(Copyright.) JERRY.

Northland Age, Volume 2, Issue 43, 5 June 1906, Page 2

(Copyright.) JERRY.

By, Oliver Zell Hoge* .!« / first met him in the autumn of •1891, when I was working for the "Times.” Of course, one who has dozens of newsboys to deal with cannot pay much .attention to any particular one. Still, often I would gaze at the curious picture he presented, with his raven black hair, that had never seen a comb ; his small piercing eyes and the long military coat, a relic, he said, of the war in which his grandfather had fought.

He was not 10 years of age, but he was a thorough business man. So eager was he to be away each morning that f scarcely ever had time tossy a word to him. But one morning, to my suprise. he did not press his way to the front, as usual, but remained on the outskirts of the throng of boys . and even when the others had been served and had gone running down the street, he did not come forward. I pretended to be busy for a few moments, watching him all the while. At length I asked : “Well. Jerry, why don’t you get your ’‘Times" and be off ?" The boy removed his cap, clutched It nervously in his dirty hands and replied in tones which could be detected a faint tremor : "I had to spen’ me money on Tim last night fer med’cine, and I ain’t got none lef. De udder blokes wouldn't gimme no ‘paps,’ and I don't 'spose you will . nut her." Then, seeing that all was not clear to my mind, he continued : "Tim’s me brudder, and he’s got jes’ what I've got and jos' what took off pap and roam and granny—that 8 k'nsumption." "And is your brother dependent on you ?" I queried. "Do you care for

"Bet yer las’ dollar.” The boy's eyes filled with tears. "He's now been abed fer six mont’s. Some blokes wanted to take him to de hospit', but I kep’ 'cm from doin' it. I promised mam to care fer 'im, and I’ll do it." He hesitated for a moment. and then continued, in fainter tones : * But it’s hard times, Mister. Often I fe< 1 like givin' up. I cuts wilier whistles fer the peddler, him up at the corner of Twenty-first and the avenue, and I alius sells papers ; but drugs come high. An’ then sometimes I’m up all night wid Tim. A it warn't fer him I couldn't stan'

"And how much do you make selling papers ?” I asked. " 'Bout 60 cents a day. but I don't s’pose I’ll make anything today.” A sigh escaped his lips. Involuntarily my hand went to the drawer. "Here's a dollar," I said. "Now go home and rest up today, as you were awake all night." Kindness was a stranger to Jerry. He may have heard of it in a vague way. but the reality had never before been forced upon him. He eyed me as if I were a Croesus ; afraid to take the money for fear that it was all a dream. Finally, however, the truth • forced itself upon him. He seized the dollar, gave a wild cry of delight and darted out of the door. From that day Jerry almost worshiped me, and the more I came to know of hint and of his sacrificing spirit, the more I came to believe that he also was something out of the ordinary. Altruism was the very essence of his character. He bad no thought for himself, no thought for anyone except Tim. I saw that both were in a bad way, and I tried to persuade Jerry to send his brother to a hospital. My efforts were useless, however. Only death could separate them.

November carne and went, as November has a habit of doing, and winter was ushered in amid cold and snow. But Jerry continued to sell papers in the slush and cold of the streets. The hard work was telling on him, however, and his disease was taking a firmer hold. How the boy kept up during those long dreary months no one will ever know. Before Christmas he was as pale and thin as possible, and a hollow A cough was racking his frame. His \reat love for Tim kept him alive, however. Only the presence of that little mite of humanity in the ♦old atti«-room kept Jerry from giving up bin fight for life. The drawn lines on his countenance and twitching lips evidenced as much. Often ho would confess that, his head \Cfcs a furnace und his body cold, Bat wffbn I advised him to go with his brother to a hospital he would reproach me with * alanca. an* m th* months

arafjgea along. One night in January when the thermometer hovered about zero, I happened to bo in the lower part of the city, and, finding myself near the house, the attic of which Jerry and Tim occupied, I entered. I ascended the Btops. The scene before me will never be forgotten. It shall be, to use Wordworth’s words,

Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory, images and precious thoughts That shall not die and cannot be destroyed.

