[1]
[2]

[3]

MR. BLAKE’S
Walking-Stick:

A Christmas Story for Boys and Girls.

By EDWARD EGGLESTON,

AUTHOR OF
“THE ROUND TABLE STORIES,” “THE CHICKEN LITTLE STORIES,”
“STORIES TOLD ON A CELLAR DOOR,” ETC.

CHICAGO:
ADAMS, BLACKMER, & LYON PUBLISHING CO.
1872.

[4]

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870,
By ADAMS, BLACKMER, & LYON PUBLISHING COMPANY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.

[5]

TO OUR
Little Silverhair
Who used to listen to My Stories;
BUT WHO IS NOW
Listening to the Christmas Stories of the Angels,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED.

[6]

[7]

PREFACE.

I have meant to furnish a book that would serve
for a Christmas present to Sunday-scholars, either
from the school or from their teachers. I hope it
is a story, however, appropriate to all seasons, and
that it will enforce one of the most beautiful and
one of the most frequently forgotten precepts of the
Lord Jesus.

EDWARD EGGLESTON.

[8]

[9]

CONTENTS.

[11]

Mr. Blake’s Walking-Stick.

CHAPTER I.
THE WALKING-STICK WALKS.

Some men carry canes. Some men make
the canes carry them. I never could tell
just what Mr. Blake carried his cane for.
I am sure it did not often feel his weight. For he
was neither old, nor rich, nor lazy.

He was a tall, straight man, who walked as if he
loved to walk, with a cheerful tread that was good
to see. I am sure he didn’t carry the cane for
show. It was not one of those little sickly yellow
things, that some men nurse as tenderly as Miss
Snooks nurses her lap-dog. It was a great black
stick of solid ebony, with a box-wood head, and I
think Mr. Blake carried it for company. And it
had a face, like that of an old man, carved on one[12]
side of the box-wood head. Mr. Blake kept it
ringing in a hearty way upon the pavement as he
walked, and the boys would look up from their
marbles when they heard it, and say: “There
comes Mr. Blake, the minister!” And I think that
nearly every invalid and poor person in Thornton
knew the cheerful voice of the minister’s stout ebony
stick.

It was a clear, crisp, sunshiny morning in December.
The leaves were all gone, and the long lines
of white frame houses that were hid away in the
thick trees during the summer, showed themselves
standing in straight rows now that the trees were
bare. And Purser, Pond & Co.’s great factory on
the brook in the valley below was plainly to be
seen, with its long rows of windows shining and
shimmering in the brilliant sun, and its brick
chimney reached up like the Tower of Babel, and
poured out a steady stream of dense, black smoke.

It was just such a shining winter morning. Mr.
Blake and his walking-stick were just starting out for
a walk together. “It’s a fine morning,” thought the
minister, as he shut the parsonage gate. And when
he struck the cane sharply on the stones it answered
him cheerily: “It’s a fine morning!” The cane[13]
always agreed with Mr. Blake. So they were able
to walk together, according to Scripture, because
they were agreed.

Just as he came round the corner the minister
found a party of boys waiting for him. They had
already heard the cane remarking that it was a fine
morning before Mr. Blake came in sight.

“Good morning! Mr. Blake,” said the three
boys.

“Good morning, my boys; I’m glad to see you,”
said the minister, and he clapped “Old Ebony”
down on the sidewalk, and it said “I am glad to see
you.”

“Mr. Blake!” said Fred White, scratching his
brown head and looking a little puzzled. “Mr.
Blake, if it ain’t any harm—if you don’t mind, you
know, telling a fellow,—a boy, I mean—” Just
here he stopped talking; for though he kept on
scratching vigorously, no more words would come;
and comical Sammy Bantam, who stood alongside,
whispered, “Keep a-scratching, Fred; the old cow
will give down after a while!”

Then Fred laughed, and the other boys, and the
minister laughed, and the cane could do nothing but
stamp its foot in amusement.

[14]

“Well, Fred,” said the minister, “What is it?
speak out.” But Fred couldn’t speak now for
laughing, and Sammy had to do the talking himself.
He was a stumpy boy, who had stopped off short;
and you couldn’t guess his age, because his face was
so much older than his body.

