One of Nature's Failures.

Free Lance, Volume III, Issue 157, 4 July 1903, Page 17

One of Nature's Failures.

AN old man used to stand in a busy thoroughfare reciting in all weathers —frost, snow, wet, or shine. He was to be found at the same hour of the day monotonously lepeatmg his stock-in-trade of recitations. They only consisted of two, "The Song of a Shirt" and "Little Jim." He was never alone —a tall, genteel girl, presumably his daughter, always held his hand. Suspended in front «f him was a boaid, bearing thdt too familiar word, "Blind." No alms were asked for, but the gnl suggestively held in her hand a tiny tin mug —her large, beseeching eyes did all that was required to gather in the donations., which were few. The old man's countenance seemed immovable; never during the weeks —ay, months.— that I passed and re-passed him did I see but one expression, on his face — that of mingled sorrow, patience, and resignation. But the girl —sometimes a faint smile did flit across her face when some smpathetio passer-by made a friendly remark as a com was dropped into the cup. Not one day through that long, dreary winter were those two absent from their accustomed haunt. I thought what a picture the girl presented of a true daughter as she stood there, day after day, carefully, almost affectionately shielding the old man from the rough -jostle of the passers-by. Possibly her devotion and affection w ere the only thine^ that made the old mam's life worth living. * • *

Winter passed, spring was well advanced, when one day I saw the old man coming up the street so slowly. He was alone. Then, I remembered I had not seen him for the past few weeks. As he came closer, carefully tapping the curb with his stick, I saw he had ared wonderfully. His cheeks were more blanched and sunken than ever I had seen them, the once seeming unchangeable expression was gone • m its place was a look of intense sorrow and mental suffering. I could not help myself, I was impelled to speak to him. "Thankee, sir no, I am t been 'zactly ill, but I've had a deal o trouble," . "Perhaps it is your daughter is ill I ventured. "No, sir. Leastways, not as 1 know He had passed through severe trouble I could tell, and from his manner could see he was not desirous of being inteirogated on the subiect I put a conn m his hand, and had bid him goodday, when he called me back. "Yours sir, is the only kind word I've had spoke to me for many a long day," he said. "Would you care to listen if I told you my trouble ? The same impulse that caused me first to speak to ham now compelled me to listen to his story. I assured him I would hear it through. It was the old, old story over again, so commonplace. Midst his heartbroken ejaculations I heard it. lne tie that had so sacredly bound the old man and has daughter together for years had suddenly been ruthlessly severed. „ , , "She was a good girl to me, he piteously cried. "Before she went she left a note for me telling me to stop at home, she was going to marry a gentleman, and would soon have heaps of money and be able to send me some every week. She has sent it but use it—no, no, I couldn't use it' God knows how badly I wanted it. for I had naught to live on but the few shillings we had saved, and now they are gone. I must come out and get more and alone —all alone. I had heard enough. I left him, and went my way, ruminating on the mysterious order of things. I queried What had I done that I should be born to enioy Nature's greatest girt— health? What had he done that he was born to endure Nature's greatest curse—blindness? How was it that, although blessed wLth health, I had the added blessings of peace of mind and comfort, while he, though sorely afflicted, was forced to endure poverty and suffering? I searched my heart, but could find no answer. I pitied him ay from the depth of my heart. but whaiti a poor balm is pity without aid. How willingly would man plead as man to man with the Omnipotent for an afflicted brother. How gladly would mortal man relieve an afflicted brother, but, alas! how unattainable! Again spring came; all Nature seemed smiling. It told on the faces of the workers in the great city ; it told on me I felt its exhilarating effects as I walked from my office. On such a day who could be unhappy ? Suddenly, loud shouts were raised. "Stop it! Stop it! A runaway! A runaway 1" The crowd part as one. A horse attached to a trap was madly tear-

ing up the street on the pavement. Many weie the attempts made to stop it, but &aeh one seemed to only still further increase the speed of the teirifled animal. There was but one occupant cf the trap — a woman. Her fi antic shucks for help were piteous indeed. I had just time to eet out of the way ere the maddened animal passed me at a terrible rate The crowds had all cleaicd off the pavement and left the course clear for the runaway but oh, hoiror I in looking for themselves they had left one> — it was the blind reciter. Theio he stood alone ■ he had heard the rush and cries, and knew there was danger For a moment he appeared dazed, and uncertain what to do ; then he stepped forward on the pavement for siafetv. A shriek — the horse, had stopped — it had fallen. I was among: the fiist to reach the old man. I raised his head, and brushed aside the gray locks from his forehead, crimson with his life's blood. He was not dead no, his eves were opem — he spoke' — he saw. Nature was merciful, if only for a brief space of time. "I'm — not — hurt ; I'm — not — blind — now Grod — I — can — see," he murmured , "I — ean — see — yes, see — seei — see , let me — lay — -like — this. I'll — be — well — and — q- o horne — presently " A commotion on the outskirts of the crowd, and the voice of a woman m distress, caused me to look ud. It was the late occupant of the trap, frantically elbowing her way through the throng. "Let me come' let me come'" she panted, as a passage was made for her. At length she reached the old man. _ With a shriek, she threw herself beside the now motionless form. "Dad ' oh, dad ! forgive me — do forgive me '" she pried, in piteous accents His lips part, but no sound corners. They totld her he said "Yes " as tender hands led her away from the corpse — By W. Roe, in "Reynolds's Newspaper."