LITTLE RODY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 15, 10 April 1902, Page 23

LITTLE RODY.

He was a fair, fragile little urchin, with light curly hair and clear blue eyes that looked straight at you when he cried . ' Buy a paper, bir?" ' Carry your parcel) ? ' Yes, Rody was a, veritable street Arab, with no one to love him, no one to care for him ;\ a poor waif, that the world .seemed to imagine was made of tougher stuff than flesh and blood. But Rody was not accustomed to think over his misfortunes and did not consider himself ill-used because cold and hunger formed a part of daily existence. When a few crumbs from the rich man's table fell to his lot he enjoyed them, and called himself lucky if a kindly passer-by dropped him a copper. Eleven years was the precise time this small boy had inhabited our globe, and yet ho had suffered more, much more, than many of us easygoing, well-to-do worldlings suffer in a lifetime.

There was a time when Rody was neither a waif nor an outcast, when he had a little cot and a fond mother, who tucked him away each night in warm blankets, as she kissed hijm, whispering softly, 'CJod bless my own boy, Rody .' God love my own boy, my own little Rody'' That was a long time ago now, nearly four years, but Rody remembered it well, and often, when he felt cold and miserable, it did him good to think of those far-off days, and to picture to himself the cottage where he had knelt at his mother's knee, and learned tho first lessons of piety truth, and love. Yes, Rody liked to dream of that happy time, and relate to his wondering companions how he had once lived m a cozy, thatched cottage, and gathered violets from mossy hedges and cowslips in green fields.

' But why did you not always stay where the trees and (lowers were, Rody ? ' some pale-faced mite would ask. That was a question the boy never chose to answer. Perhaps he feared tho tears, which were so near his eyes, might steal down unawares and then Rody considered it unmanly to betray all he felt for Ins dear, dead mother. And yet, all the same, when alone : 'Ah ! why had she died and left him ? ' was the questioning cry of the child's heart

It was only in a shadowy, distant way Itody remembered his father, the tall, strong man who used to lifUJhston an' hi£t, shoulder, '-jy his tie to him and kiss him.

One bitterly cold week in January that kind father died, and the doctors said pneumonia had claimed another victim as its own. Kody's pretty, fragile mother never recovered from the shock of her young husband's death. She pined away slowly, and before ' two \ears had passed was laid beside him in the churchyard. At that time Rody had only a vague idea of death The poor little fellow cried when he looked at his mother's pale, still face, and worn, transparent hands, and begged her to speak to h m Kind friends and ncighbots, as is their wont, took the child from the bedside, and filled his pockets with sweetmeats. 1 Don't cry, Rody ! ' they said ; ' your mother has gone to a happy home above the skies.'

' Why did mother leave me all alone ? ' wailed the child. ' Because God called her,' they told him; ' and you must be a good boy, and you'll be with her later on. Your Uncle Joe or his wife will be coming for you from *)üblin to-morrow, so don't cry any more.' But Rody was not to be quieted. He sobbed and sobbed, and called : ' Muddy ! Muddy ! your own little Rody wants you ! '

Even when the hard-faced, blackeyed woman, who called herself Aunt Ellen, lifted him into a thirdclab.s carriage, which "Was to bring him away from the sweet, wild country and the home he loved to a a crowded tenement-house in a dismal back street in the Liberties, still he cried. However, young as he was, Ilody soon found there was no Rood fretting or wailing for his dead mother. Aunt Ellen, to say the least of her, was not sympathitic. From the first she regarded the child as a nuisance. He would bo the cause of extra expense and trouble, and this one fact was q,uite sufficient to make Rody obicctionable to his aunt. Uncle Joe Rody learned to regard in rather a peculiar lLght. He was a dark, surly man, who at times was kind to the child,, but oftener beat him, swore at hi i7\ and told him to bepone and beg. For some time the child was unable to account for his uncle's uncontrollable fits of passion, tout, as! he gr6w older, he began to perceive the reason why his uncle and aunt quarreled so frequently and so fiercely — why they declared they hated each other— that they wished one another dead. Both were drunkards.

