BERTIE'S MISSION.

Waikato Times, Volume XXV, Issue 2084, 14 November 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

BERTIE'S MISSION.

♦♦•♦ — D\ EL!/\i.rrii C. Win n n, in " DLrnoir Fit-i

This,." Aj,l day tho burning Bun had scorched thi dry earth. Along country rondn the dust lay fiuc and light as powder ; t'ne grass by th( wayfido was browned ; the ficlda of yellow grain foil in great swaths beneath the ecythc i and lay like glittering gold along tho ground while the crimson, blistered face of tho pant' ing reaper pleaded in vain to the cruel luminary to hide his own glowing countenance behind a friendly cloud. The very trees of the forest gasped for air, their leaves shrivelled and the bark giving forth an ominous odor oJ possible combustion. Since early morning — when the sun's raye but faintly foretold the heat to come— a Might, pale woman had been walking along those hot and dusty roads. By noon she had travelled many miles and yet her journey was bnt half done ; for she had set out to reaob the great city, where so many sad hearts aro lost in the crowd save to their unhappy owners. She carried a little child who looked so pale and wan that ho might have been mistaken for one half his real age, which was almost two years. But even his light weight, upborne by the love which makes suoh weights easy to carry, was at times inpupportable to the weary mother. From time to time she came to the shade of a solitary tree and then sat down at the root of it or on a stone by the wayside to rest for & few momente, and on each occasion she stooped over the child to kiss his brow or lips, as if to assure him that he was not the cause of her fatigue. She often removed his little straw hat, too, and gently fanned the tiny face, fair as a snowdrop and, notwithstanding its delicate palor, exquisitely lovely. At high noon the travellers met & buxom country girl returning from the field after oarrying dinner to the mowers, who stopped to admire the child and inquire if it was ill. " No, not ill," the mother answered, gazing wistfully at her ohild ; " but he's never very strong." " How old is he V was the girl's next ques» tion. " He will be two years old next month." " Innd sake ! And don't he walk yet ?" "He has never walked— yet— he's lame. But I hope he will walk some day. I'm taking him to the city, because I have been told the dootors there are clever ; and if I earn money enough I hope to have him made strong, for he's never had any accident. One little ankle is bo weak that he oan't put the foot on the ground when he tries to stand. You see he's never been able to learn to walk, like other children of his age." She spoke with a pitiful pleading, as if it was necessary to find excuses for the child, because he was less forward than other children. " Poor little fellow 1" said the farmer's girl, kindly enough, " and you have to carry him all the time — how tired you must be I Come to the house and rest. Perhaps he would take a cup of milk." The woman thanked hor with a grateful look, and the girl continued, holding out her hands to the ohild : "Let mo carry him for you. I love children, and the little rogues know it. Como, little pretty 1 "What's his name ?" " His name is Albert, but I call him Bertie." " Come to me, Bertie," said the girl, and the child smiled and held out his hands. " And your own name .'" the girl went on with an inquisitive look at the mother, " Mrs. —what ?" " My name is Tingler," the pale woman answered coldly. Tho farmer's girl did not pursue her questions, for she saw they were unwelcome ; an instinct of good breeding, oftener found among the untaught than they get oredit for, told her that further inquiry might give pain. Mrs. Tingler proceeded in silence ; but the girl chattered to the baby and drew from him many an unexpected peal of laughter, while at every sound of his merriment the pale mother smiled and brightened till her own laughter mingled with that of the child. At the farmer's house they fared well ; and tho good people refused to lot them proceed until they had rested from their journey. Wbon they might again set out on their way, although the heat was increased, the pale mother did not feel it so much ; for kindness and sympathy had lightened her heart. All the afternoon she walked steadily on, and her little boy was held so close to her heart/ that she did not realise how nearly she was worn out with fatigue and hunger. Toward nightfall she came to tho outskirts of the great oity, and the prospect was not encouraging to eyes aooustomed to the freshness of the country. As she passed street after street there seemed a mingled odour of oil, dirt, grease and general untidiness everywhere. Ash barrels and garbage pails stood all along the sidewalk, and here and there a half decayed orange, or a lemon peel, or a wilted oabbage was flung in the way of the foot-traveller. 111-tempered, snarling dogs ran out of the tumble-down tenements, whoso human inhabitants looked equally snarling and ill-tempered. " What if I have made a mistake in coming here at all?" thought the anxious mother with a shudder, as she looked into the faoe of her delicate child. " How hard it is to know what is best— but I could not stay any longer with them. They hated me, and they hated ray child, though their own son was his father ! Ah, William— dear William ! How j could you leave me to fight their hard hearts alone ? " A sob of anguish tried to struggle up from the almost bursting heart, but the brave little woman orushed it down, and held her child closer to her breast. Night was coming on, and she felt the urgent need of food and shelter for Bertie ; inexperienced as he was, she had but a dim idea of the dillioulties before her — alone, and in a great city for tho first time. She began to glance about anxiously, eagerly— how dark it Was I—and1 — and how suddonly the night had oome on. Then for the first time she observed that tho heat was not so great ; a cool brec/e had sprung up, and it blow straight in from the country fields she had left so far behind her. It was cool and moist, and it bore the sweet odour of wet grass and hay and of the damp earth. While sho was feeling rather than thinking of this change in the atmosphere, came the rumbling roar of thunder, at first far oIT, but gradually coming nearer. The clouds gathered more darkly, and from out their gloomy depths leaped forked tongues of lightning. Then came peals of thunder that shook the ground she walked on, while little Bertie trembled and clung more closely to her. Anxiously now — wildly, the poor little mother glanced to and fro in search of come shelter. Her breath came quiok and short— a di?,/,y tumult possessed her brain — aho hoard He wild throbs of her own heart, then it seemed to stop beating. A terrible faintnesa overpowered her ; tho darkness grew blacker. Him had an indistinct vision of an oprn door n little further on ; nhe struggled blindly towards it, tottered, swnyed to and fro, made one last dTort and ran, then fell fainting, across the threshold. Thank Heaven 1 there are kind hearts to bo found, even in the midst of pqualor and nuseiy that too often hardens the gentlest. Bsrtie'd mother had scarcely reached thelloor when she was caught by a pair of strong arms aud a good-natured voice exolui nci ;

