THE FOOTBALL

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXV, Issue 52, 26 December 1907, Page 37

THE FOOTBALL

The fields, so near London, are empty, save ' for ourselves. They are lonelier than country fields, perhaps by reason of their strangeness, for the suburb is just out of sight roun-d the corner. We are sitting on a stile, about midway of the fields, which are bounded by a railway line of few and empty trains. We are absorbed in our middle-aged affairs. The larks are rising abc-ut us in a tangle of song. Celandines are at our feet. Cattle are peacefully grazing atoout us ; our terrier, with misdirected energy, is digging out a mole ; at any moment we may hear the first cuckoo. In. the fields, entrapped and overtaken, there are yet hemmed the country delights. The country peace falls like dew on the spirit. If only one had not to return through the wilderness of houses ! + Dawn the cinder path comes a small boy lacking a disproportionately large ball. We hardly glance at him, taking him. at first for a slum child from the row of mean houses which are hidden by the railway embankment. Arrived at the stile, he places the ball upon it, presumably with intent to vault across the plank on which we are sitting. But he docs no such thing. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, he sits down dos a 'dos with us. At first we are inclined to resent the interruption of our privacy, but presently one of us turns about to look at the fearless thing. His eyes smile at us with a frank friendliness.- He is a pretty child, not of the slum, the child of gentle folk - evidently, though somewhat shahiby. He has soft Ijjcown eyes and fair skin powdered with freckles, a- dear little turn-up nose, and a soft, pale mouth. Altogether appealing and innocent. "Well,' one of us says, 71 with a sudden change of mood, ' are you going to have a game of football ? ' ' I have had it,' he says ; { right down trom that gate lip there. Didn't you see, me ? ' 1 Why do you play by yourself ? ' we asked. ' Well, 'you see, I'.ve no- one to play with me.' 1 No brother ? ,' 'Yes, I've a brother; but he's- only four months old. He wouldn't b,»e much good at football — at that age.' (jWe agreed that he would not.) •' Nor my sistfcr,' he goes on. ' She's a year and three months.' ' And how old are you ? ' , ' Seven and a half. I've left tHe kindergarten for a- big boys' - school. I don't, know where \it is, but mother- * knows.: ' You don't mind being down here in- the fields by yourself ? ' « He looks 'at us with a certain misgiving, .which makes the one who ""had spoken self-reproachful. It was as though one had called into being fear in a thing hitherto innocent. - * •Father and mother sent me,' he s"ays slowly. 'They' said I'd be safe.' .. - 'Of course you are safe.' He drew, jip a little. c I should have been here long ago,' he says, 'if I hadn't had to do the shopping for mother.' ' You do shopping ! ♦ 1 Mother says I shop very well,' he says ' with pride. ( I was- down the Broadway, and even in the High street. I. crossed right in front of the trams.' Somehow these adventures seem less alarming than to leave him in the fields alone. The field path is a short- cut to a main road, and one has met villainous

tramps there. It is an hour when decent folk are at the midday meal. The empty fields seem inimitably lonely. Yet we* must go. He takes off Ms cap prettily, and we say farewell. But we are loath to leave him, and, as we climb the hill, we look back often at the little figure sitting on the stile. A field or. two away we pause to watch him, and see him kicking his football about, a curiously solitary and urimiriliful little figure. • And at "the mom-Grit we waitoh he turns round and "begins to follow us. 'We suspect that all along the solitude had daunted him. He will overtake us, and we shall leave him' at his own door. Odd that people should \be so without - fears for ! their little Qnjes. As we turn about, we are aware of a ' large guardian of the -peace who is in a quiet nook indulging in a surreptitious smoke. The loneliness of the field and their ' brooding dangers have disappeared. Why should not the little lad have his morning among the grass and buddijhgL thiings .? As we passed the policeman, the little feet came thudding along the cinder path. He pauses in front of the policeman; and looks up at liim, evidently entering into -conversation with the trust which had won our hearts. We look for a second or two. The policenran takes ( the ball and. handles it appraisingly, then kicks it. I?he two^un after the hall. There is a shrill shout of laughter. We walk 'on quickly with a deep ' breath of relief. Our. small friend has found a playmate and a protector. — ' Irish Monthly.'