“You see, Mr. Blake,” said Sammy, “we boys
wanted to know,—if there wasn’t any harm in your
telling,—why, we wanted to know what kind of a
thing we are going to have on Christmas at our
Sunday-school.”

“Well, boys, I don’t know any more about it yet
than you do. The teachers will talk it over at their
next meeting. They have already settled some
things, but I have not heard what.”

“I hope it will be something good to eat,” said
Tommy Puffer. Tommy’s body looked for all the
world like a pudding-bag. It was an india-rubber
pudding-bag, though. I shouldn’t like to say that
Tommy was a glutton. Not at all. But I am sure
that no boy of his age could put out of sight, in the
same space of time, so many dough-nuts, ginger-snaps,
tea-cakes, apple-dumplings, pumpkin-pies,
jelly-tarts, puddings, ice-creams, raisins, nuts, and
other things of the sort. Other people stared at him[15]
in wonder. He was never too full to take anything
that was offered him, and at parties his weak and
foolish mother was always getting all she could to
stuff Tommy with. So when Tommy said he hoped
it would be something nice to eat, and rolled his
soft lips about, as though he had a cream tart in his
mouth, all the boys laughed, and Mr. Blake smiled.
I think even the cane would have smiled if it had
thought it polite.

“I hope it’ll be something pleasant,” said Fred
Welch.

“So do I,” said stumpy little Tommy Bantam.

“So do I, boys,” said Mr. Blake, as he turned
away; and all the way down the block Old Ebony
kept calling back, “So do I, boys! so do I!”

Mr. Blake and his friend the cane kept on down
the street, until they stood in front of a building
that was called “The Yellow Row.” It was a long,
two-story frame building, that had once been inhabited
by genteel people. Why they ever built it in
that shape, or why they daubed it with yellow paint,
is more than I can tell. But it had gone out of
fashion, and now it was, as the boys expressed it,
“seedy.” Old hats and old clothes filled many of
the places once filled by glass. Into one room of
this row Mr. Blake entered, saying:—

[16]

“How are you, Aunt Parm’ly?”

“Howd’y, Mr. Blake, howd’y! I know’d you was
a-comin’, honey, fer I hyeard the sound of yer cane
afore you come in. I’m mis’able these yer days,
thank you. I’se got a headache, an’ a backache,
and a toothache in de boot.”

I suppose the poor old colored woman meant to
say that she had a toothache “to boot.”

“You see, Mr. Blake, Jane’s got a little sumpin
to do now, and we can git bread enough, thank the
Lord, but as fer coal, that’s the hardest of all. We
has to buy it by the bucketful, and that’s mity high
at fifteen cents a bucket. An’ pears like we couldn’t
never git nothin’ a-head on account of my roomatiz.
Where de coal’s to come from dis ere winter I don’t
know, cep de good Lord sends it down out of the
sky and I reckon stone-coal don’t never come dat
dar road.”

After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see
Peter Sitles, the blind broom-maker.

“I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake,” said Sitles.
“That air stick o’ yourn’s better’n a whole rigimint
of doctors fer the blues. An’ I’ve been a havin’ on
the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last
few days. I remembered what you was a-saying the[17]
last time you was here, about trustin’ of the good
Lord. But I’ve had a purty consid’able heartache
under my jacket fer all that. Now, there’s that Ben
of mine,” and here Sitles pointed to a restless little
fellow of nine years old, whose pants had been
patched and pieced until they had more colors than
Joseph’s coat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked
hungry, as some poor children always do. Their
minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was
rocking a baby in an old cradle. “There’s Ben,”
continued the blind man, “he’s as peart a boy as
you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn’t
orter say it. Bennie hain’t got no clothes. I can’t
beg. But Ben orter be in school.” Here Peter
Sitles choked a little.

“How’s broom-making, Peter?” said the minister.

