BERTIE'S MISSION.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XVIII, Issue 1183, 26 September 1885, Page 5

BERTIE ' S MISSION.

fr+4 By. EjvTzvbeth C. "Winxeb, in "Detroit Fbee PUESS." All" day the burning Bun had scorched the dry earth. Along country roads the dust lay, fine and light as powder ; the grass by the wayside was browned; the fields of yellow grain fell in great swaths beneath the scythe, and lay like glittering gold along the ground, while the crimson, blistered face of-the panting reaper pleaded in vain to the cruel luminary to hide his own glowing countenance behind a friendly oloud. The very trees of the forest gasped for air, their leaves shrivelled and the bark giving forth an ominous odor of possible combustion. Since early morning — when the sun's rays but faintly foretold the heat to come— a slight, pale woman had been walking along those hot and dusty roads. By noon she had travelled many milea and yet her journey was but half done; for she had set out to reach the great city, where so many sad hearts are lost in the crowd save to their unhappy owners. She oarried a little child who looked so pale and wan that he might have been mistaken for one half his real age, which was almost two yeara. But even bis light weight, upborne by the love which makes suoh weights easy to carry, was at times insupportable to the weary mother. From time to time she oame to the shade of a solitary tree and then sat down at the root of it or on a stone by the wayside to rest for a few moments, and on each occasion she stooped over the child to kiss his brow or lips, as if to assure him that he was not the cause of her fatigue. She often removed his little straw hat, too, and gently fanned the tiny face, fair as a snowdrop and, notwithstanding its delicate palor, exquisitely lovely. At high noon the travellers met a buxom country girl returning from the field after carrying dinner to the mowers, who stopped to admire the child and inquire if it was ill. " No, not ill," the mother answered, gazing wisttully at her child; "but he's never very strong." " How old is he V was the girl's next question. " He will be two years old next month." "Land sake I And don't he walk yet ?" "He has never walked— yet— he's lame. But I hope he will walk some day. I'm taking him to the city, because I have been told the doctors there are clever ; and if I earn money enough I hope to have him made strong, for he's never had any accident. One little ankle is so weak that he can't put the foot on the ground when he tries to stand. You see he's never been able to learn to walk, like other children of his age." She spoke with a pitiful pleading, as if it was necessary to find excuses for the child, heoause he was less forward than other children. 11 Poor little fellow 1" said the farmer's girl, kindly enough, " and you have to carry him all the time— how tired you must be I Come to the house and rest. Perhaps he would take a cup of milk." The woman thanked her with a grateful look^and the girl continued, holding out her hands to the child : " Let me carry him for you. I love children, and the little rogues know it. Come, little pretty I What's hia name ?" "His name is Albert, but I call him Bertie." " Come to me, Bertie," said the girl, and the child smiled^d^.^nt.bjg hftpd& uv vu wnuWinquisitive look at the mother, " Mrs. —what?" " My name is Tingler," the pale woman answered coldly. The farmer's girl did not pursue her questions, for she saw they were unwelcome ; an instinot of good breeding, oftener found among the untaught than they get credit for, told her that further inquiry might give pain. Mrs. Tingler proceeded in silence ; but the girl chattered to the baby and drew from him many an unexpected peal of laughter, while at every sound of his merriment the pale mother smiled and brightened till her own laughter mingled with that of the child. At the farmer's house they fared well ; and the good people refused to let them proceed until they had rested from their journey. When they might again set out on their way, although the heat was increased, the pale mother did not feel it so much ; for kindness and sympathy had lightened her heart. All the afternoon she walked steadily on, and her little boy was held so close to her hearfci that she did not realise how nearly she was worn out with fatigue and hunger. Toward nightfall she came to the outskirts of the great city, and the prospect was not encouraging to eyes accustomed to the freshness of the country. As she passed street after street there seemed a mingled odour of oil, dirt, grease and general untidiness everywhere. Ash barrels and garbage paila stood all along the sidewalk, and here and there a half decayed orange, or a lemon peel, or a wilted cabbage was flung in the way of the foot-traveller. 111-tempered, snarling dogs ran out of the tumble-down tenements, whose human inhabitants looked, equally snarling and ill-tempered. " What if I have made a mistake in coming here at all?" thought the anxious mother with a shudder, as she looked into] the faoe of her delicate child. " How haxd it is to know what is best — but I could not stay any longer with them. They hated me, and they hated my child, though their own son was his father 1 Ah, William— dear William ! How could you leave me to fight their hard hearts alone?"