Uncle Joe was in the habit of spending the greater part of the week's wages in the public house, and his slatternly wife was very little better in this respect. Alas ! pooi- Ilody was the chief sufferer, for he came in for blows from both parties. Often when Aunt Ellen feared to vent her angry passion on her husband, the child proved a convenient object on which to revenge herself. So, too, on the other hand, Uncle Joe relieved his feelings by beating the poor child

Very soon Rody's dimpled cheeks lost their roses, and a hunted, hun-R-ry look stole into his great dark eyes. For hours together he sat, with his little face pressed against the dirt-besmeared window, his little heart breaking for one word of love or pity. Things did not improve with time in Uncle Joe's dwelling. Each year a greater number of blows fell to Itody's lot. Each year he longed more and more to get away from his inhuman protectors.

One dark winter night, when the child had been maltreated more severely than usual, he fled from his wretched home to return no more. Alone, hungry and miserable, Rody started to eke out a precarious existence. Poor little mite ! lie faced the world with a braver heart than many a man, yet what a sickening feeling of despair often took possession of him as he stood at nightfall at the corner of some deserted street, <x bundle of unsold ' Evening Telegraphs ' under his arm, and not a penny to call his own E\er\Mhore around him was food, money and warmth, but only cold and hunger were his portion But what had this' small waif done? Of what crime was he guilty that ho should gaze with famished eyes at the good things of this world and >et never tasto of them — no, were he slowly dying of hunger ! Poor little Rody ' ITe had injured no one — done no evil — but he was poor, wretchedly poor, and, therefore, passers-by thought, if they thought at all. that it was meet, that it was natural that he should suffer.

Rody did not seek pity, or wail out in distress. lie bore his privations with a mute callousness which jniuht have shamed many a stronger soul. Tie beat his cold, nnid-be-smeared feet against the wot pavement when they were cold, and contented himself with gazing in at savory dishes in cook-shop windows when adverse fortune had left him

supperless. But there was something which grieved Rody even more thaS fnii and , WW u ant ' and that was the ovfri g& f hIS \° ul to love d ,sn»m ?V? V ? n hen he had be *n unusually lucky in the sale of his w,J +v ° cx P lain cd. Perhaps it cW to S th mm ° Uo \ Which made him m?/L ? SWeet memoi 'y of hid thought a £ P erhap , s > to °- was the X^fronfsin. 61 ' Whlch " ke P t him so hu^n th hn b H°£ Wi \ S hu m a n-intensely numan-ho did not pray ; in fact hn when f^ gOtten God and prayed 'and when the poor, as we all know become unmindful of their Father in fa'rTfT °f, 2 H ani tO rC^ d him S a lai-off, shadowy way, they find it very hard, indeed, in thfr wants n,fu SO ZZ O ZSZ S to kee P to the right path. Rody was not an exception to this rule. He often felt it would be much more profitable to cheat or steal than be honest, much easier to lie than speak the truth, but then there was no one to care particularly he thought, what he did— it was all the same whether he was good or bad, and the fact of being upright had only left him destitute. Such was the train of Rody's thoughts one cold winter evening as he stood at Grafton street corner with a few unsold ' Evening Telegraphs ' in his hand.