“Well, you see, it’s the machines as is a-spoiling
us. The machines make brooms cheap, and what
can a blind feller like me do agin the machines with
nothing but my fingers? ’Tain’t no sort o’ use to
butt my head agin the machines, when I ain’t got no
eyes nother. It’s like a goat trying its head on a
locomotive. Ef I could only eddicate Peter and the
other two, I’d be satisfied. You see, I never had no[18]
book-larnin’ myself, and I can’t talk proper no more’n
a cow can climb a tree.”

“But, Mr. Sitles, how much would a broom-machine
cost you?” asked the minister.

“More’n it’s any use to think on. It’ll cost seventy
dollars, and if it cost seventy cents ’twould be
jest exactly seventy cents more’n I could afford to
pay. For the money my ole woman gits fer washin’
don’t go noways at all towards feedin’ the four children,
let alone buying me a machine.”

The minister looked at his cane, but it did not
answer him. Something must be done. The minister
was sure of that. Perhaps the walking-stick
was, too. But what?

That was the question.

The minister told Sitles good-bye, and started to
make other visits. And on the way the cane kept
crying out, “Something must be done,—something
MUST be done,—something MUST be done,” making
the must ring out sharper every time. When
Mr. Blake and the walking-stick got to the market-house,
just as they turned off from Milk Street into
the busier Main Street, the cane changed its tune
and begun to say, “But what,—but what,—but
WHAT,—but WHAT,” until it said it so sharply[19]
that the minister’s head ached, and he put Old
Ebony under his arm, so that it couldn’t talk any
more. It was a way he had of hushing it up when
he wanted to think.

[20]

CHAPTER II.
LONG-HEADED WILLIE.

“De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold
as—as—ice, and dinner’s spiled!”
said Curlypate, a girl about three years
old, as Mr. Blake came in from his forenoon of
visiting. She tried to look very much vexed and
“put out,” but there was always either a smile or
a cry hidden away in her dimpled cheek.

“Pshaw! Curlypate,” said Mr. Blake, as he put
down his cane, “you don’t scold worth a cent!”
And he lifted her up and kissed her.

And then Mamma Blake smiled, and they all sat
down to the table. While they ate, Mr. Blake told
about his morning visits, and spoke of Parm’ly without
coal, and Peter Sitles with no broom-machine,
and described little Ben Sitles’s hungry face, and
told how he had visited the widow Martin, who had
no sewing-machine, and who had to receive help
from the overseer of the poor. The overseer told[21]
her that she must bind out her daughter, twelve
years old, and her boy of ten, if she expected to
have any help; and the mother’s heart was just
about broken at the thought of losing her children.

Now, while all this was taking place, Willie Blake,
the minister’s son, a boy about thirteen years of age,
sat by the big porcelain water-pitcher, listening to
all that was said. His deep blue eyes looked over
the pitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking
in all their descriptions of poverty with a wondrous
pitifulness. But he did not say much. What went
on in his long head I do not know, for his was one
of those heads that projected forward and backward,
and the top of which overhung the base, for all
the world like a load of hay. Now and then his
mother looked at him, as if she would like to see
through his skull and read his thoughts. But I think
she didn’t see anything but the straight, silken, fine,
flossy hair, silvery white, touched a little bit,—only
a little,—as he turned it in looking from one to the
other, with a tinge of what people call a golden, but
what is really a sort of a pleasant straw color. He
usually talked, and asked questions, and laughed
like other boys; but now he seemed to be swallowing
the words of his father and mother more rapidly even[22]
than he did his dinner; for, like most boys, he ate
as if it were a great waste of time to eat. But when
he was done he did not hurry off as eagerly as usual
to reading or to play. He sat and listened.

“What makes you look so sober, Willie?” asked
Helen, his sister.

“What you thinkin’, Willie?” said Curlypate,
peering through the pitcher handle at him.

“Willie,” broke in his father, “mamma and I are
going to a wedding out at Sugar Hill”—

“Sugar Hill; O my!” broke in Curlypate.

“Out at Sugar Hill,” continued Mr. Blake, stroking
the Curlypate, “and as I have some calls to
make, we shall not be back till bedtime. I am sorry
to keep you from your play this Saturday afternoon,
but we have no other housekeeper but you and
Helen. See that the children get their suppers
early, and be careful about fire.”

