The Storyteller CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume 13, Issue 7, 13 February 1908, Page 3

The Storyteller

CHAPTER 11.

CHAPTER 111.

CHAPTER IV.

SAL DONOVAN'S JIM

Even'ng N-ews ! Spec'al ! The snow was falling softly, silently on the pavements, as the newsboys dashed through the crowded thoroughfare, shouting shrilly as they went. ' Want one, sir ?' and a diminutive urchin of soma seven or 'eight years, flourished a paper under my nose.) He was ragged and barefooted, while, something which was an insult to the fair name of cap, covered a heavy mass of unkempt curls. I shook my head in answer to his appeal. 4 Take one, sir,' he pleaded. ' Ha'nt sold none yet.' -. • I don't want one,' I said gruffly. ' Run away.' He took a long gaze at me with an expressiouv which seemed a smile of scorn in' his small pinched face. I prepared myself for • a burst of the usual compliments, coupled with the remarks it would. please him to make, on my personal appearance, the cut of my coat, the shape and size of my hat, and such sundry matters as afford a never failing source of ridicule for boys of his stamp. I was agrtieably disappointed. 'He merely, gave another shrill cry at my face, then darted oS, and -pounced on a very fat old gentleman crossing the street,, giving a long exultant whistle as one of the papers foaind its way into the old gentleman's pocket, and a penny found its way into his. own. I know not why my interest was aroused' in that boy. There was no perceivable difference between him and the majority of the others, yet I actually quickened my pace, and kept him in 1 sight. The stock of papers was soon exhausted, and then he stood aimlessly at the ~ corner of a side street. * There was a piteous appeal in his eyes as I passed, so I gave him a penny, and went my way. Great was my astonishment, when passing St. Mary's Chapel, some half an hour later, to find this same urchin, standing, inside the gate with his torn cap under his aim, andi his little hands joined in the attitude of prayer. I waited till he showed signs of moving, then I hailed him. « Come here, my lad,' said -I, as cheerfully as possible. ' What is your name ?' ' Jim, sir,' he answered promptly, drawing timidly near. ' And your other name, my little man ?' ' Only Jim, sir,' he replied. ' Ain't got none other name. I'm only Jim, sir,' and he rubfoed his feet, one on the other alternately. • Are you very cold ?' I asked, for though I waa comfortably wrapped, the air felt bitterly keen. ' A wee bit, sir, not much,' said Tie, very quietly.; -' I'm times worser.' • I noticed that he did not indulge much in the ' slang' of the streets. His voice was soft and clear, and he spo''e very well. ' i 1 Where do you live ?' was the next question I asked ' I lives with Sal, sir, a long ways that, road,' andi he indicated the" direction with his hand. ' Sal keeps the stall at the corner sir, an' I waits till ibs time for. her agoih', then I carri'es-the basket home for her.' ' Is Sal your mother, then ?' ' Ain't gofr no mother, sir.' * And your father— is he alive ?' ' He shook his head. ' Ain't got no father neither, sir I lives with Sal, in a room, the top front, sir an' everyone a-calls me Sal Donovan's Jim.' - - 1 And Sal is good to you— is she ?' ' ' She is, sir, an' I do lots o' things for her. Times s^e s cross, sir, when the rimatics are a-botherin' her then she says I'm not her Jim, I'm only Nobody's childthen she laughs, an' says it's only fun, an' then she cries. Oh, ay, sir, she's good, is Sal.' Nobody's child-! .What a drama, of^ human frailty, what a "picture of earthly misery lay hidden, behind the sinrrlo words. I looked uron his little face, whereon want and cold • struggled for supremacy of expression ;> on 1 his little wasted hands, Irs small feel blue wiith cold 1 , and could not refrain from murmuring, with a wave of sadness- hitherto foreign to'- my nature : ' Poor little outcast ' Poor little Jim ! ' ' Do* you, never have any boots; Jim,' I asked after a brief pause. 1 I've ones at home, sir, b<ut I keeps them J fofl Sunday, whpn Sal' an' me comes 'long here to Mass. . c And do you always come to Mass on Sundays Jim ?»■'•♦ ' , 1 I does, sir, an' Sal comes, but she "don't always come, s'r. does Sal, 'cept when .them rimatics ain't abotherin' her.'' i