' A sob of anguish tried to struggle up from the almost bursting heart, but the brave little woman crushed it down, and held her child closer to her breast.

Night was coming on, and she felt the urgent need of food and shelter for Bertie ; inexperienced as he was, she had but a dim idea of the difficulties before her— alone, and in a great city for the first time. "She began to glance about anxiously, eagerly— how dark it was !— and how suddenly the night had come on. Then for the first time she observed that the heat was not so great ; a cool breeze had sprung up, and it blew straight in from the country fields she had left so far behind her. It was cool and moist, and it bore the sweet odour of wet grass and hay and of the damp earth. While she was feeling rather than thinking of this change in the atmosphere, came the rumbling roar of thunder, at first far off, but gradually coming nearer. The clouds gathered more darkly, and from out their gloomy depths leaped forked tongues of lightning. Then came peals of thunder that shook the ground she walked on, while little Bertie trembled and olung more closely to her. Anxiously now— wildly, the poor little mother glanced to and fro in search of some shelter. Her breath came quick and short— a dizzy tumult possessed her brainshe heard tte wild throbs of, her own heart, then it seemed to stop beating. A terrible f aintness overpowered her ; the darkness grew blacker. She had an indistinct vision of an open door a little further on ; she struggled blindly towards it, tottered, swayed to and fro, made one last effort and ran, then feU faintiDg, across the threshold..

Thank Heaven 1 there are kind hearts to be found, even in the midst of equalor and miaeiy that too often hardens the gentlest. Bertie's mother had soaioely reached the floor when she was eaughfby a pair of strong arms and a good-natured voice exclaimed :

" God bless us I but look at that now— and the child in her arms nigh killed 1 Is it dhrinkin' ye've been ? An' a burnin' shame fur ye, with that swate child to take care of — the Lord forgive me 1 What was I sayin' ? Sure there's little sign of dhrink in- the pale face ay bet, but dead bate entoirely, an' fainted away altogether. Come here, Biddy, an' taka the child." A tall girl came forward and took Bertie in a very motherly manner, like one well used to the task of caring for children. She disappeared with him into an inner room and divining that food and drink were his chief wants, fed him copiously. In tho meantime Mrs. Flynn had carried the mother to a small apartment — little better than a closet — whioh did doty as her own sleeping room. There she placed the insensible woman on the bed, nntied her bonnet, chafed her cold hands, marvelling at their whiteness and observed with an approving nod the plain gold ring on the third finger. " Poor craythure I" she murmured ; " a widdy, I suppose, like meself." It was long before a faint color came back to the pallid lips and* waxen faoe ; but at length the large blue eyes opened and gazed wonderingly into the red, good-natured countenance that met them — the next moment the poor mother remembered, and asked in an anxious whisper: "Where's Bertie?" " Whist, now I don't be afther worrithin'. The child's cared for, yell be bether in a moment an' thin yez can talk." " But he's hungry, and I've money to buy food." "Be aisy, now I D'ye think we're haithen3 here ! Yer baby's had all he wants, an' no thought ay pay." The tears that shone in the grateful mother's eyes spoke mute, bul eloquent thanks. She was too weak to speak and gladly refrained from making the effort for a while. Mrs. Flynn was a widow, with a large family, which she managed to support, as she said herself, "by turning her hand .to siveral trades." She did washing and ironing by the day, or dozen — also scrubbing and house cleaning. She kept a small store for the sale of eggs, milk and butter, which a friend on the outskirts of the town supplied her with. Then her two eldest boys sold papers and swept crossings, while Biddy — who was housekeeper and care-taker in general to the family, in her mother's absence— had a great gift at knitting and often made a few extra shillings in that way. After muoh talk on the subject Mrs. Flynn now consented to add another to her various modes of money-making ; and agreed to take Bertie and his mother as boarders. At first tha arrangement had been " until they could find a better place ;" bat weeks and months grew into years, and Mrs. Tingler and her little boy still oontinued to board with Mrs. Flynn. Bertie was now 5 years old, and though still a slender and delicate ohild, lie was stronger and hardier than on that hot summer day when his mother had carried him till she had fainted at the door of Mammy Flynn. He was still lame, but he walked with the" help of a little crutch; and the dootors gave his mother good hope that he would, in time, outgrow his lameness. During the three years she had been Mrs. Flynn's boarder, the sad little mother had known muoh disappointment and frequent hardship. It had been hard to get work of any kind, and the walk to the city in the morning and back again at night had tried her strength severely, and more than onoe she had broken down and felt that all was over. But as often she ins guua-neaneaxrißiiwuuittu nna ninojoouoouraged her ; and although she needed the little weekly sum paid by Mrs. Tingler, she never asked for it when it was not forthooming. At last Mrs. Flynn deoided to move further down into the city, and that made it easier for her lodger, for Bhe had found Bteady employment in a book-bindery, where the pay was so good that she everyday put away a few pennies in the little purse Bhe was saving up for Bertie, who needed medicines and strengthening food and a certain mechanical appliance for his little ankle, all of whioh oould only be got with money. These were bright days for Mrs. Tingler, and she was so happy that she no longer wept in the night or I waked up from dreams of terror, calling for the husband, whose ear was stopped with dust, and then clutching her child to her heart to still its aohing. Then Bertie was growing so strong and so beautiful— the thought of him filled her life with joy. When she came home in the long bright summer evenings and saw hia sweet face pressed against the window, watching for her, there were a thousand rich women with every wish gratified before it could be spoken who would have gladly changed places with Clara Tingler. There oame an evening when Bertie watched at the window longer than ever before for the well-known figure and the faoe that was always raised to his with a smile. But the sunset glow died away and the twilight drew on and brought the night. The lamps were lighted in the streets and tha stars glittered in the sky above, and Bertie could not see any face or figure, for he could I no longer see through the thick tears that scorched his eyes. At last Mammy Flynn put him to bed, wondering almost as much as himself at the non-appearance of his mother, but not so much alarmed as surprised. She comforted the child with the assurance that " mamma would be there when he waked op," and with that hope- in his heart little Bertie had cried himself to sleep.

