THE MOUTH ORGAN BOY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2915, 26 January 1910, Page 90

THE MOUTH ORGAN BOY.

By D. Penrose.

The woman at the window turned with fa air of impatience to the girl who was eaping coals on the'fir© and said, "Jane, Co out and stop that boy. I cannot bear to listen to that mouth .organ ; it fairly tends my heart." Jane, the dutiful help and companion fit the "Girange," hastened out of the cosy room, through the hall door into the street. Here, on one of the snowoovered spokes of the fence, a-barefooted' < iboy ia? ragged clothes sat [playing a. mouth organ. Under a faded Tarn o' Shanter a shock of yellow curls were struggling to free themselves, and in hia sweet blue eyes there was a sadness that told its own tale more faithfully than any mouth organ could do. !; "Will you please play somewhere else, 'sonny," said Jane kindly. "My mistress cannot bear to listen to a mouth organ. It reminds her of her brother." ; The boy jumped down from hie position on the fence and glanced up at the high windows in the big brick house with something like pity in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said; "but I didna' ken, miss. 'Me faither used to play the mooth organ, an' I ken he load it as weel as .she. I'll - gang awa'." Something in the lad's manner appealed to the girl. Going closer to him she laid a gentle hand on his head and ©aid, "No, don't go, sonny; you can find your way round to the kitchen and I will give you something to warm you. You look cold." "Thank ye, miss, I'll come." And with tearful eyes the lad made his way to the back entrance. When Jane returned to the room where her mistress was. resting, smething in the iatter's attitude caused her to start back. There was a sound of sobbing and broken (.whispers, and Jaiia caught the words, i"Oh, God in Heaven, will he ever come back?" and then the proud woman let her head fall forward in her • hands and gave vent to a passionate outburst of grief. oaue, always sympathetic, tfent forward with a "soft movement and gently remarked, "Are you ill, miss?" With a proucr effort Miss Perkins thrust back her tears and turned her j>retty grey eyes, sad and despairing, to the girl. "No, not ill, Jane; only broken-hearted. Come here, dear." i Jane drew near while her mistress placed her arm around her shoulders and drew her silently over to the window casement. For a few moments they looked out upon the dreary scene of falling snow in silence, watching the mantle thickening on the housetops and hedges, the trees and window sills, until Miss Perkins broke .the silence : 1 '''Ten years ago to-day my mother said food L bye to me in this room—gave up her roken heairt to the care of Eternal God:, and left me to battle along in the old home alone. That was .why I engaged you, Jane. I felt as if I would have gone mad when I began to wander about the place by myself. I could have marTied, yes, but I gave up my life for my rr mother. It was not a sacrifice, dear, I loved her, and when Harry went ahe. needed my care. In her young days she suffered for me—aye, only God knows 3w>w much, —and when she had brought me up to a helpful stage it was not God's wish that I should ctesert her for the sake of my own happiness; besides, I /was happier in making her happy, so |'l stayed. My lover went away to Australia disg/usted with what he pleased' to term my mistaken sense of duty and I idevoted my whole life to making mother (forget her sorrow. Barry was always a (•roveir. He was not content with our fair tMaoriland; he wanted to see all the fair (■lands of the earth, so one day he stole away, without leaving any message for ianother or me. We were passionately Ifond of him, and lie was a good .son and brother while he remained I-with us, but when he went awav be soon forgot us, and mother took it to heart. I tried to cheer her up in every way, but it was no use. Then she died—just gradual decline from lowness of spirits, the doctor said—and I ,was left to face the rest of life alone. Harry's loss was always a cloud, but we j were "in hopes it would pass over one day 'and he would come back to us, but he never did. You wonder why I tell you all this, Jane? It's because I feel as if •I shall go mad unless I tell someone. That boy's mouth-organ brought it all back, to-day. Harry used to sit on the jtable in the kitchen when we were doing the Christmas baking playing ''Home, sweet home" for hours. He played with such feeling, too, that we seemed to finish up in tears. Perhaps it was some sort "of presentiment of what the future had in store. The night, mother died a boy came and played "Home, sweet home" on the mouth organ below this .very window. It seemed to be like a knife in our hearts. It awoke old: memories and wrung from us the grief that was struggling for an outlet. Now, there is a boy here to-day playing that same tune. Oh, Jane! don't tell me something is going \o happen again?" The tears stood in Jane's eyes as she replied, "No, Miss, it might mean good ),his time." "I hope so dear. The lane has been a) long time Oh! if Harry would onlv come back.", Miss Perkins turned away from the window with a sigh-and went back to the armchair by the fireside. ■ "I'll bring you a cup of tea, Miss, said Jane, wiping*her eyes with the corner of her apron, and without waiting for a reply she made her way down to the kitchen.