c You're a good lit He man, Jim,' said I, tenderly, 1 I am glad you always come to Mass, and I hope you will always do so. how, why did you come here tonight ?' He "seemed surprised at my question, and hesitated a good deal before he said : ' i comes here every mornin' an' every ni£,ht, sir.' ' And why, Jim?' ' 'Cause I says three " Hail Mary's " sir. Sal told me, if I'd say them every mornin' I'd get all my p.ipeis a-tooki an' then I says them, at night, to tell G-od an' the Blessed "Virgin that l'se glad an' thankful for them - gettin' the papers all a-toak. I says them, sir, no matter it the papers bent all a-gone, an' when they ain't all a-gone, then I gets a big deal more a-tcok the next day. It's Sal's time, sir, thrm's the chimes a-gone. 1 waits, sir, for them chimes, an' Sal waits, sir, an' if I don't come for the basket, then she knows what there's somethin' gone amiss, an' she comes a lookin' for me.'

Jim's home was in one of those long, narrow, evil sniehiiLg alleys, which are only too numerous in all large cLies, and only too well known, to require any detailed description. The house in which Sal Donovan found a shelter was in perfect harmony with its surroundings, being dilapidated, and) from every point of \iiiw, frightfully miserable. The street door (having at some previous period of its existence lost the lower hinge, which was ne\er replacd) leaned heavily to one side, as if mimicking \het attitude of a drunken man reclining in the opposite doorway. The walls were damp and broken ; the iioors decaying, and covered with foulSjme litter ; while whole families were crowded into rooms in comparison, with which the Black Hole of Calcutta, on the memorable occasion in which it figures in history, must have been a very Eden. The evil countenance of the Demon of Drink loomed forth at 1 every step of the rheumatic stairway; and his polluting breath made foul the whole tenement atmosphere. ' Here's the gent, as I was a-taUin' on, Sal,' cried out Jim, by way of introduction, darting before me into a room which, though very small, was comparatively tidy. ■ \ ' Where is he, Jim, dear ?' asked Sal, in a weak, trembling voice, ' Och ! dear me, my poor eyes is ago-ne, Jinn, for I don t see him at all, God bless him.' But this was not a proof of faulty eyesight by any means, as the back of her head was towards the doorway, and I had not then entered the room. 1 Here's him now, Sal,' cri.d Jim once more, and then turning to me, he said 'Tint's Sal, sir.' Sal, who was mumbling her ' Rosary,' rose from the disused, biscuit box on which she was seated, before .the merest, pretence of a fire, and made the stiffest, and most elaborate courtesy I ever beheld. She was a very short, stout woman, much bent by pain and age. Her face, deeply lined by caro and time, was pleasing and attractive, and framed in a white full bordered cap, over which a neck shawl wa& worn hoodwise, and knotted under her chin. She wiped the top of the box, with the corner of her ' broad check ' apron, and hoped I would be seated, an honor I declined, on the ' score of having but a short lime to delay. I was pleased to finl Sal, a thorough type of the genial, warm-hearted Irishwoman. The land' of the Saxon had not dispoiled her of the traits of the Gael, as alas ! it docs too many of our exiles. Without standing on ceremony, and as briefly as ro^sible, I staled the nature of my visit. Sal was elated to 1-now that I was favorably impressed by Jim, but no sooner d'«d I hint that I meditated removing him from thp. streets, and placing him at school, than, in the forcible language of my countrymen, 'It was all ud.' The very mention of school was a regular firebrand for Sal, but this was to be expected, knowing as we do, how closely tne ideas of education and religion are associated in the Irish breast.. ' An is't to school ve'd be after snnd : n' mv Jim, sir?' asked Sal, placing her hands a l imbo, and slrii-ing a dramatic attitude that bade defiance, Mr and square, to rheumatism.' ' We'l, no, Ih-n't yn. Jim. ain't pot much book teaman', to be sure, but thank G-od for it, h? knows his catechism from front to rack, an : his prayers, an' can spell the big letters in hrs prayer book o' a Sunday an' thats more nor some can do (. cl he looked very suspiciously at my snectacle case nre-ina; out of my waistcoat pocket, wh-n she said this). < T'd like to see mv Jim', sir, a-p-oin' to yer school, with an arm load a' books an' a head- full of trash, as I sees Ib/>m, ev'rv good mornin' that shines, as I si's on me' box at the corner - T hadn't much o'learnin 1 meeelf, sir; but. thank God an' his Blessed Mother, -this good night, I learned as much

