BILL CATLIN'S BONNIE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 29, 4 February 1899, Page 3 (Supplement)

BILL CATLIN'S BONNIE.

(By A. M. HEWITT.)

Her real name was Sarah Ann, but her father always called her 'Bonr.ie.' A puny creature, big-headed, with a putty-coloured face, indeterminate features, and pale, prominent eyes that had apparently let nothing pass unnoticed. Even judged by the standard of the unhealthy children who inhabited the squalid quarter that was her birthplace and her home, Bonnie was distinctly unattractive. But to her father she was beautiful as the morning, and wise beyond all mortals.

Her mother's death had followed swiftly on the birth of Bonnie. She had been a bad lot, Bill Catlin's wife, and Bill's life with her had been one ol misery and squalor unimaginable. Yet as he stood by the still form, holding the squalling baby awkwardly in his rough arms, he sobbed, and a tear rolled down his sallow cheek and 'splaslied into the red and very xigly face of the child, evoking a yet louder howl. For he was 'Sorter used to th' old gal, an' it did seem tough to see her lyin' there so quiet like an' not makin' a row.'

Still Bill could not d.sgnise from himself the fact that the exchange of mother for child was tin altogether .blessed one. A baby couldn't scold from morning- till night, and drink all your wages. Couldn't give you black eyes and throw things at you when you came home. Couldn't frequent the lowest of saloons and keep the vilest of company—at least, while it remained a baby. And Bill's was not a nature that ever took heed for the future. A baby could do none of these things, but it could apparently compel love, and Bonnie was all th.3 world to Bill Catlin. For her lie hurried home as soon as his work at the pickle factory was over, without loitering at the saloon, as had been his wont during his wife's lifetime. For her he washed himself scrupulously every clay, and got a cheap shave on Saturday nights. For her he paid Mrs Bostock, of the ground floor front, one dollar a week to look after her while he was at work. He had moved from his old lodgings after his wife's death to a better room close to the f.ictory, so that he might get horns during the dinner hour; and this room he kept a marvel of cleanliness. And he never hesitated over the purchase of anything for Bonnie, though he looked well into his money matters before he allowed himself the luxury ot a bit of tobacco. And he pestered Mrs Bostoek so persistently with injunctions as to the care of Bonnie that finally that good lady, between laughter and exasperation, told him to 'Get along with his jaw, she. hadn't brought up half a dozen kids for nothin'.' As she observed afterward to the ground floor back, 'She couldn't understand a han'some chap like him bein' so sot on a ugly little crittur like that babby o' his'n, Avhen there worn't a gal in "the hull. street as wouldn't have him to-morrer if she could.' But Bill had far too much thought for his child's happiness to think of marrying again. There was once a man bold enough to hint at the extreme plainness of Bonnie. He rose from the pavement a moment later minus two front teeth, and with a badly cut upper lip, a sobered and wiser man, and ever after was careful to keep out of reach of Bill's arm.

Sunday was the day to which Bill looked forward all the week. As Bonnie grew old enough there was always money forthcoming for a day's outing, out of the unsavoury smells of the tenements and away into fresher air. Sometimes up into Central Park; sometimes across the water to the Palisades. Once, a glorious, never-to-be-forgotten day, on the top of a 'bus up Fifth Avenue, to the Park, and then to the menagerie. This happened when Bonnie was, perhaps, three years old. A breathless, scorching Sunday, when the sweat poured down the rubicund face of the 'bus driver, behind whom sat Bill, his face shining with joy and soap, and Bonnie resplendent in her Sunday best. Bill looked down at her with complacent pride; he took great pains with her apparel, and felt she was a credit to his unerring taste. Her bonnet was of purple plush, adorned with drab lace, her coat of red curly cloth, was tied at the neck with ribbons that, through much handling by hot, moist hands, had acquired a dingy, magenta hue. Her socks were of a gorgeous and terrible plaid. Eound her neck she wore a string of blue beads. The omnibus jolted along up the avenue, and every moment brought forth something fresh for the two to fenst their eyes on. Now a handcart loaded with fruit, now five or six factory girls strolling arm-in-arm along the pavements in hats magnificent with flowers and feathers. And now it was a candy store _ full of sticky and greasy delicacies that caught the observant eye of Bonnie, and called forth a piping shout of delight from her as she sat swinging her plaid legs about by the side of her happy father. "Ullo, Bill,' said a man who mounted the 'bus at Union Square. 'Got the kid with you? Well, kiddy, wot's the news?'