The lad with the mouth-organ was waiting patiently below. After brushing a chair with her apron Jane lifted him into the seat, pulled it up before the table, and placed a plate of steaming broth before him. "There now," she said; "you'll feel warmer after that. You have made Miss Perkins cry with your, 'Home, sweet home ' " "Miss Perkins?" repeated the boy pausing as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. "I'm Wullie Perkins. Me faither's name w<as Perkins." Jane opened her mouth and stared at the boy with genuine astonishment. "He used to play 'Home, sweet home,' you said?" she remarked when she could sufficiently recover her voice. "Did he have any sisters?" "Urn!" 'replied the boy supping his soup. "One, I think. He "didna tell lis muckle, did faither. He worrit a lot aboot his mither, though, before we left Australie, and on the boat he telt me he wis goin' to tak me to her in Noo Zealan', but I never seed her. Faither deed on the boat!" Here the boy suddenly broke off in the midst of his eating and talking, and laying his head on the table, gave vent to a flood of tears. Soft-hearted Jane gathered him in her arms and kissed his tears away while she murmured consoling words. "There now, Willie, don't you cry. I'll bring you- up to Miss Perkins presently, and perhaps she'll give vou something to do." Willie's face broke into smiles as he saw Jane bring forth some hot scones nicely buttered and a pot of steaming tea, and with wonderful promptitude answered her several questions. "Did your mother come with you, Willie?" "Noo ; mither deed when I wis born. Faither telt me what I ken aboot her." "What did your father do for a living?" * . .• . "Most onything. He wis a engineer by rights, though." "Good!" cried Jane joyously, as if some new discovery had come to her. "And he used to play 'Home, sweet home'?" "Ay, most every nicht. Sometimes he'd stoppit to cry, and then he'd play agen. He likit 'Home, sweet home' best. He said it used to mind him of his mither." "What did he say about her?" Willie looked wise, and, putting his head on one side, answered: "Ay, lots. ' Puir aud anither ! I'd gie half me life to see your guid auld face noo!' He'd alwns say that when he spoke of her." Jane brushed an imaginary fly from her lashes, and, pressing a kiss on his curly head, asked another question. "Where do you live, Willie?" '' A blush rose to Willie's cheeks as he gave the hesitating reply. "Mr Mathew's was on the boat an' he took me when faither. deed, but he wis so sair aboot things that I couldna bear it. an' I thought I'd better run awa'. That's how I came to play the mooth organ. I've made enough to buy one good meal, a day, and .sometimes I can manage a bed. Maister Mathews is worrit aboot me nae doot, but I'm nae goin' back. I'd like to work if onybody would ha'e me." "Brave little chap!" murmured Jane ; between her tears as she busied herself with the tray and tea things. "Just you wait here untyl I speak to Miss'Perkins." And with a smile she left him. "Bonnie laddie!" exclaimed Miss Perkins brokenly as she gathered the boy into her arms half an hour afterwards. "God sent you in the place of my brother to cheer me in my old age. You have found the home, sweet home that you have been crying for with your father's sister, Willie, anb! you must learni to call me aunt. This is your father's mouth organ, is it not?" "Ay!" came the quaint reply. "How did ye ken?" . "Because it lias my brother's initials on it, and I-was the very person who carved that 'H. P.' on it. This was a birthday present I gave him, Willie, when he was no older than you. But he never spoke Scotch. Where do, you get the dialect from?" "Frae mither, I'm telt. I dinna ken. Dinna ye like me?" "Like you?" Tears began to stream down Miss Perkins's cheeks as she pressed him to her breast again. "You shall be all the World to me, Willie, for you are my mouth-organ brother's boy. Now, play me_jsomething." Willie began, to play "Home, sweet home" once more, but before he. could finish it Miss Perkins was so convulsed with sobs thai he was forced to throw down the organ, and with a manly movement go up and place his little arms around her neck. "Dinna cry, Auntie," he said softly in his quaint tongue. " I maunt feel it sair if I make ye sad. Dinna ye like 'Hame, sweet hame'?" "Yes, darling." came the broken reply. "It is home, sweet home noAV. But I was flunking of your father. I will not cry again." And with a brave effort Miss: Perkins dried her tears and Willie clapped hie hands for very joy.