moment; I opened the door I knew that something had happened.

There sab my uncle, and there sat the lawyer who had charge of the estate, and between them was a rough-looking fellow I had never seen before ; while standing near the door was John Merrill, looking very ill at ease, and quite as confused and dazed as myself. My uncle greeted me more cordially than I had ever known him to speak before.

' Ah, my boy ! here you are at last. Sit down—sit down. And now, Thomas Makin, I wanb you bo repaab word for word the story you told me this morning. Clifford,' turning to the lawyer, ' you had better take down his statement.'

Mr Clifford drew up to the desk and took up a pen, and the man, with a grin and a ehanie-faced look across the room at me, began his story. 'Him a seafaring man, sir, Einglish by birth. Thomas Makin is my name. Thirteen years ago Hi shipped as deckhand on the steamer Queen of the Sea—she that wenb down right out 'ere in the 'arbour.' Mr Clifford interrupted him, speaking sharply. 4 Where have you been since then, pir ?' ' Well, you see, sir, there was talk as some of us—tho crew—was too 'andy with the boats.'

* And you have been in San Francisco how often and how many times since then ?'

'Never a day till now, sir. Shipped the day after the wreck,oh a barque as sailed fco fcho Navigator Hislan's, and sick enough Hi was of a fever along of the chill and ducking Hi 'ad. And 'ow a body was ever to save such a crazy set of people as them passengers—' ' Oh, dry np, Makin!' exclaimed my uncle. ' I don't doubt you were a lob of cowardly rascals, every man saved from that steamer. But get on with your story.'

' Well, sir, Hi was a saying, Hi shipped as deck 'and on the steamer, and when we were leaving porb that morning, Hi was sent round on the quarter deck to polish up a bib of bras3-as 'ad somehow been hoverlooked. There waa a good many passengers there, for some'ow hit's a natural feeling on leaving port to want to take a lasb look ab the land—the last look most o' them was to take on earth, poor souls ! Close to where Hi was a working two young mothers were Bitbing with bbeir babies, bright, bouncing boys, both of bhem, and they looked a good deal alike; both wibh big brown eyes and rosy cheeks and a libfcle fringe of curly brown 'air. In fact, Hi would 'aye taken them to be cousins or near relations of some sort, if the mothers 'adn'b been so different;, one dressed in silk, with fur-lined cloak and hat with feathers: the other in a plain grey dress and bonnet. The babies didn't look so different even in dress, except that one of them—the one 'eld by the lady in the fur-lined cloak, 'ad a gold chain with a queer little trinkeb on ib round 'is neck.' This was no news bo me. I had that gold chain and brinkeb in a box upstairs. Tbe sailor went on: 4 The mothers sat side by side, but tbey didn't 'aye nothink to say to one another. Ib was the babies broke the ice abween them. That baby in the arms of the little woman—'er thab wore the grey dreas— smart libfcle codger 'c was ! 'c just hup and grabbed the hother baby's chain. Then what did the hother baby do but snatch the chain away from 'im, so that the little fellow's 'and was torn—an ugly scratch, clean acrosß the palm !' 4 You remember ?' said my uncle to the lawyer, and Mr Clifford nodded his head. 4 The lady in the silk cloak she wa3 good stuff, for all she looked so proud,' continued the sailor, ' for she gave 'er boy a clip on the fingers, and she says : " E's a bad boy and tho lifctle fellow shall take the chain to pay for 'aving 'is 'and 'urfe." With that ehe unclasps the chain and fastens it round the other baby's neck. And if you'll believe me, sirs, neither of those babies so much as cries out, but both on 'em bursts oub a laughing. Thi3 pleased both fche mothers mightily. They was young things, and anyone could see wifch 'alf an eye them was the first; babies. The next moment they was talking together like old friends. Tbab minute the crash come.' 4 You know it was by the chain he was identified,' said my uncle. 4 Are you sure, Makin, that; there was no chance for the chain to have been pub back again on the neck of the baby from which it was taken ?' asked the lawyer. 4 Chance, sir 1 You wouldn't ask if you'd been there. The rich woman made a rush for the cabin, shrieking for 'elp. Bub the obher mother—the one in grey—she just stood sbill and 'eld 'er baby tight in 'er arms. Not; a word or a cry! She wasn't six feet from mo. Somebody bossed 'er a pair of fife preservers. She tied them both upon the child. Hit wasn't three minutes from tbe time wo was struck before we went down. They picked me up from the water, sir ; but Hi own Hi wa9 ashamed of my mates.' _ 'Well, sir,'said my uncle (who waß not my uncle), turning to me, • You understand? you were not my brother's child. All the privileges and comforts and indulgence you have had you were not entitled to. Bub I doubb very much whether you have a proper sense of gratitude, sir.' My head was bursting and my heart had a numb sorb of feeling. If I had been lonely and. cut off from family ties before, where was|l now ? Robbed even of the shadow parents I had cherished, outcast of humanity'• 4 There were five other babies,' I said helplessly, 'But three of them were girls,' remarked the lawyer.

'The parentß of one of the remaining boys went down- with the wreck. The

father of the other bdy is in this room.' John Merrill stood so near to me that I could hear his quick breathing, but I didn't dare look afc him or ho at me. 4 Don'b make another mistake !' I cried. 1 Thomas Makin, seaman, came to our relief.' * Mistake '.' he roared ; he. came- up and pub a hand on fche shoulder of each of us. * Jusb you two look in thia 'ere glass, and see if you can make any mistake.' He turned us so that wo fronted one of fche greafc eliding doors, set wibh a mirror that reached from the floor to the ceiling. There we stood, man and boy ; the same tall, broad - shouldered, deep - chested figures, the same long arms, big hands and feet. Feature after feature identical, only his forehead had deep lines on it, and mine was smooth, and our"eyes differed in colour. There was the same shock of curly brown hair, standing straight up from the head, only his head waa streaked with grey. * Robbie! My boy Rob 1' cried my father. John Merrill and Son, nurserymen, thab is the firm. If you want anything in our line, leb us know. And did I care aboub losing all thab pile of money? You wouldn'b ask if you'd ever been like me, belonging to nobody, nobody to care whether you lived or died, and then suddenly found such a father. Money can't buy love or sympathy. It is better to have them than to be a king. There he comes now, up the garden walk. He's nevor easy if I'm long away. Yes, I think tho feeling between us is a little oub of the common. You see we have to make up for lost time.