Chapter 11.

Otago Witness, Issue 1681, 9 February 1884, Page 27

Chapter 11.

Conversation ondbii Difficulties— A Miserable Night — A. Delightful Repast — Baiting thk Hook— Nibbling— Faikly Caught at Last. As an old fisherman in the muddy streams of lodging-house life, 1 knew by experience that not only must the hook be often specially baitod, but that the greatest patience and perseverance must be exhibited if certain kinds' of fish weie to be caught. The drag-net might be successful sometimes in bringing to shore large numbers, but very often moro skilful and longcontinued efforts were needed to secure even a single prize. Thus it was that whenever I parsed the Exchange I always looked out for Bridget, with a view to improve our mutual acquaintance, and to make her more familiar with my voice and presence. If I saw her, and her eye caught mine, Bhe would frequently nod a little pert, self-sufficient, independent salutation of her own, that meant, " How do you do? I'm glad to see you ; and although I may look poor I am doing very well, I assure you, and need nothing more." It was very seldom that on such occasions Bridget would enter into prolonged conversa tion with me. She generally implied by her manner that she was busy, very busy, earning her bread, as bhe said, and xeally could not waste any time talking to idlo folk. Perhaps, ■ too, thero was a natural shyness at being seen in conversation with a well-dressed person in the open street, and an unwillingness on her part to encounter the chaff and laughter of her companions, who, I hoard, used to rally her after I left, with wanting to enter the Home .and be made a "baby" of. So it ,vas that my best talks with Bridget were whenever by chance I found her c^uite alone. " I am sorry, Bridget," I said, on this particular morning, as soon OiS I reached her side, "toned you are ro wet and looking so cold. Have you not sold your papers ? " " 'Taint likely ! Who'll buy papers such a day as this, I'd like to know?" was her somewhat snappish rejoinder, already quoted, and* as I have said, I bfilieve if tho miserable child could have moved away at once from the shelter under which she was then standing she would have done so. But the rain continued to pour much too violectly for her to venture out. " Poor girl ! how did you fare yesterday?" I asked with sympathy. "It must have been quito aa bad." " Yes," said Bridget, sadly, "it wor ; I couldn't sell nothin' !" '' How, then, did you get the money for today's papers if you had not sold those of yes terday?" I inquiied. •

