A YOUNG HERO.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 477, 4 June 1890, Page 5

A YOUNG HERO.

LITTLE LEO BERNE. HIS UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. Auckland, May 51. Most Aucklanders have seen the little boy who takes the juvenile parts in the St. Maur Company’s productions. Last Friday he had a most serious accident, so severe, in fact, that the most distressing consequences were feared. Happily, these anticipations have not been realised. Though terribly injured, a good constitution and a plucky spirit have so far recovered the little fellow that he is able to sit up in bed. He is a son of Mrs Berne, better known to theatre-goers as Miss Eily wlayo, the ingenue, of the St. Maur Company. A sturdy little fellow of some seven summers, with large grey eyes, a mobile mouth and wonderful self-possession of manner. Hearing that he had an important part in Mr Murray’s new play of “Chums, and that owing to the accident he was ooliged to rehearse under the direction of Mr Murray in bed, our reporter thought he won id bo an interesting young person to chat with. Accordingly, he went to the Waverley Hotel, where' he found the young gentleman, in bedroom No. 52. He was lying down in bed, or, to speak correctly, reclining propped up with pillows. Before him lay a painting book ana a box of moist colours, and be was putting the finishing touches to a picture of a very smart lancer on a remarkably fine chestnut charger. ,“I am glad to see you ! he said, waving a tiny hand and speaking in the easy assured tone of a man of the world. “ Take a chair and make yourself comfortable.” He looked sufficiently picturesque, leaning back with his head on one side admiring the effect of his handiwork. “I have come to see you about your accident and the play,” said our reporter. “ Will you tell me all about it?” “Certainly; only there’s not much to tell —at least, I don’t think there is.” “ I think we shall find it so ; but first, what is your name?” “My full name is Edgar Leo Berne, but I am always called Leo.” “ And your age ?” • > My age ! well,” with an air of profound reflection, “ I think I’m seven. I was seven on the third of January. That was when we were in Melbourne.” “ Are you fond of Melbourne ?” “Oh, yes, but I don’t like big towns so much as small ones. They are not nearly so pretty,” he concluded, reflectively, waving his hand toward the open window, which commanded a lovely view ol hheNorth Shore. “ That’s so very pretty out t.hero, isn’t it? I have a lovely view from here. But,” with a serious little look, *• you want to know about the accident, don’t you ?” “ Please.”

“ Well,” settling himself comfortably and pulling up the coliar of his flannel nightshirt, “ well, it was like this, you see. It was last Friday morning, and mother was at rehearsal. I went out fishing—l’m fond of fishing, ain’t you?—and when I came back felt a bit tired and thought I would go and ha ve a bit of a lie down in the sitting-room. There was another little fellow along with me and we got in the lift, and : started her up and sat down on the stool at the side. J ust as we got to the top I overbalanced, or rather the seat did, and I slipped and ripped all my leg up with a long nail. I expect it was the lift stepping, you know, that upset it! don’t you ? “ Very likely,” returned our man. “ And what did you do next ?” “ Well, I felt pretty sick and limped off to the sitting-room, and tried to lie down and bear it; but it> was no good. I felt I must go to bed. The pain was awful.” “ How did vou get upstairs?” “ Oh, I don’t know. One does manage those things at a pinch, you know.” The elderly air with which the mite of seven made this assertion was beyond describing. Our reporter managed to keep serious and ask him to go on. “Well, I got up somehow and into bed. The pain was awful because the cold had got into the wound, you know.” He paused for a moment and looked out at the harbour, then gravely apologised for so doing, saying that something had just struck him. What, did net transpire. “ So,” he went on,” “after I had been in bed some time the pain went off a little as I got warmer. ” “ What time was all this ?” “ Oh, about twelve o’clock.” “And what time did your mother come back ?”

“I suppose about half past one or two, but of course it seemed much longer. But I didn’t want to frighten her, you know, so I kept very quiet.” “ But wasn’t the pain very bari ?’ “ Of course, it was dreadful, dreadful,” he added, with an involuntary little shudder, “but, you know, when these things happen, it’s no good. A fellow has to bear them, hasn’t he ? At least,” he added, “ that’s what I always think.” “And what happened when your mother did come ?” “ Oh, they saw me, you know, and I looked pretty bad, with the blood and all that, and mother sent out for the doctor, who came and gave me chloroform.” “ How did you like that?” “It was just horrid, of course ; such a nasty old smell.” “ Did it make you ill ?” “Oh, no; at least only a very little, nothing to complain of.” “ And then ?” “So then the doctor sewed me up. He won’t give me chloroform again though, but he wouldn’t let me bear the pain ; he said I was too sensitive. ” “ Are you out of pain now ?” “ Rather! I’m quite comfy now. Yesterday I was worse a bib. I had a sorb of rash come on my sore leg—a sympathy rash don’t you call it ?—and of course I had to scratch. You must scratch when you itch, you know, mustn’t you? You can’t help it, can you ?” Our reporter assented. “ So. of course, I scratched and opened the wounds again, dragging out the stitches, and making it bleed again.” Our representative shuddered at the very idea. The boy noticed. “ Oh, it did not hurt so very, very much,” he said boldly, “and now I think that’s all I can tell you about the accident.” ««Well, how about the play ? You have a part in ‘Chums,’ have you nob?—the part of one of the Chums ?” « Yes.” This being a professional subject, the seven-year-old became rather more reserved, and required ca handling. “ What sorb of part is it ?” “Qh, very fair. A very nice part, in fact. It is rather long, bub, of course, after one has had one long part, one gets used to it, you know.” “ You have, of course, plaj’ed before ? M Oh, yes, a great deal. I play in f Bootle’s Baby, T ‘Queen’s Evidence,’and * Current Cash,’ and then, of course, I recite a good deal.” “ So the new part is a fairly hard one, you say. Have you had many rehearsals’”'

“ No, that’-s the worst of it," with a mournful little shake of the head, “I haven’t. You see, we only had the reading over rehearsal before I had the accident, and then I had one in here on the day before yesterday.” “ Who coaches you ?” “ Mother and Mr Murray did, but of course a great deal one has to do oneself.” “ What sort of part is it?” “Oh, it’s a boy's part.” He did not seem inclined to talk about the play, and as there was no one to veto, our reporter did not feel justified in applying pumping power. “ What parbdo you like best then, Leo?” “ Minon in Bootle’s Baby. It’s a capital part, you know. Plenty to do : bub it's a trying part. It takes it out of yon : you have to be jolly one minute and sorrowful the next, and the changes are of course hard.”

“ You are fond of acting, are you not ? “ I should think I was, just.”

“ But,” he went on, “ I’m just as fond of toys, and painting and fishing. I’m a regular baby in some waj’s. I spend lots of rny monev on trains - toy trains—lnner that ! But I’m fond of all toys—awfully. " There wa® a large box of soldiers on the bed, and a toy cannon, with a bag of peas for ammunition. He look up the cannon and showed how well it shot. The pen flew out of the window.

“I wish I was out,” he said. “It’s horrid being ill. They feed me on ‘ slops ’ beastly things, slops, yon know—don’t you hate ’em ?” Yes. our reporter did. “ I have to eat them every meal, and I can tell you I’m getting jolly sick of them. 1 wouldn’t touch ’em this morning, and f won’t at dinner. I mean to have some soup. It’s fun if mother doesn’t get bank; I'll have some chicken if she doesn’t. I’m awfully fond of chicken,” he added, with a winked laugh. Our reporter took his leave, and met Miss Mayo (Mrs Berne) upstairs, so the plucky little fellow has only had slops again.