Bonnie deigned him no reply, but inspected him critically with her fishy eyes. 'My heyes! She do look cute, though,' said the man, with a grin. He wished to be polite, but he could not truthfulysay Bonnie was pretty. •She is that,' declared Bill, emphatically; 'hain't yer, Bonnie?' The child turned her unsmiling gaze on him. She said nothing, but reached out her little skinny hand and laid it on Bill's knee. 'Look at that now,' cried Bill, delightedly.

'Well, him blessed!' said the man. 'Don't look over sti-ong, do she, Bill? A bit peaky-like,. don' jer think?' he added, politely. A cloud of anxiety came over' Bill's face.

'Dyer think so?' he asked, looking down at the little pinched face. 'But she allus is like that,' he added, brightening, 'an' yer can't say as anything ever ails 'er.'

That clay at the menagerie was an immense success. They were enchanted with everything. The kangaroos and the giraffes, the elephants and the great white bears in their pit. But most of all Bonnie was charmed with the monkey-house. They seemed to exercise a fascination over her and she over them, and she sat up in Bill's arm and grimacefl at them till they were -wild with rage, and Bill roared with laughter at her little distorted face. Yes, it was a glorious clay, the .happiest they had ever spent, the happiest they were ever to know.

That summer was one of furious heat and dryness; it sapped, the strength even of" the strongest men,

and it told terribly on the feeble constitution of Bonnie. She grew whiter and more frail with every long weary day that passed; she was languid and heavj'-eyed, and Bill racked his brains and spent his money vainly on delicacies to tempt her failing appetite. Even the Sundays that were spent in the country away from the stifling and unfragrant odours of their home made no improvement in Bonnie. Then Bill took her to a hospital— himself white and haggard with anxiety. The doctor inspected her and said she had no constitution ; he gave Bill a tonic for her and said encouragingly that perhaps with the cooler weather—But the cooler weather came without bringing any return of strength to Bonnie; indeed, as the autumn went on she seemed to grow weaker still. Bill was beside himself with grief. He took her again to the hospital for treatment, but the doctor frankly told him he could do nothing for her.

'Even if I took her as an in-patient it would do no good,' said he.

They never went out on a Sunday now, but all day long he would sit by the fire with his Bonnie in his arms, sometimes singing her to sleep in a husky voice. So the weeks passed, and Christmas came. And Bill bought her «i furry monkey on a stick as a Christmas present, hoping against hope that it would give her pleasure. And, oddly enough, it did seem to please her as Bill laid it in her arms on Christmas morning, for her wasted fingers closed around it at once, and a little smile broke out on the tiny wan face. ,And all day long she lay holding it fast, and it was not till she had fallen asleep that Bill could gently take it away, lest its weight should be too great for the frail body. And no sooner was she awake next morning than her hands were moving restlessly in search of her treasure.

'What jer want, Bonnie?' asked Bill, bending1 over her.

'Monkey,' said Bonnie, laconically, and when it was put in her arms she seemed quite contented.

'Dyer remember the monkeys at the park, Beauty?' asked Bill, and a suspicion' of a grin hovered about her mouth.

Bill looked out of the window; it was a mild, open day.

'Bonnie,' he said, suddenly, 'would jer like to go an' see them monkeys agin to-day?'

The glimmer of a twinkle came into her dull eyes.

'Yus,' she whispered. So Bill dressed her tenderly, putting on the red curly coat and the violet plush bonnet that had been laid aside ko long. And then he wrapped his big coat right around her so that no cold might possibly get to her, and lifting her carefully in his arms, set off with her.