as lept me out o' harm's way, ands earned an honest living. ]Vie an' Jim is poor, sir, but there's many a One worser off nor we is, an' bad as we is, sure we niigjit a been worser ; so thanks be to G-od for all his Land me.ri.iLS. We 11 never want a meal's meat, nbj: He -U close one door only to open another ; so I'm content as we is.' Mevtr n.ind Jim, though he ain't got yer fine learnin 1 , he ,i«nows .what G-od is, an' that's more nor all the stuff you's could cram down his throat would ever put into bis head.' • < Li*e the schoolboy, in the story, the smile, which I vainly endeavored to conceal, burst at lasty and I laugh. d outrigfet ;■ nor could 1 cease, though I saw Sal's glance . travel significantly to a dangerous looking poker in the corner. Her .mistake was a pardonable one, •my appearance had dtecceived h:T. . I have repeatedly been taken for a street preacher, a pedagogue, the head of Sjme charity institution ; but I have never yet met a stranger who imagined me to be what I really am, a fat, wealthy, very contented, charitable, easy-going, and I was going to say old gentleman, but why should I ? We are told that a man is just as old as he feelsj, and I feel as if I were a young man of twenty, but I would not care to tell what the birth register says. At all events, I ami a bachelor, and if old is required, parse it as an adjective understood, but do not say that it limits its application) to me. When the mists of prejudice and misunderstanding were cleared away, and 1 Sal's better judgment shone out, : we soon became friends, and chatted merrily. Friendship is soon formed with, those who meet as strangers find they have many interests in common. We talked of the old country, old times, and old scenes, for we hippened to hail from the same county. Then the ennversafon turned once more to Jim, and Sal adroitly dismissed him from ths arena o£ chatter, by telling him ' to rim down and se>? how Willie Leary's leg was dcinp-.' ' I never says anything I knows about Jim when he's lisfenin', sir,' she explained to me, when Jim went down stairs, ' 'cause he's keen on the pickin' up.' Jinn's history, as it was known to Sal, was very' short. Seven years: before, en Christmas Eve night, a 1 night which was bitterly cold,* with the snow falling , heavily,' as Sal was' toiling wearily homewards from her stall, sh>3 came upon a woman, sobbing piteously in an archway. She had a baby pressed closely to her. breast, shielding it with the mother's love and devotion from the icy blast. Sal, true, warm-.hearted Irish woman that she was, brought the poor woman to the shelter of her own little room. The woman, who said her name was Driscote, died a few hours later, with the priest at her bedside ; murmuring with her latest breath her husband's name, and her gratitude. Her child was Jim, ard his mother with her life's history slept her last dreamless sleep in. the cemetery not far away. ' She was none of us ordinary- folks,' concluded Sal. 1 She was a lady, and a- good one, for Father JCleary, God rest his soul, for it -was himself that was the dear, good priest, said it himself ; an' she was very young, sir, an' a lovely creature, too. The Christmas Bells " was just a-rinisin' when she died. I promised to be good to Jim, an' she smiled, an' kissed this old, hard hand of mine. I often wonder who she was, sir, hut I suppose, I'll ne'er know more about her. Poor dear !' and Sal birmhpd away the tears from her wrinkled cheeks, with the corner of her apron. I Say, Sal, is you a-goin' to let the candle a-waste down an' crack the botile ?' shouted Jim, as he returned to report on Willie Leary's leg. ' Blest if the whole candle ain't a-run to coffin Shawns'. Who's a-goin' to die, Sal?' Sal started to trim the candle, and I started 1 for h->me, telling Sal that I would speak to Father M'Kernan, .of St. Mary's, about Jim. Before I had reachedmy own door, I had gone a step further in my resolve. I .rr>a^e up mv mind to adopt Jim, for I had no living relaiive, und^r the bro"'"d canopy of heaven.