I believe to “be careful about fire” is the last
command that every parent gives to children on
leaving them alone.

Now I know that people who write stories are
very careful nowadays not to make their boys too
good. I suppose that I ought to represent Willie as
“taking on” a good deal when he found that he[23]
couldn’t play all Saturday afternoon, as he had expected.
But I shall not. For one thing, at least,
in my story, is true; that is, Willie. If I tell you
that he is good you may believe it. I have seen
him.

He only said, “Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Blake did not keep a girl. The minister did
not get a small fortune of a salary. So it happened
that Willie knew pretty well how to keep house.
He was a good brave boy, never ashamed to help
his mother in a right manly way. He could wash
dishes and milk the cow, and often, when mamma
had a sick-headache, had he gotten a good breakfast,
never forgetting tea and toast for the invalid.

So Sancho, the Canadian pony, was harnessed to
the minister’s rusty buggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake
got in and told the children good-bye. Then Sancho
started off, and had gone about ten steps, when
he was suddenly reined up with a “Whoa!”

“Willie!” said Mr. Blake.

“Sir.”

“Be careful about fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then old blackey-brown Sancho moved on
in a gentle trot, and Willie and Helen and Richard[24]
went into the house, where Curlypate had already
gone, and where they found her on tiptoe, with her
short little fingers in the sugar-bowl, trying in vain
to find a lump that would not go to pieces in the
vigorous squeeze that she gave it in her desire to
make sure of it.

So Willie washed the dishes, while Helen wiped
them, and Richard put them away, and they had a
merry time, though Willie had to soothe several
rising disputes between Helen and Richard. Then
a glorious lot of wood was gotten in, and Helen
came near sweeping a hole in the carpet in her eager
desire to “surprise mamma,” Curlypate went in
the parlor and piled things up in a wonderful way,
declaring that she, too, was going to “susprise mamma.”
And doubtless mamma would have felt no
little surprise if she could have seen the parlor after
Curlypate “put it to rights.”

Later in the evening the cow was milked, and a
plain supper of bread and milk eaten. Then Richard
and Curlypate were put away for the night.
And presently Helen, who was bravely determined
to keep Willie company, found her head trying to
drop off her shoulders, and so she had to give up
to the “sand man,” and go to bed.

[25]

CHAPTER III.
THE WALKING-STICK A TALKING STICK.

Willie was now all by himself. He put on
more wood, and drew the rocking-chair up
by the fire, and lay back in it. It was very
still; he could hear every mouse that moved. The
stillness seemed to settle clear down to his heart.
Presently a wagon went clattering by. Then, as the
sound died away in the distance, it seemed stiller
than ever. Willie tried to sleep; but he couldn’t.
He kept listening; and after all he was listening to
nothing; nothing but that awful clock, that would
keep up such a tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. The
curtains were down, and Willie didn’t dare to raise
them, or to peep out. He could feel how dark it
was out doors.

But presently he forgot the stillness. He fell to
thinking of what Mr. Blake had said at dinner. He
thought of poor old rheumatic Parm’ly, and her
single bucket of coal at a time. He thought of the[26]
blind broom-maker who needed a broom-machine,
and of the poor widow whose children must be taken
away because the mother had no sewing-machine.
All of these thoughts made the night seem dark, and
they made Willie’s heart heavy. But the thoughts
kept him company.

Then he wished he was rich, and he thought if he
were as rich as Captain Purser, who owned the mill,
he would give away sewing-machines to all poor
widows who needed them. But pshaw! what was
the use of wishing? His threadbare pantaloons told
him how far off he was from being rich.

But he would go to the Polytechnic; he would
become a civil engineer. He would make a fortune
some day when he became celebrated. Then he
would give widow Martin a sewing-machine. This
was the nice castle in the air that Willie built. But
just as he put on the last stone a single thought
knocked it down.

What would become of the widow and her children
while he was learning to be an engineer and
making a fortune afterward? And where would he
get the money to go to the Polytechnic? This last
question Willie had asked every day for a year or
two past.