This time the journey was made inside a street ear, Bill sitting at the further end, holding Bonnie v,ery gently, lest the jolting over the rough stones should hurt her. The change seemed to have revived her, and she watched everything that passed with some of the old inquisitive interest in her eyes. By the time they reached the park entrance her face was bright with excitement, and Bill's heart was lighter than it had been for weeks. She was so much better to-day, perhaps she would get well after all, and they would be so happy again. ,

He carried her straight into the monkey-house and held her tip in his arms. '• .

'There!' he cried, 'there ' they' be; look at 'em, Lovey; make faces at 'em, Bonnie.'

And Bonnie bravely screwed up her poor little face into the most hideous grimaces she could think of, and Bill chuckled with joy, convinced that she must be much better. But the monkeys were far too cold and miserable to take any notice, and only huddled closer in the corners of their cages nnd turned away their heads. And presently Bonnie grew weary, and turned away her head, too, and laid her face down on Bill's shoulder.

'Are you tired, then, Bonnie?' asked Bill, twisting* around his head to look at her. She only looked at .him with languid eyes. 'Want to go back 'ome agin?' then asked Bill. She gave her head a slight nod and closed her eyes; her face looked' gray. Bill wrapped the coat right round her again, and quickly left the house. The brightness of the short winter day had fled, and the sky was leaden above them, and the brightness had fled from Bill's heart, and it, too, was as heavy as lead. By the time he reached a car the dusk was falling, and a clammy gray mist was creeping up. Bill sat down at the farther end of the car with Bonnie in his arms. She lay very still in the folds of his coat.

"Ullo, Bill, anything" the matter with the little 'un?

It was the conductor who spoke;. he had worked with Bill in the factory before he got on the car line as conductor.

'She's ill,*1 said Bill, briefly, drawing the little figure closei".

The conductor jnodded. 'I wouldn't 'a brought her out ef I'd been you,' he observed.

'She wanted tc come,' said Bill

The conductor nodded again. Some one rose in the car and he went out on to the platform and pulled the bell. The passenger got down, and the car went on again. One by one the passengers got out till only Bill and his little one were left. Presently the conductor came up again. 'How is she now, Bill?' he whispered. 'She's very quiet, she ain't moved,' whispered back Bill, and then he put back the folds of the coat a little from her face.

She was, indeed, strangely quiet, and her face looked marble white in the dim light of the oil lamp. The conductor bent down toward her- — bent closer still —then suddenly he raised his head.

'Good Gawd!' he muttered, and then he looked into Bill's face. 'Bill, Bill,' he whispered, don't yer know—don't yer see? Why she —she's dead—she must, 'a died while you was in 'ere. I'm awful sorry for you, ole man, really I am.' 'Dead,' muttered Bill, 'dead!' He gathered her close to him. 'Dead!' he repeated monotonously.

'I say, Bill,' said the conductor, 'don't look so awful bad—now don't.'

But Bill seemed scarcely aware of his presence, and so the conductor went outside to tell the driver all about it. And the car went rattling on over the rough streets, and Bill sat alone inside holding1 the little figure close to his breast and muttering now and again:

'Dead, my Bonnie, dead!'

At last the car stopped and the conductor came and touched him on the shoulder.. .

'Yer. gets out 'ere, Bill.' 'Out?' repeated Bill, vacantly. 'Yes,' replied the conductor, 'yer gets out and walks 'ome.'

'Home?' repeated Bill, e>t**fc\ % &<J same toneless voice.

'Yes,' replied the conductor,' 'thii is the proper place where yer gets,out.'

Bill rose obediently and got down from the car and stood in the road.

Tm awful sorry for you, Bill,* said the conductor again. 'I hopes you'll soon get over it.'

Dead!' whispered Bill,

'my Bonnie.*

'I'll take yer as far as the sidewalk,* said the conductor, and . led Bill across the road to the curb. 'I don't like to leave yer now, but I can*t do nothin' else,' he said: 'yer'll go home now, won't yer, Bill?'

The driver shouted impatiently" from the car. The conductor ran back across the road and jumped upon the car. Bill stumbled .as far as a doorstej} and sat down on it. And as the car rattled away down the street, the conductor, looking back, saw him sitting there staring across the road with, his Bonnie clasped closely to his breast.