" Oh ! " sho explained, " some of the chap 5 ) about here a^l knows on lout mo the ha'pence for half a quire, but I ain't sold a bleaied one this day !" " What did you do lasi night, Bridget ? Where did you sleep?" I continued, knowing, ! as I did wght well, that tha lodging house keepers, or their " deputies," seldom give credit to their young lodgmy. " I slop'," rpjyined the poor child, in a subdued lone, " on tho btair of the house next door. Kitty Murphy arat her mother to let me stop in tho kitchen, and she wouldn't, no I slop' all night snug on the stair." Bridget did not look very "snug" justtthen ! in her wet rags. Her teeth chattered, ana her face was blue with cold. The rain still poured down, and I thought a more forlorn-looking child I never saw. " Have you had anything to eat to-day ?" 1 inquiied, i'he poor little creature shook her head, and then, as if the thought of her forlorn, halffamished condition overcame her self-control, she could hold out no longer, but bioke dowu in violent sobbing. Do you wonder at the sudden and imexpected exhibition of grief on the part of this womanly, independent little creature ? It so, please bear in mind that, with all her bold independence of spirit and adventurous mode of life, bhe was yet but a child. Theie she stood, poor thing ! trembling and shaking from head to foot, not having broken her last that day, and after a night passed in her wet clothes on the stair ot a common lodginghouse J It was dreadful to think of. Dreadful, too, to imagine what must lie before her if ahe were not quickly taken from her present life. It was surely the tima for deeds, not words. " Come along, Bridget, come with me under my umbrella, and we will rush across to that shop which you see open. I have ao doubt we shall get some hot coffee there." Dishing aside her tears, Bridget, without much ado, decided to come, and calling to the cabman to follow, we rushed off. After about half a minute.-, splashing through the rain and mud, we reached the doi>r of a well-known restaurant, which stood wide opsn. Bridget was not suth a guest as they usually entertain in that housa, but tho attendants had pitiful hearts, and the sight of this poor little girl-waif in such a plight was enough to induce them, there being no other customers in the place, to allow her to sit at the farther end of the shop, close to a large roaring fire that crackled on the hearth aud diffused its genial glow around. Nothing loth, Bridget, careful little merchant that she was, having first spread out her papers to dry, seated herself so as to get tho full benefit of the warmth. In a very short time a large jorum of steaming hot coffee and a plentitul supply of bread and butter seemed, together with the fire, to turn th« tide of aifairs, and fortuno smiled onco more upon the poor hurnelesß child. How quickly do children of the destitute class forget thoir misery and past privations when enjoying a little present comfort ! This has often struck me as a merciful compensation, which makes their otherwise bitter lives tolerable. Bridget chatted away (tho -apour meanwhile rising from her steaming clothes) as eagerly as if she were well clothed, had a good home to go to, and never knew or was likely to know what want or trouble was. 1, too, talked with her about mnny things, but all the. time my mind was revolving the subject nearest my heart. By what means could I induce Bridget to come with me to the Homo ? I had formerly tried every argument likely to succeed ; what now plea could I urge now ? Just then putting my hand in my coatpocket I felt something stiff against my finger, and suddenly recollected that I had there that which might perhaps prove a more powerful argument than any 1 had previously adduced. But I advanced cautiously, for your true street arab is often a shy fish, and will not always take even the most alluring bait. " What a pity, Bridget," I said in the first pause which ensued, " that you should go back to selling papers on the streets. This wet weather will last, I fear, a long time ; and even if it clears up. the .coldest part of winter has yet to come. Whatever willaou do ? " " Don'no, I'm sure. The best I can, I B'spOHO." " Yes. But you may catch a severe illness after getting wet like this ; then you might die, you know. Think of that ! ' There was no reply. I hoped Bridget was thinking over what I had said. Pulling out suddenly from my pocket the object referred to, I held before Bridget's eyes a photograph of a young girl neatly di eased as a domestic servant, with white waistbands and collar, with neat white cap and apron, in a print dress, and holding in one hand a, housebrooni, in the other a dustpan, in which she was about to gather the dust from tho floor she had baen sweeping, her bright smiling ia.ee raised from tho work" and turned full at the spectator, presenting on thu whoie a veiy attractive picture. " Oh, my ! " was the admiring exclamation that burst from Bridget's lips. " Ain't she m smart ! " Having allowed a few minutes for examination of the picture, I asked : " Wouldn't you wish to be like her ? Better, I should think, to ba dressed in that way than to wear the things you have on ? " pointing to her ragged dress, " Ishould think it wor," she replied ; " but I ain't got such luck, you see." " Nonsense," I rejoined ; " you may be just as well dressed and as comfortable as she is if you choose." Bridget looked at- me with a surprised air. Now it was my turn to explain. " That girl, Bridget, was once a poor child without a home or friends, living upon the streets. I received her into our Home, where she has been trained aa a servant. She was older than you aro, and therefore did not re main very lung with us, and this is a pioture of her engaged at her .daily work. Now if you like," 1 added, in the hope of deepening the impression which was evidently already made, "I will take you to-day to our Home, where I know the good matron will make you welcome, treat you kindly, teach you -many things you do not know now, give you pleufcy to eat, warm clothing, and a good bod to sleep in, and then in a little while, when yon have learned enough, you too may go out to service looking quito as nice and respectable as this girl." The idea was scduotivo. I could see that the bait was alluring, yet my poor little street child was like a hungry but timid fish nibbling all round before it finally ventures to swallow tho attractive morsel. *' Now, Biidgot," I continued seriously, " tho matter lies with you. Will you conic ': Only &ay the word, and we will go off at onco. l'.iit if you do not wish to couie, and prater to go out into the rain and to live us you have doiie lately, I must, of course, let you h.i'vo your own way, and will not, in that case, tiouble you any further." Bridget's objections were fast disappearing. The warmth ot the coffee, the heat of the fire, the comfort of the food— thoughts, too, of the cold; wet fefcreeta, her penuilcsu condition, and

of the dreadful days to com'e — were pote' ' persuasives on my side. After a minute's silence she looked up me, and, with an earnest gUace in her eye, said : " It's very kind of you, sir, to offer to take me, and I'll go if you'll promise me. one thing." " What is it, Bridget?" " That you'll never fcell my mother where I am." 1 It need hardly be said that I promised, and as a consequence the cab door was . presently opened to receive Bridget as well as the Writer. Away we went, talking merrily the while, and scarcely ceased until we reached our journey's end. • , The welcome door of our Receiving House was opened wide to admit this poor little waif cast up by the tide of city life almost at my feet, and bafore whom there now lay the blessed possibilities of an industrious and virtuous career. If from that hour Bridget was no further troubled with the presence or interference of her mother, the little girl, worse than orphaned was soon able to realise for herself the sweetness and power ol those blessed words, " When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, the Lord will take thee up." What more shall be said ? This certainly it is needful to state— that such a case as the foregoing is not by any means to be understood as an altogether exceptional one. Ia some respects it may be so, as for example in regard to the description given herein of Bridget's personal character ; but in other senses, and in its wider and more general aspect, it is but typical and illustrative of numbers of other unfortunate little children on our streets. For it is an awful and undisputed fact that the seething maelstrom of London street-life contains within its vortex at this very hour at which 1 wtite hundreds of cases quite as pitiable and forlorn. <

k