Little use I've trying to live,' he muttered between, his chattering, teeth. Every one can have something but me. I'm the worst off of the whole of them,' and Rody wiped away the unbidden tears that were trickling down his cheeks with tho sleeve of his tattered coat. ' Come, my boy, get on now ! You can't stand here !' cried a voice by his side. Rody raised his clear,, honest eyes to the speaker, and then fled in terror, for the street Arab generally regards the ' Bobby in blue ' as his natural enemy. When he had reached the end of the street, and not till then, he stopped. Poor little mite ! his head was throbbing madly, and his frame shook with a hacking cough. A few yards from him was a gay toy shop, surrounded by laughing children. Rody, relieved from his fear, watched them. They all looked so happy, he thought. He alone was miserable. Suddenly a bright shilling rolled towards "him. He gazed at it longingly. He knew it belonged to one of those merry boys who were eagerly discussing the merits of a pop-gun. They had plenty — he was starving and ill. Besides, no one was looking. He could easily take it. He stooped down, picked up the money, and then ran as if for his very life. But he had been seen, and six pairs of legs followed in swift pursuit, and shrill voices yelled, ' Stop, thief ! Stop, thief ! ' Rody heard them, and knew that he was followed. He strained every nerve, every muscle, to keep ahead of his pursuers. He darted down one street, then up another, now ran through one lane, now through another, until he fell exhausted in a dark gateway, his brain swimming, and the cry of ' Stop thief ! ' still ringing in his ears. As he raised his hand to his throbbing forehead, he felt it wet with warm blood. A thousand lights, he thought, danced lief ore his eyes, while ' Stop thief ! Stop thief ! ' seemed to be echoed and re-echoed by the shrill winter wind. Although Rody pressed his littlo hands against his ears to deaden the sound, yet the weird cry still went on, only growing louder and louder each minute, until at last it culminated in one long wild shriek, and then — Rody knew no more. Some hours later some workmen who were passing found a huddledui>, senseless little figure in the gateway. They brought the child to the

hospital close by. There, gentle nunsi laid him in a neat white cot to fight the battle between death and life. When Rody spoke again, only wild, incoherent words escaped his lips. There was a strange, unearthly lustre in his blue eyes, hi.s pale cheeks were flushed like" scarlet, and tho fair, unkempt curls tossed restlessly from side to side.

' I hear them, they are coming, coming, nearer and nearer — they arc crying ' Stop thief ! ' and I can urn no farther ! ho would wail.

It was all an vain that gentle Sister Winifred strove to quiet his fearful fancies — he only moaned those sad words louder, until it seemed as if he must die of the very grief and fear.

At last, however, the plaintive cry grew lower and lower, and then died away; altogether. The fever had gone, and weak, white, and wasted Rody lay, his great blue eyes wandering from bed to bed, vainly trying to recollect himself and guess ■when they came to his 1 bed, and said that the child might linger some time, but that want and exposure had done their work' — he could never recover.

Meanwhile Rody had grown very patient and quiet. The comfort and kindness which surrounded his cot puzzled his little brain — it was so different to the misery to which he was accustomed ! He listened wonderingly to Sister Winifred's gentle voice .telling of the love of the Sacred Heart for little children, and how Jesus used to take them in His arms and bless them, and say . ' Suffer little children to come to Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'

Gradually Rody began to lose his sense of loneliness. He knew God cared for him and watched over him even more tenderly than his own long lost mother.

One day, when Sister Winifred asked him where she should .send for his father and mother, he replied, raising his eyes to Sister Winifred's sweet face in amazement : ' They are dead long a^o ' ' he said, sobbijngly. ' I have been working for myself e\er so long.' ' Poor little mite ' ' murmured the nun, ' God loves you all the better for being poor and lonely — jou aie one of His own favorite little ones •'

As she spoke a faint Hush stole into the child's cheeks, for those words awakened in his childish heart pangs of keen remorse, and he felt a great tearless sob riso to his throat. The sad recollection, like a painful picture, rose before him, that lie had been a bad boy — he had forgotten God, he had stolen — and, oh ! what would mother say if she knew all ? And as the thoughts crowdod on him Rody covered ins head with tho blanket to hide his grief

Needless to say, Sister Winifred's \isits to Rody's bed were very frequent. Ho was ' such a friendless and forlorn mite ' she felt strangely drawn toward him He was alwa\ s very shy and reserved when she spoke to him, and yet she was convinced ho regarded her as a great friend. It was very true that Sister Winifred had not spent 10 years nursing little boys in vain. Little by little it grew on her that Rody was restless. some secret trouble must be weighing on his mind She must win his confidence and bring him relief One wild evening, when the wind was sobbing and moaning pitifully around the city hospital, Rody seemed more disturbed than usual