There had been an accident on Broadway that day— a stage had been upset, and another had collided with it, and the horses had become wild and unmanageable. When order was restored, a slender little woman in black was picked up, insensible— a blow on the temple had done it— and carried to the nearest hospital. She never recovered consciousness, though for a moment her eyes had unclosed, and she murmured one word — "Bertier" Then a grey shadow crept over her face, and all was over.

There was nothing found on her by which she might have been identified — the body was kept for two days, but no friend claimed it, and she was buried. A little purse of money, all of small coins, amounting to a few dollars, was found sewed within the waist of her dress. It had been carefully — oh, how carefully and hopefully I— saved for little Bertie. It now paid for the pine coffin that held all that could die of Bertie's mother.

Mrs. Tingler's disappearance soon became an old story in the Flynn household, exoept to the heart that pined for her. At first, Mrs. Flynn pitied and comforted the child after her own way-^" for," she said "he was a big boy now, and it spoiled children to bring them up too soft hearted."

Then she was disgusted with the conduct of her late lodger—" For ay ooorse Bhe has run away, an' left the Child on my hands, seem, as I hadn't enough p 1 my own," she said to a neighbor. The thought made her bad tempered; and discontented; and at odd moments she vented her ill humour on Bertie Bat to do her justice, such occasions were rare, and being remorseful afterward^she often gave tbe ohild a rough hug and a warm kiss to make up for her harshness.

But as years passed on her ill-humor increased, and her regret for it died away. Bertie grew weak and siokly without his mother's watchful care, and his lameness increased. He always walked with a crotch, BOW, and there seemed no likelihood that he would ever walk without their sewßtanoe. Ec bad grown aoouetomed to being pushed out of

the way, and to being told he had no right to the little he ate and drank— and to much more that, while it sank like a stone to the depths of his heart, seemed also to oat like a thrust from a knife. But there was one hard speech that oat him more than all else. He heard it often both from Mammy Flynn and from the boys, who had grown up to be a care and worry to their mother, and the chief oause of her growing discontent and bad tern-