[27]

Unable to solve this problem, his head grew tired,
and he lay down on the lounge, saying to himself,
“Something must be done!”

“Something must be done!” Willie was sure
somebody spoke. He looked around. There was
nobody in the room.

“Something must be done!” This time he saw
in the corner of the room, barely visible in the
shadow, his father’s cane. The voice seemed to
come from that corner.

“Something MUST be done!” Yes, it was the
cane. He could see its yellow head, and the face
on one side was toward him. How bright its eyes
were! It did not occur to Willie just then that
there was anything surprising in the fact that the
walking-stick had all at once become a talking
stick.

“Something MUST be done!” said the cane,
lifting its one foot up and bringing it down with
emphasis at the word must. Willie felt pleased
that the little old man—I mean the walking-stick—should
come to his help.

“I tell you what,” said Old Ebony, hopping out
of his shady corner; “I tell you what,” it said, and
then stopped as if to reflect; then finished by saying,
“It’s a shame!”

[28]

Willie was about to ask the cane to what he referred,
but he thought best to wait till Old Ebony
got ready to tell of his own accord. But the walking-stick
did not think best to answer immediately,
but took entirely a new and surprising track. It
actually went to quoting Scripture!

“My eyes are dim,” said the cane, “and I never
had much learning; canes weren’t sent to school
when I was young. Won’t you read the thirty-fifth
verse of the twentieth chapter of Acts.”

Willie turned to the stand and saw the Bible open
at that verse. He did not feel surprised. It seemed
natural enough to him. He read the verse, not
aloud, but to himself, for Old Ebony seemed to hear
his thoughts. He read:—

“Ye ought to support the weak, and to remember
the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is
more blessed to give than to receive.”

“Now,” said the walking-stick, stepping or hopping
up toward the lounge and leaning thoughtfully
over the head of it, “Now, I say that it is a shame
that when the birthday of that Lord Jesus, who
gave himself away, and who said it is more blessed
to give than to receive, comes round, all of you
Sunday-school scholars are thinking only of what
you are going to get.”

[29]

Willie was about to say that they gave as well as
received on Christmas, and that his class had already
raised the money to buy a Bible Dictionary for their
teacher. But Old Ebony seemed to guess his
thought, and he only said, “And that’s another
shame!”

Willie couldn’t see how this could be, and he
thought the walking-stick was using very strong language
indeed. I think myself the cane spoke too
sharply, for I don’t think the harm lies in giving to
and receiving from our friends, but in neglecting the
poor. But you don’t care what I think, you want to
know what the cane said.

“I’m pretty well acquainted with Scripture,” said
Old Ebony, “having spent fourteen years in company
with a minister. Now won’t you please read
the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth
chapter of”—

But before the cane could finish the sentence,
Willie heard some one opening the door. It was
his father. He looked round in bewilderment. The
oil in the lamp had burned out, and it was dark.
The fire was low, and the room chilly.

“Heigh-ho, Willie, my son,” said Mr. Blake,
“where’s your light, and where’s your fire. This is
a cold reception. What have you been doing?”

[30]

“Listening to the cane talk,” he replied; and
thinking what a foolish answer that was, he put on
some more coal, while his mother, who was lighting
the lamp, said he must have been dreaming. The
walking-stick stood in its corner, face to the wall, as
if it had never been a talking stick.

[31]

CHAPTER IV.
MR. BLAKE AGREES WITH THE WALKING-STICK.

Early on Sunday morning Willie awoke
and began to think about Sitles, and to
wish he had money to buy him a broom-machine.
And then he thought of widow Martin.
But all his thinking would do no good. Then he
thought of what Old Ebony had said, and he wished
he could know what that text was that the cane was
just going to quote.

“It was,” said Willie, “the twelfth and thirteenth
verses of the fourteenth chapter of something. I’ll
see.”

So he began with the beginning of the Bible, and
looked first at Genesis xiv. 12, 13. But it was about
the time when Abraham had heard of the capture of
Lot and mustered his army to recapture him. He
thought a minute.