' Arc you weary and tired of tho bed, darling ? ' asked Sister Winifred, laying her hand gently on the child's throbbing forehead. For a moment Rody was silent, while tho wind outside mercilessly beat against the window panes, and shrieked through the keyhole Ah ! it reminded him so much of his last night in the streets and that stolen shilling ! , • , 1 Sister Winifred,' ho cried, in broken accents. ' Sister Winifred, I want to ask you, to ask you so many

things that my head is aching with the thoughts of them ! ' ' I am listening, Rody,' the nun answered, gently. '|Si.stcr Wimjifred,' ho cried, 'where am L ? Has the place anything to do with a prison ? You know I should be in prison ! '

' No, Rody, no ! you are in the hospital— a place for good little boys who are sick,' answered the nun. Rody at once raised his confiding pyos to the Sister's sweet face, while his cheeks glowed like scarlet, and his lips quivered, as he said, hurriedly : ' 3 am glad it is not a prison, but, Sister Winifred, I -am not a good boy. I stolo a shilling the night I camo here. Oh ! I was so sick and tired that evening ! and the money tempted me ! I've been thinking of it ever since, and to-night ' — but Rody did not finish the sentence ; he buried his face in his little wasted hands, and he soblbed aloud. ' Don't cry, my poor little Rody,' whispered the nun, softly. ' You are very sorry for stealing the shilling, and Jesus will forgive you. He knew Himself what it was to be poor and lonely, Rody — pray to IT iin, and He will comfort you, and He will \\x\c mercy on you ! ' ' Does lie know how hard I tried to» be honest *> How badly 1 wanted money when I stole ? ' asked Rody. ■ Indeed, Ho does,' answered Sister Winifred " Our good Jesus is always watching over us, and He knows a\ er\ thing ' ' Then 1 won't find it so hard to ask His pardon,' the child said. ' He'll remember how hungry and sick I was ' ' I'oor Rody ! Had he been ever so eloquent he could never have described half lie went through since his mothei's dcaUi, and yet he felt \ cry guilty indeed. He had been tempted .sorely, but all he seemed to remember was that he had stolen. By degrees Sister Winifred learned from Rody the story of his life, how happy lie had been for those first few years with his idolised mother, then his sorrow and loneliness in the city tenement-house, and Hastly his bitter struggle to earn a li\ing m the streets. H was a sad tale, but it is the tale of many of our cities and towns, for, as a rule, there are many dark clays and heavy rainfalls in tho lixes ot our city waifs.

' Sister Winifrid, I'll never forgot to lo\o Cod again, not even if J live to be e\er so old,' the child would cry, with his eyes full of tears and with clasped hands.

' Would you find it very hard to die, Rody ■> ' Sister Winifrid asked one day Rody looked startled. ' To die ' ? ' he repeated. • Yes, Rody.' The tears trickled down the child's cheeks as he said sobbingly : ' I never thought of dying. Sister,' he said, and turned his face to the wall. An hour later, when Sister Winifred came to her little favorite's col, he took her hand, and drawing lu'r over to him, he whispered :

• I won't be sorry to die if God wishes it, only, only I used to think of lt\hi£ and being very good, to pay back the shilling, and to make up for all tho time 1 was bad

' I understand, Rody, darling,' the nun answered, as she wiped away hi'i- own tears. ' You wish whatever God wishes '

' Yes, Sister,' the child answered, /irmly 'That is what I mean.'

One bright morning, when the sunbeams fell softly across the neat white cot in the children's ward, Rody reeei\ed his last Holy Communion During his lingering illness the kind Sister had prepared him for Confession, and he received his Blessed Lord many times. His Lordship tho Bishop, who took a great interest in tho child, when ho learned his touching story, kindly came and confirmed him. A tenderhearted lady visitor had given him a beautiful picture of the Sacred Heart, which he always kept near him and kissed over and over. Dur-

ing several hours on this mornmg, he lay, with his hands joined and his face lighted up with an undescribable look of peace and happiness. * Once, when Sister Winifrid. bent over his bed, ho murmured :

Jesus will soon come to take me homo to Himself m heaven.'

Before the evening shadows fell across his little bed, Rody said : ' Sister, 1 am going to Jesus now. Don't bo long uhtil you come up to mo, sure you won't ? ' The words were followed by a sueet, grateful smile — and all was over. His white child-soul had gone 'home' to God— ' The Irish Messenger.'