Tim was faintly murmuring, "I’m so cold," and had evidently been doing so for some time, as the little cover used by Jerry was over him and in addition, the military coat was thrown over the younger of the two brothers. Jerry had kept for his own use only a few rags, called clothes for want of a better term. As I saw the great sacrifice the newsboy had made, I turned to look for him. lie lav in a far comer of the uncarpeted attic, almost naked. By the footprints in the dust, which was thick on the floor, I judged that Jerry had made a futile attempt to keep warm by exercising himself. The attempt had failed ; he had fallen, overcome by the bitter cold.

Hastily 1 removed my heavy winter overcoat and, kneeling, I wrapped the poor wasted frame In it. Then, after giving Tim a dose of quinine to break up his chill, I gathered up my, bundle and hurried to the office.

During the long winter night I worked over him, and not until morning dawned did he open his eyes. When the familiar cries of the boys, calling for papers, fell upon his ears he tried to arise. He was too weak to sit up. I cautioned him to remain still. . "But Tim?" headed. "I'll attend lo Tim," I said. A few minutes later he was asleep again. When my immediate duties were at an end I went out and purchased a suft. This I placed at Jerry's side, not wishing to awaken him. Then I went to look after Tim. I cursed myself for not having had both sent to the hospital. If they died I would not be guiltless. I determined to delay no longer what was obviously my duty. Hastily I walked down the street leading to the tenement. When I was only a few blocks distant I heard the fire bell. My mind was too busy with other things to note it, and I did not even quicken my pace. A few minutes later I came in sight of the tenement. It was in flames.

For fully a half minute I stood as if paralysed. Then, as the *irutn forced itself upon me. I gave an agonised cry and darted toward the building. Hands were there to stop me, but I sprang past. The flames were gaining headway, but, as yet, the smoke gave the most trouble. A few moments later I was at the attic door. One kick and it was open. Tim was soon in my arms. Tho boy was coughing fearfully, the smoke being everywhere. Realising the danger of such coughing, I hurried down the steps. I was too late. When I reached the outer air blood was issuing in large quantities from his mouth. When I laid him down he was dead. For a few moments I stood there, stunned, in the presence of death. But the reaction came swiftly. From far up the street came a cry, "I'm coinin’, Tim ; yer shan't be hurt." The voice was Jerry’s, and it arose above all the din.

Turning my eyes away from Tim's face, I looked up the thoroughfare. Jerry was a block distant, coming at race-horse speed in our direction. I had left him weak and helpless an hour earlier. His love for Tim had endowed him with a giant's strength. Fate was against him, however. A large hook-and-ladder waggon swung around the corner as he drew near. He did not wait for it to pass, but tried to dodge it, so anxious was he to reach the building. I heard a wild cry, "They tol' me up’t the "Times” office that McGovern's flats was on fire ;" then the crowd closed in. When I fought ray way to the centre of the mob they were placing Jerry's body in an ambulance, there for possible fire victims. The orphans having no friends, I busied myself with seeing to it that Tim’s dead body was in the proper hands. When 1 went to the hospital to which Jerry had been taken after the accident. I was soon at his side. Ho was delirious, and failed to recognise me. His only cries were, "Oh, Tim, I'm cornin’. They tol’ me that McGovern’s flats was on fire." The next morning I again visited the hospital. Upon entering Jerry's division, I was told that he was dying. 1 stood at his bedside for an hour in the hope of being recognised. He was too near death, however. About midday an expression of restful calm stole across his features. "Oh, Tim, I-I'm come," he murmured, and then he went to join his brother. I saw to it that they were not buried in paupers’ graves. They were laid side by side in the cemetery, and were I rich, a monument should tower over them. As ft is, two small tablets mark the spot where they sleep.

In the autumn and winter, when the grass is dead and the trees bare I love to wander to the little mounds and watch over them while the cold wind plays about me. And while sitting there buried in memories, I road the inscription on Jerry’s tombstone,

Rest * here, distrest by poverty no more. Here* find the calm thou gav’st bo oft before ; Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine Till angels awake thee with a note like thine.