“That can’t be what it is,” said Willie, “I’ll look
at Exodus.”

[32]

In Exodus it was about standing still at the Red
Sea and waiting for God’s salvation. It might mean
that God would deliver the poor. But that was not
just what the cane was talking about. It was about
giving gifts to friends. So he went on to Leviticus.
But it was about the wave offering, and the sin
offering, and the burnt offering. That was not it.
And so he went from book to book until he had
reached the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth
chapter of the book of Judges. He was just
reading in that place about Samson’s riddle, when
his mamma called him to breakfast.

He was afraid to say anything about it at the
table for fear of being laughed at. But he was full of
what the walking-stick said. And at family worship
his father read the twentieth chapter of Acts. When
he came to the part about its being more blessed to
give than to receive, Willie said, “That’s what the
cane said.”

“What did you say?” asked his father.

“I was only thinking out loud,” said Willie.

“Don’t think out loud while I am reading,” said
Mr. Blake.

Willie did not find time to look any further for
the other verses. He wished his father had happened[33]
on them instead of the first text which the
cane quoted.

In church he kept thinking all the time about the
cane. “Now what could it mean by the twelfth
and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter?
There isn’t anything in the Bible against giving
away presents to one’s friends. It was only a dream
anyhow, and maybe there’s nothing in it.”

But he forgot the services, I am sorry to say, in
his thoughts. At last Mr. Blake arose to read his
text. Willie looked at him, but thought of what the
cane said. But what was it that attracted his attention
so quickly?

“The twelfth and thirteenth verses”—

“Twelfth and thirteenth!” said Willie to himself.

“Of the fourteenth chapter,” said the minister.

“Fourteenth chapter!” said Willie, almost aloud.

“Of Luke.”

Willie was all ears, while Mr. Blake read: “Then
said he also to him that bade him, When thou makest
a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor
thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich
neighbors, lest they also bid thee again, and a
recompense be made thee. But when thou makest[34]
a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the
blind.”

“That’s it!” he said, half aloud, but his mother
jogged him.

The minister added the next verse also, and read:
“And thou shalt be blessed, for they cannot recompense
thee; for thou shalt be recompensed at the
resurrection of the just.”

Willie had never listened to a sermon as he did
to that. He stopped two or three times to wonder
whether the cane had been actually about to repeat
his father’s text to him, or whether he had not heard
his father repeat it at some time, and had dreamed
about it.

I am not going to tell you much about Mr.
Blake’s sermon. It was a sermon that he and the
walking-stick had prepared while they were going
round among the poor. I think Mr. Blake did not
strike his cane down on the sidewalk for nothing.
Most of that sermon must have been hammered out
in that way, when he and the walking-stick were
saying, “Something must be done!” For that was
just what that sermon said. It told about the wrong
of forgetting, on the birthday of Christ, to do anything
for the poor. It made everybody think. But[35]
Mr. Blake did not know how much of that sermon
went into Willie Blake’s long head, as he sat
there with his white full forehead turned up to his
father.

[36]

CHAPTER V.
THE FATHER PREACHES AND THE SON PRACTICES.

That afternoon, Willie was at Sunday-school
long before the time. He had a plan.

“I’ll tell you what, boys,” said he,
“let’s not give Mr. Marble anything this year;
and let’s ask him not to give us anything. Let’s
get him to put the money he would use for us with
the money we should spend on a present for him,
and give it to buy coal for Old Aunt Parm’ly.”

“I mean to spend all my money on soft gum
drops and tarts,” said Tommy Puffer; “they’re
splendid!” and with that he began, as usual, to roll
his soft lips together in a half chewing, half sucking
manner, as if he had a half dozen cream tarts under
his tongue, and two dozen gum drops in his cheeks.

“Tommy,” said stumpy little Sammy Bantam,
“it’s a good thing you didn’t live in Egypt, Tommy,
in the days of Joseph.”

“Why?” asked Tommy.

[37]

“Because,” said Sammy, looking around the room
absently, as if he hardly knew what he was going
to say, “because, you see”—and then he opened
a book and began to read, as if he had forgotten to
finish the sentence.

