LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2255, 20 May 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE NEIGHBOR'S BAIRN. B* Eexui Ibviko, Actor. When, a year a?o, wo pioduced at the liyceum, as a first pie'jo, t.ho old Scotch drama of ' Oramoad Brig,' the various mem bora of tho company playing in the piece ha I lull choice of wherewithal to wash down their 'head and harrigles'— (of which, by the way, over a hundred were consumed daring tho run)—and the miller's supper became nightly jolity, except pcrhapa to tho Scotch nobility and tho King's huntsman, who, with watery months and_ eager eyee, crowded the wings, forb'd'len by i\x& i:on> of dratnatia to 6iit=f a\.on the scene "until the supper bad boon cleared away. This piece had reminded me of an incident which came under my notice a good many years ago. . . In the off Benson of a large provincial theatre, in which I was a stock actor, I took an engagement at a small town, then known aa one of tho moat thriving seaports of the north. The salary was little; the parts 'were long, and there was not much opportunity for gaining renown. However, it was batter than remaining idle, as at the worst the amount of debt to be accumulated was minimised. The manager was not a bad fellow, and having been a good actor In his time, wan only too glad to be surrounded by a class of actors whose services he could only obtain by the opportunity afforded by the bright summer—in those palmy days the darkest and wintriest season to the airy comedian, or the thoroughly legitimate tragedian. Our opening bill consisted of ' Oramond Brig,' 'Lord Darnley,' 'Wallace the Hero of Scotland,' and 'Gilderoy, the Bonnie Boy;' in all of which I played, besides contributing my share in the 'National Anthem,' which was right loyally and fondly sung by the entire strength of the company. Aftor the rehearsal of ' Oramand Brig,' our jolly manger said — ' Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper to-night; no pasteboard and parsley, but a real sheep's head, and a little drop of real Scotch!'

A tumult of applause. The manager was as good as his word, fo" at eight there wa» a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the ' drop of real Scotch.'

The 'neighbour's bairn,' an important character in the scene, came in and took her seat as usual beside the miller's chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelligent child of some nine years o'd In the course of the meal, when Jook Howison was freely passing the whisky, Bhe leaned over to him and said—

* Please will yon give me a little ?' He looked surprised. She was so earnest in her request that I whispered to her—- « To-morrow, perhaps, if you want it very much, you shall have a thimble full.' To-morrow night came, and, to my amusement, she produced from the pooket of her little plaid frock a bright piece of brass, and held it out to me.

I said, ' What's this ?' * A thimb'e, sir.' ' But what can I do with it ?'

•You said that you woild give mo a thimbleful of whisky if I wanted it, and I do want it.'

This was said so naturally that the audience laughed and applauded. I_ looked over to the miller and found him with the butt end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we wore both experienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed, effect as a part of the piece. 1 filled the thimble, and the child took it carefully to the little ' creepy ' stool beside the miller.

I watched her, and presently saw her tnrn her back to tho audience and pour it into a little halfpenny snuff-box. She covered the box with a bit of paper and screwed on the lid, thus making the box pretty water-tight, and put it in her pocket. When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the child's head. ' Why, my little girl,' said he, ' yon are quite a genius ? Your gag is about the bent thing in thy piece. We must have it every night. Bat, my child, you mustn't drink the whisky. "No, no; that would never do!'

* Oh, sir, indeed I won't. I give you my word I won't!' she said, quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing-room. ' Oramond Brig' had an nnprecedented run of six nights, and the little lady always got her thimbleful of whisky and her round of applause. And each time I noti ed that ■he corked up the former safely in the snuffbox. I was curious to see what she oould possibly want with the spirit, and who she was, and where she came from. I atked her, bat she seemed so unwilling to tell, and turned so red, that I did not press ; but I found out that it was the old story—no mother, and a drunken father. Still, it was strange. "What could Bhe want with the whisky—a child like her ? It could not be for the drunken father. I waß completely at fault. I took a fancy to the little thing, and wished to fathom her secret. for a secret I felt sure there was. After the performance I saw my little lady come out. Poor little child! there was no mother or brother to Bee her home. She hurried up the street, and turning into the poorest quarter of the town, entered the common atair of a tumble-down old houae. I followed, feeling my way a:i beat I could. She went up and up, till in the very top flat she entered a little room. A handful of fire glimmering in the grate revealed a sickly boy, some two years her junior, who crawled toward her from where he was lying before the fire.

'Cissy, I'm glad you're home,'he said. ' I thought you'd never come.' She put her arms round him, laid the poor little [head on her shoulder, and took him over to the fire again, trying to comfort him as she went.

•Is the pain very bad to-night, Willie ?' * Yes.' A sadder • Yea' I never heard.

'Willie, 1 wish I could bear the pain for you.' ' It's cruel of father to send me out in the •wet; he knows how bad I am.'

• Hush! Willie, hush! he might hear you.' • I don't care! I don't care! I wish he would kill me at once.'

The reckltaa abandon of the child's despair was dreadful.

' Hush I hush ! he is our father, and we musn't say auch things!' This, through her fast falling tears. Then she said, ' Let me try and make the pain better.' The boy took off his shirt.

The girl leaned over and put her arms around him, and kissed the shoulder. She then put her hand into her pocket and took out the snuff-box.

' Oh, Willie, I wish we had more, so that it might cure the pain.' Having lighted a dip candle, she rabbsd the child's rheumatic shoulder with -. few drops of spirit, and then covered up the little thin body, and, sitting before the fire, took the boy's head on her knee, and begun to sing him to 'sleep. I took Bnother look into the room, through the half open dcor; my f cot creaked ; the frightened eyes met mine. I put my finger on my lips and crept away. But, as I began to descend the stair, I met a drunken man ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. no slipped and stumbled by me, and entered the room. I followed to the landing unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door. A hoarse, brutal voice growled, 'What are you do.'ng there ? Get np !' • I can't, father; Willie's head is on my knees.' •Get up!' She gently laid the boy's head on tho floor, pillowed it in her little shawl, and stood up. • Father, Willie is very sick ! you ought to try to get him cared.' •Shut up. If I hear another word I'll make you and him too keep yourselves quiet.' And the brute flung himself on his bed, muttering to himself In his drunken semioblivlon, 'Cure him, indeed ! Not if I know It. That's not the way to get money; his cough la worth a lot alone. Cure him. indeed I Not likely!' The black-hearted sooundrel! The girl bowed her head lower and lower. I could not hear it. I entered the room. The brute was on tho bed already in his besotted sleep. The ohild stole up to me, and In a half• frightened whisper, said. 'Oh, air, oughtn't people to keep seorets if they know them ? I think they ought if they

are other people'*.' This with the dignity of a queen. I could not gainsay her i so I said, a? gravely as I could, to the little woman, ' The secret shall be kept, but vou must ask me if you want anything.' She bent over, suddenly kissed my hand, and I went down the at air. The next night she n? t was shy in coming for the whisky, and I took care that she had good measure. The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more happy than I hart ever seen her. When she came for the whisky she held out the thimble, and whispered to me with her poor, pale lips trembling 'You need only pretend to • Why ?' I whispered, « Because he doesn't want it now. He's dead!'