A week eHpsed before the combined efforts of Father M'Kernan and myse 1 ! overcame Sal's scruples, and even then she did not wholly give way with pood grace, but left us ui!h a distinct impression that there was much misaivini on her part. She was. hot the on<», she repeatedly told us, to go contrary 1o God's will, Who had every day bern pood to her and hers, hut as to Jim she had her doubts as to his welfare w,hen he was removed from her sight, and from her personal supervision. However, she did agree to consign Jim to my care, on the conditions that Jim should come to see her every Suirdav, and that she would be at liberty to come to my house and mak e inquiries every time she pleased, which, ' barrin' them rimatics were agin' her

ild bones, would be 'often enough.' I had) my own views^ 3n this second condition, and .doubted the wisdom of l tfe for I -knew my housekeeper's nature and .temper, afitt" poor Sal did not. It was an equally, if not a more difficult task, reconciling this same housekeeper of mine to the change I proposed making in my household. She did go as far .s to dictate to me in my own sitting-room, or tell me ;o my face she had grave doubts about my mental conlition, but her 100 Vis spoke volumes. For the kitchen, where, as a general rule, she' meditated aloud linner^ and tea, when not asleep, were kept the scathng^ criticisms on my strange course of action. She invaxiably prefaced her meditations, at this particular perod of her earthly pilgrimage, by quoting the time-hon-ied saying, ' There is no fool lilte an old fool ' 'and oncluded a glowing peroration by the vague, yet point■d, statement, ' some folks will only learn sense when hey haven t the second spoon to their mouth.' I only smiled at all her looks, her threats, and critiisms, for well I knew she was the warmest friend hat Jim would ever have, for a warm, generous nature ly concealed beneath my housekeeper's rugged exterior perpetual sprin- of benevolence welled up, unseen in er large, open Heart. I admired her nature. I have o appreciation for those Pharasaic vessels of philanthropy and benevolence who face the world as if eternllylopi'an*, on the bright side of human existence cattenng smiles and blessings more frequently \shan alf-pence, and having an excuse for every fault and a at for every child s head. I rfever met such ' people, \ fo , rclbl 7 reminded of Goldsmith's ' Good Natred Fellow,' who, when he came to understand human ature, was ever ready to go round with the hat when chanty was proposed, but never put anything i n t is very consoling to be charitable, when the world is ?,?S n 5 ° n ' an l a PP laucTin g, but such charity as this ™« C W dl^ V f nt fr ° m lh3 virtue defin^ d the . postle. It may alter the temper, but it will never v or U p r h r th8 + , st& Pl in S "tows on the road to etemy, or change the nature of the heart. I once new a It was Christmas Eve. On the morrow Jim was to ne° m LTt ld "n He WaS , OTL the street t h r S las? Hi'+n Persevered upon seliing the papers for i? 7T / aSt minU+e - The snow was 'allSg ds'hon window^ ' f™*** in th °< artistically decora13 we^Tuil o jTm T^ 7 h?h ?' PP I' and my brings I was a tt°r f act J ed m by A a crowd ° f pnDOlpal sta 1 S a apa?t. lIaPPCn ' &d ?> J a man> Stan ' ding Some ' One more of those beastly accidents,' he replied in deep bass voice, jerHng out each word as if !his mgue was a sort of an elastic contrivance. ' Motor r IfnocVed down-someono. Can't say-I'm sure,' as I louired who was hH 'can't say. Ambulance gone 'P ?• L c^ me lITI - Then hls ;drew off a shabby glove ?S fw r ? a an cigrar ' an ' d ierked out w rth \t\ Jf 0 *? °A r ' in ' d " 6d - B y-^e« Talk of rnßlwavß. t In it. By Gpor-e \ Act of Parliament wanted leeS^™ t? 66 !; (( TTT Tr ° SS + sc^'dal-<l^mocracy maat'he pro..iMm l-J i" e f that mqn ao " ain - I expect to denenlnt Sor "&££ honors, on the I ed^pd myself slowly throurh the cmwd, hl , o o min '. sorter 0 ' an' auter runn^d im anai?s heTs iv *X*' ' & Wck in >im nOw ' dead nans he is, guv., he's p-one ,n cro^e^ h.« i«? <W «' ,je was, guv., lad as what we call eV Sal ' Donovan^