per. Q "What are yoa for, anyway— a sickly cripple, a trouble to yerself an' a bother to ivery one else— eh ? What are ye for, anyway?" These were the words that were like knife* throats to Bertie's sensitive heart. How well he could remember his mother's warm kisses, and her tender assurance that he had been sent into the world to be the joy of her heart and to reward her for every sorrow Bhe had ever felt. He had been only a child, that he had understood— in those happy days he had known what he was for, But now, alas I He began to ask the same hard question oC himself— why w&a he in the world ? Was there any room for him? What was there for him to do ? In brief, as Mammy Flyun, and Dan and Patsy so often said, what was he for, anyway? One member of the family never asked that question. It was little Conn— Mrs. Flynn's grandchild. The boy was a little Irish beauty —great gray eyes, jet black brows and lashes, a mane of dark early hair and a skin like cream— big, strong and hearty. Bertie loved him with devouring affection ; he was almost jealous of the child's own mother. Though yet a child in years, sorrow and suffering had matured his mind ; and in that fine, healthy child he saw all the possibilities forever shut out of his own life. He played with Conn by the hour together, sung him to sleep at night and told him marvels of fairy lore. But, though unlettered and unread— for he had never been sent to sohool— Bertie had a command of language and a fervor of imagination that was marvellous. Even the queer sounds in the old house as he lay awake at nights, furnished him with material for fresh fancies. The poor ohild was often kept awake by pain, and at such times he was glad of anything that would lift his thoughts from his sufferings. He had none of the natural timidity of his age, and the rumblings and cracklings that seemed to fill the wall when all else were asleep sounded like spirit voices to Bertie; and his fancy built them op into weird stories to entertain little Conn on the next day. Once, after a night of great pain, Bertie fell into a deep sleep toward morning. And in that sleep a face that he knew as well as his own— though it was bat a memory— the pale, sweet face of his vanished mother, stooped over him, and pressed on his lips a long, tender kiss. When he opened his eager eyes that kiss was still warm on his lips I What joy! what agony I He knew, then, that she had died and gone to Heaven, and with a bursting heart he cried out that he might go, too, since on earth there was no place for him. He was frantic with grief and longing that day ; and even the pretty ways of little Conn failed to bring any joy to his aching heart. He took his cratch, and went out into the streets, and there heheard the sound of choroh bells, and noted how still everything was, fox it was Sunday. By and by he found himself in a crowd, and as they were all going to churoh he went along with them. ■ He would presently have been pat oat, bat a kind old tadj^opjsned the door j)f_her_pew and invited tlwi - xxv itaiwrali few* -OiJ— •* — -I.<u4anj mooh ; till all at once he heard words that seemed to drop into his soul. " For we have all some work to do," he heard the minister say— •• the humblest— -the smallest of us. It may not be great or wonderful—but it is ours l The one' thing appointed for as since the beginning, and in good time it will be shown to us;" To Bertie this Beemeda message direct from Heaven ; it brought him peace and patience ; and he felt that he could wait now till his " work" was pointed oat to him. On the next Sunday he would have stolen oat again ; bat Mammy Flynn bade him take care of Conn, for it was Easter Sunday, and the whole family were going, to churoh. So he stayed with the child, and told him a story of a bid that used to belike a Jenny Wren, bat had never known how to sing till the morning of the first Easter Sunday. When the stone was rolled away and Christ had come forth, the bird had burst into triumphant song, and then had flown away, singing to all the world the glad tidings that the Lord had risen. After the story Conn demanded a song, and Bertie sang an Easter hymn. Long before it was finished the ohild was fast asleep ; and his careful nurse placed him, flashed and beautiful, in his cradle. Then he sat down to amuse himself with some pictures that Biddy ,had pasted in an old sorapbook. What sound was that ? Bertie started op and looked about while he asked the question. What a strange, crackling, crumbling noise— then a load rambling and trembling 1 What ailed the wall that it bent so toward Conn's cradle? With a shriek of horror Bertie bounded forward and flung himself over the sleeping ohild — then followed a crash, and a roar like thunder 1

When the Flynn family returned from church the house that bad been their home was a mass of broken timber and mortar. "God help me I My child I" screamed Conn's mother, and fell insensible. "The baby's safe, Mrs. Flynn," a neighbour hastened to assure the poor grandmother, who stood, dazed and stupid, gazing at the rains. " Come with me and see him —the little boy won't let him oat of his arms." Mrs. Flynn allowed herself to be led in silence. Whiter than a spow .wreath Bertie was holding the baby in his arms ; while the little fellow fondled the cheek already damp with the dew of death. Mrs. Flynn burst into load weeping, as she clasped them both in her arms ; and she kissed Bertie with a thrill of pain at her heart that would leave an ache there as long as she lived. " Ah, my poor darlint 1 Are'ye hurt;?," she asked. Bertie smiled as he answered : " I feel no pain, Mammy Flynn ; and now I know what I was for" and he gently poshed little Conn into his grandmother's arms. Mammy Flynn would have aßked him to forgive her— to forgive the croel, thoughtless words that had wounded him — bat a sadden awe chained her tongue as she looked on Bertie. The child's face was illuminated with joy ; a glory seemed to rest Opon his golden hair ; his lips parted, and then with s soft, rapturous ory, " Mamma, mamma ; " his spirit fled to her embrace.

Whit kind of men do woman like best ?— Husband-men. What ties two people together, yet tonohes only one ?— A wedding ring. Whebe are balls and roots supplied gratis 7 -On the field of battle.

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