Part 27

But what disturbs me more than all Is, that sarcastic boys Prefer to have me somewhere else, When they are at their noise; That while I try to look and act As like them as I can, They will persist in mister-ing me, And calling me a man!

* * * * *

True--Time will seam and blanch my brow. Well, I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how A grisly beard becomes me then.

And should no foul dishonor lie Upon my head, when I am gray, Love yet shall watch my fading eye, And smooth the path of my decay.

Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, And all thy pains are quickly past.

Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes, And, as thy shadowy train depart, The memory of sorrow grows A lighter burden on the heart.

W. C. BRYANT.

OLD AUNTY.

The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.

L. M. C.

All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her heart.

Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like rest or comfort, like home for a tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside and a full house.

But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn penny by penny, as the days go by.

She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the Square.

With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.

It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most splendid street in the world,--whole miles of palaces.

“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty used to say.

When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or poor?”

“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”

“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only gives me the rheumatism; and that is all the trouble I have. God be praised!”

“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so old; it isn’t safe.”

“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”

But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.

But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.

One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her away!”

The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.

It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”

“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall not be ruined. Aunty shall go back to her rightful place.”