11 (i jd b'.c3B us ! but look at that now — and the child in her arms nigh killed ! Is it dhrinkin' ye've been ? An 1 a bnrnin' shame fur ye, with that swate child to take care of— the Lord forgive mo I What was I ssyin* ? Sure there's little sign of dhrink in the pale face ay her, but dead bate entoirely, an' fainted away altogether. Come here, Biddy, an' take the child." A tall girl came forward and took Bartie in a very motherly manner, like one well used to tha task of caring for children. She disappeared with htm into an inner room and divining that food and drink were his chief wants, fed him copiously. In tbo meantime Mrs. Flynn bad carried the mother to a small apartment — little better than a closet— which did duty as her own sleeping room. There she placed the insensible woman on the bed, untied her bonnet, chafed her cold bands, marvelling at their whiteness and observed with an approving nod the plain gold ring on the third finger. "Poor oraythurel" she murmured; "a widdy, I suppose, like meself." It was long before a faint oolor came back to the pallid lips and waxen face ; but at length the large blue eyes opened and gazed wonderingly into the red, good-natured countenance that met them — the next moment the poor mother remembered, and asked in an anxious whisper : " Where's Bertie ?" " Whist, now 1 don't be afther worrithin'. The child's cared for, yell be bether in a moment an' thin yen can talk." " But he's hungry, and I've money to buy food." 11 Be aisy, now ! D'ye think we're htithens here 1 Yer baby's had all he wants, an' no thought ay pay." The tearsthat shone in the grateful mother's eyes spoke mute, bul eloquent thanks. She was too weak to Bpeak and gladly refrained from making* the effort for a while. Mrs. Flynn was a widow, with a large family, which she managed to support, as she said herself, "by turning her hand to eiveral trades." She did washing and ironing by the day, or dozen — also scrubbing and house oleaning. She kept a small store for the sale of eggs, milk and butter, whioh a friend on the outskirts of the town supplied her with. Then her two eldest boys sold papers and swept crossings, while Biddy — who was housekeeper and care-taker in general to the family, in her mother's absence— had a great gift at knitting and often made a few extra shillings in that way. After rauoh talk on the subject Mra. Flynn now consented to add another to her various modes of money-making ; and agreed to take Bertie and his mother as boarders. At first the arrangement had been " until they could find a better place ;" but weeks and months grew into years, and Mra. Tinglcr and her little boy still continued to board with Mrs. Flynn. Bertie was now 5 yeara old, and though etill a slender and delicate child, he was stronger and hardier than on that hot summer day when his mother had carried him till she had fainted at the door of Mammy Flynn. lie was still lame, but he walked with the help of a little crutch ; and the doctors gave his mother good hope that he would, in time, outgrow his lameness. During the three years she had been Mrs. Flynns boarder, the sad little mother bad known much disappointment and frequent hardship. It bad been hard to get work of any kind, and the walk to the city in the morning and back again at night had tried her strength severely, and more than once she had broken down and felt that all was over. But as often she had rallied again and made another trial, and the good-hearted Irishwoman^had always enoouraged her ; and although she needed the little weekly sum paid by Mrs. Tingler, she never asked for it when it was not forthcoming. At last Mrs. Flynn deoided to move further -down into the city, and that made it easier for her lodger, for she had found steady employment in a book-bindery, where the pay was bo good that she every day put away a few pennies in the little purse she was saving op for Bertie, who needed medicines and strengthening food and a certain mechanioal appliance for bis little ankle, all of which could only be got with money. These were bright days for Mrs. Tingler, and sho was so happy that she no longer wept in the night or waked up from dreams of terror, calling for the husband, whose ear was stopped with dust, and then clutching her child to her heart to still its aching. .Then Bertie was growing bo strong and so beautiful— the thought of him filled her life with joy. When she came home in the long bright summer evenings and saw his sweet face pressed against the window, watohing for her, there were a thousand rich women with every wish gratified before it could be spoken who would have gladly obanged plaoes with Clara Tingler. There oame an evening when Bertie watched at the window longer than ever before for the well-known figure and the face that was always raised to his with a smile. But the sunset glow died away and the twilight drew on and brought the night. The lamps were lighted in the streets and the stars glittered in the sky above, and Bertie could not see any face or figure, for he could no longer see through the thick tears that scorched his eyes. At last Mammy Flynn put him to bed, wondering almost aa much as himself at the non-appearance of his mother, but not so much alarmed as surprised. She comforted the child with the assurance that " mamma would be there when he waked up," and with that hope in his heart little Bertie had cried himself to sleep. There had been an accident on Broadway that day— a stage had been upset, and another had collided with it, and the horses had become wild and unmanageable. When order was restored, a slender little woman in black was picked up, insensible— a blow on the temple had done it— and oarried to the nearest hospital. She never recovered consciousness, though for a moment her eyes bad unclosed, and she murmured one word— " Bertie." Then a grey shadow crept over her face, and all was over. There was nothing found on her by which sho miyht have been identified— the body was kept for two days, but no friend claimed it, and she was buried. A little purse of money, all of small coins, amounting to a few dollars, was found sewed within the waist of her dress. It had been carefully — ob, how carefully and hopefully I— saved for little Bertie. 1 1 now paid for the pine cofiin that held all that could die of Bortie's mother. Mrs. Tingler's disappearance soon became an old story in the Flynn household, except to the heart that pined for her. At first, Mrs. Flynn pitied and comfortod the child after her own way—" for,' 1 sho said "he was a big boy now, and it spoiled ohildren to bring them up too soft hearted." Then eho waa disgusted with the conduct of her late lodger—" For ay coorse she has run away, an' left the child on my hands, seem, as I hadn't enough o' my own," she said to a neighbor. The thought made her bad tempered, and discontented ; and at odd moments she vented her ill humour on Bertie But to do her justice, such occasions wore rare, and being remorseful afterward she often gave tbe child a rough hug and a warm kifls to make up for her harshnesp. But as years passed on her ill humor in cicascd, and her regrot for it died away. Bertie grew weak and sickly without hia mother's watchful care, and his lameness increased, lie always walked with a crutch, now, and there boomed no likelihood that he would ever walk without their assistance. He bad grown noouetomed. to beiDg pushed out of