and I wished to k>now what hospital he had been taken to. It was St. Mjary's. -. { Step into the car, sir' said the old gentleman, ' I , will go to see the little lad with you. I hope the case is not so toad as the constable says. You have the name and number, constable. I'll call at the station to-mor-row. Drive on, Tomkins. First mishap we ever had, sir. Very sorry, very. Jim looked a pitiful figure, lying in a little snowwhite bed, covered with bandages. He was unconscious and his case was- hopeless. The old man peered very c'osely at the little face, colorless, but bearing: no trace of suffering.- •' You said you knew that-boy, sir,' said he, turning his eyes upon me. < -Who is he ?' 'A little waif, a poor little outcast,' I replied, hastily brushing, away two big, tears. <He is known as fcal Donovan s Jim.' - ''Ah! Donovan. Is that his name sir?' < ' No > not his wme,' I explained. <Donovan is the name of the good oM woman who keeps him. His own name is, I believe, Driscote.' ■ D f risco j'e'!J' cried H a tone that surprised both myself and the good Sister in charge. 'Oh Heaven' ■ mr Nora's 'child, I knew the ■ face. Tnd I have Sd him ' Falling on his knees by the bedside, he exclaimed m a voice of anguish, «My God ! My God » This is my just punishment.' ' ms

, TT +1, ?f IS unconscious still, poor little fellow,' said the old gentleman, struggling to his feet, and drawing a Handkerchief across his eyes. ' I will wait to see if' there comes any change. Are you in a hurry, sir ? Pernaps you will keep me company.' - I decided to remain, and scribbled a note for the Housekeeper, which the chauffeur undertook to deliver. /'You have no doubt gathered from my conduct II w« H+f7Wei^ °n-'n -' aS hG sat 'down beside the bed, ' that oSi?r n\}° 7 "I s my erandson ; he is, the child of my only daughter, Nora. Will you tell me, sir, all you 'mow of his history.' ' y and V w7 e¥e/17e¥e/ 17 v®, Hstened t0 the little J nad tell, and when I finished, he seized my hand cordially. <mv f" arla r 1 my- , frlend from this hour» sir,' said' he nX E^* fOr hhe/ c- n may be beyond my'power to make a rettirn- for your Mndness, .but God will - reZl sl°l\i?'^f Will reWard- And this gooTwomf 5 xra -s «v S£ st %? ATI Tslc \oT fori n^ity^h >S grave would give up its dead! onl/ to' reproach nic 1 SritiJpT? bG f° re COntent- «=£ Poor E^mv wif n^tSe, r7 f S£ f reproa > eh *am enduring. 11 But tney 7ii S P f ak) thßy do "ot come- Ab no I their J£ Sir HISUrBAS3Sh^ W'<h W Bame I™J- T BM' ni wa SS 8 ft B e riS.4;eleCtl!C*l surl>rlse- H «™. »* -^ To concluded next week.)