“Well, why?” demanded Tommy, sharply.

“Well, because if Joseph had had to feed you
during the seven years of plenty, there wouldn’t
have been a morsel left for the years of famine!”

The boys laughed as boys will at a good shot, and
Tommy reddened a little and said, regretfully, that
he guessed the Egyptians hadn’t any dough-nuts.

Willie did not forget his main purpose, but carried
his point in his own class. He still had time to
speak to some of the boys and girls in other classes.
Everybody liked to do what Willie asked; there was
something sweet and strong in his blue eyes, eyes
that “did not seem to have any bottom, they were
so deep,” one of the girls said. Soon there was an
excitement in the school, and about the door; girls
and boys talking and discussing, but as soon as any
opposition came up Willie’s half coaxing but decided
way bore it down. I think he was much helped by
Sammy’s wit, which was all on his side. It was
agreed, finally, that whatever scholars meant to give[38]
to teachers, or teachers to scholars, should go to the
poor.

The teachers caught the enthusiasm, and were
very much in favor of the project, for in the whole
movement they saw the fruit of their own teaching.

The superintendent had been detained, and was
surprised to find the school standing in knots about
the room. He soon called them to order, and expressed
his regrets that they should get into such
disorder. There was a smile on all faces, and he
saw that there was something more in the apparent
disorder than he thought. After school it was fixed
that each class should find its own case of poverty.
The young men’s and the young women’s Bible
classes undertook to supply Sitles with a broom-machine,
a class of girls took Aunt Parm’ly under
their wing, other classes knew of other cases of need,
and so each class had its hands full. But Willie
could not get any class to see that Widow Martin
had a sewing-machine. That was left for his own;
and how should a class of eight boys do it?

[39]

CHAPTER VI.
SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS.

Willie took the boys into the parsonage.
They figured on it. There were sixty-five
dollars to be raised to buy the machine.
The seven boys were together, for Tommy Puffer had
gone home. He said he didn’t feel like staying,
and Sammy Bantam thought he must be a little
hungry.

Willie attacked the problem, sixty-five dollars.
Toward that amount they had three dollars and
a half that they had intended to spend on a present
for Mr. Marble. That left just sixty-one dollars and
fifty cents to be raised. Willie ran across the street
and brought Mr. Marble. He said he had made up
his mind to give the boys a book apiece, and that
each book would cost a dollar. It was rather more
than he could well afford; but as he had intended to
give eight dollars for their presents, and as he was[40]
pleased with their unselfish behavior, he would
make it ten.

“Good!” said Charley Somerset, who always saw
the bright side of things,“that makes it all, except
fifty-one dollars and a half.”

“Yes,” said Sammy Bantam, “and you’re eleven
feet high, lacking a couple of yards!”

Willie next called his father in, and inquired how
much his Christmas present was to cost.

“Three and a half,” said his father.

“That’s a lot! Will you give me the money instead?”

“Yes; but I meant to give you a Life of George
Stephenson, and some other books on engineering.”

This made Willie think a moment; but seeing the
walking-stick in the corner, he said: “Mrs. Martin
must have a machine, and that three and a half
makes seventeen dollars. How to get the other
forty-eight is the question.”

Mr. Blake and Mr. Marble both agreed that the
boys could not raise so much money, and should not
undertake it. But Willie said there was nobody to
do it, and he guessed it would come somehow. The
other boys, when they came to church that evening,
told Willie that their presents were commuted for[41]
money also; so they had twenty-five dollars toward
the amount. But that was the end of it, and there
were forty dollars yet to come!

Willie lay awake that night, thinking. Mr. Marble’s
class could not raise the money. All the other
classes had given all they could. And the teachers
would each give in their classes. And they had
raised all they could spare besides to buy nuts and
candy! Good! That was just it; they would do
without candy!