the way, find to being told he had no right to the little he ate and drank — and to muoh more that, while it sank like a stone to the depths of his heart, seemed also to cut like a thrust from a knife. But there was one hard speech _ fiat cut him more than all else. He heard it often both from Mammy Flynn and from the boys, who had grown up to be a care snd worry to their mother, and the chief cause of her growing discontent and b.\d temper. "What are you for, anyway— a sickly cripple, a trouble to yerself an 1 a bother to ivery one else— eh ? What are ye for, anyway ? " These were the words that were like knifethrusts to Bertie's pensitivo heart. How well he could remember his mother's warm kisses, and her tender assurance that he had been sent into the world to be the joy of her heart and to reward her for every sorrow Bhe had ever felt. He had been only a child, that he had understood— in those happy days he had known what ho was for. But now, alas ! He began to ask the same hard question of himself— why was he in the world? WaB there any room for him ? What was there for him to do ? In brief, ag Mammy Flynn, and Dan and Patsy so often said, what was he for, anyway ? One member of the family never asked that question. It was little Conn — Mrs. Flynns grandchild. The boy was a little Irish beauty — great gray eyes, jet black brows and lashes, a mane of dark curly hair and a skin like cream — big, strong and hearty. Bertie loved him with devouring affection ; he was almost jealous of the child's own mother. Though yet a child in years, sorrow and suffering had matured his mind ; and in that fine, healthy child he saw all the possibilities forever shut out of his own life. He played with Conn by the hour together, sung him to sleep at night and told him marvels of fairy lore. But, though unlettered and unread — for he had never been sent to sohool— Bertie had a command of language and a fervor of imagination that was marvellous. Even the queer sounds in the old House aa he lay awake at nights, furnished him with material for fresh fancies. The poor child was often kept awake by pain, and at such times he was glad of anything that would lift his thoughts from his sufferings. He had none of the natural timidity of his age, and the rumblings and cracklings that seemed to fill the wall when all else were asleep sounded like spirit voices to Bertie; and his fancy built them up into weird stories to entertain little Conn on the next day. Ones, after a night of great pain, Bertie fell into a deep sleep toward morning. And in that sleep a face that he knew as well as his own — though it was but a memory— tho pale, sweet face of his vanished mother, stooped over him, and pressed on his lips a long, tender kiss. When he opened bis eager eyes that kiss was still warm on his lips I What joy ! what agony ! Ho knew, then, that she had died and gone to Heaven, and with a bursting heart he cried out that he might go, too, since on earth there was no place for him. He was frantic with grief and longing that day ; and even the pretty ways of little Conn failed to bring any joy to his aching heart. He took his crutch, and went out into tho streets, and there he heard the sound of church bells, and noted how still everything was, for it was Sunday. By and by he found himself in a crowd, and as they were all going to ohurch he went along with them. He would presently have been put out, but a kind old lady opened the door of her pew and invited him into it ; and there he sat during the service. He listened, but didn't understand much ; till all at once he heard words that seemed to drop into his soul. " For we have all some work to do," he heard the minister say — " the humblest— the smallest of us. It may not be great or wonderful—but it is ours I The one thing appointed for us since the beginning, and in good time it will be shown to us." To Bertie this seemed a message direct from Heaven ; it brought him peace and patience ; and he felt that he could wait now till his " work" was pointed out to him. On the next Sunday he would have stolen out again ; but Mammy Flynn bade him take oare of Conn, for it was Easter Sunday, and the whole family were going to church. Ho he Btayed with the child, and told him a story of a bird that used to be like a Jenny Wren, but had never known how to sing till the morning of the first Easter Sunday. When the stone wai rolled away and Christ had come forth, the bird had burst into triumphant song, and then had flown away, singing to all the world tbe glad tidings that the Lord had risen. After the story Conn demanded a song, and Bertie sang an Easter hymn. Long before it was finished the child was fast asleep ; and his careful nurse placed him, flushed and beautiful, in his cradle. Then he sat down to amuse himself with some pictures that Biddy had pasted in an old sorapbook. What sound was that ? Bertie started up and looked about while he asked the question. What a strange, orackling, crumbling noisethen a loud rumbling and trembling 1 What ailed the wall that it bent so toward Conn's cradle ? With a shriek of horror Bertie bounded forward and flung himself over the sleeping child— then followed a crash and a roar like thunder 1

When the Flynn family returned from church the house that had been their home was a mass of broken timber and mortar. " (lod help me I My child I " screamed Conn's mother, and fell insensible. "The baby's safe, Mrp. Flynn," a neighbour hastened to assure the poor grandmother, who stood, dazed and stupid, gazing at the ruins. " Gome with me and see him —the little boy won't let him out of his arms." Mrs. Flynn allowed herself to be led in silence. Whiter than a snow wieath Bertie was holding the baby in his arms ; while the little fellow fondled the cheek already damp with the dew of death. Mrs. Flynn burst into loud weeping, as sho clasped them both in her arms ; and she kissed Bertie with a thrill of pain at her heart that would leave an ache there as long as sho lived. " Ah, my poor darlint ! Areye hurt?/' sho asked. Bertie smiled as he answered : " I feel no pain, Mammy Flynn ; and now I kuow u hat I it asjor," and he gently pushed little Conn into his grandmother's arms. Mammy Flynn would have asked him to forgive her— to forgive the cruel, thoughtless words that had wounded him — but a sudden awe chained her tongue as she looked on Bertie. Tho child's face was illuminated with )oy ; a glory seemed to rest upon his golden hair ; his lips parted, and then with a soft, rapturous cry, " Mamma, mamma ; " his spirit fled to her embrace.

Wit \i kind of men do woman like best? — Husband-men. \\u\i tien two people together, yet touches only one ?—A wedding ring. "W in hi, are balls and routs supplied gratia 1 —On the field of battle.

440.