At school the next morning, Willie’s white head
was bobbing about eagerly. He made every boy
and girl sign a petition, asking the teachers not to
give them any nuts or candy. They all signed
except Tommy Puffer. He said it was real mean
not to have any candy. They might just as well
not have any Sunday-school, or any Christmas
either. But seeing a naughty twinkle in Sammy
Bantam’s eye, he waddled away, while Sammy fired
a shot after him, by remarking that, if Tommy had
been one of the Shepherds in Bethlehem, he
wouldn’t have listened to the angels till he had
inquired if they had any lemon-drops in their
pockets!

[42]

That night the extra Teachers’ Meeting was held,
and in walked white-headed Willie with stunted
Sammy Bantam at his heels to keep him in countenance.
When their petition was presented, Miss
Belden, who sat near Willie, said, “Well done!
Willie.”

“But I protest,” said Mrs. Puffer,—who was of
about as handsome a figure as her son,—“I protest
against such an outrage on the children. My Tommy’s
been a-feeling bad about it all day. It’ll break
his heart if he don’t get some candy.”

Willie was shy, but for a moment he forgot it,
and, turning his intelligent blue eyes on Mrs. Puffer,
he said,—

“It will break Mrs. Martin’s heart if her children
are taken away from her.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Puffer, “I always did hear that
the preacher’s boy was the worst in the parish, and
I won’t take any impudence. My son will join the
Mission School, where they aren’t too stingy to
give him a bit of candy!” And Mrs. Puffer left,
and everybody was pleased.

Willie got the money; but the teachers had
counted on making up their festival mostly with[43]
cakes and other dainties, contributed by families.
So that the candy money was only sixteen dollars,
and Willie was yet a long way off from having the
amount he needed. Twenty-four dollars were yet
wanting.

[44]

CHAPTER VII.
THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.

The husband of widow Martin had been
killed by a railroad accident. The family
were very poor. Mrs. Martin could sew,
and she could have sustained her family if she had
had a machine. But fingers are not worth much
against iron wheels. And so, while others had machines,
Mrs. Martin could not make much without
one. She had been obliged to ask help from the
overseer of the poor.

Mr Lampeer, the overseer, was a hard man. He
had not skill enough to detect impostors, and so he
had come to believe that everybody who was poor
was rascally. He had but one eye, and he turned
his head round in a curious way to look at you out
of it. That dreadful one eye always seemed to be
going to shoot. His voice had not a chord of tenderness
in it, but was in every way harsh and hard. It[45]
was said that he had been a schoolmaster once. I
pity the scholars.

Widow Martin lived—if you could call it living—in
a tumble-down looking house, that would not
have stood many earthquakes. She had tried diligently
to support her family and keep them together;
but the wolf stood always at the door. Sewing by
hand did not bring in quite money enough to buy
bread and clothes for four well children, and pay
the expenses of poor little Harry’s sickness; for all
through the summer and fall Harry had been sick.
At last the food was gone, and there was nothing
to buy fuel with. Mrs. Martin had to go to the
overseer of the poor.

She was a little, shy, hard-working woman, this
Mrs. Martin; so when she took her seat among the
paupers of every sort in Mr. Lampeer’s office, and
waited her turn, it was with a trembling heart. She
watched the hard man, who didn’t mean to be so
hard, but who couldn’t tell the difference between
a good face and a counterfeit; she watched him as
he went through with the different cases, and her
heart beat every minute more and more violently.
When he came to her he broke out with—

“What’s your name?” in a voice that sounded[46]
for all the world as if he were accusing her of robbing
a safe.

“Sarah Martin,” said the widow, trembling with
terror, and growing red and white in turns. Mr.
Lampeer, who was on the lookout for any sign of
guiltiness, was now sure that Mrs. Martin could not
be honest.

“Where do you live?” This was spoken with a
half sneer.

“In Slab Alley,” whispered the widow, for her
voice was scared out of her.

“How many children have you got?”

Mrs. Martin gave him the list of her five, with
their ages, telling him of little Harry, who was six
years old and an invalid.

“Your oldest is twelve and a girl. I have a place
for her, and, I think, for the boy, too. You must
bind them out. Mr. Slicker, the landlord of the
Farmers’ Hotel, will take the girl, and I think James
Sweeny will take the boy to run errands about the
livery stable. I’ll send you some provisions and
coal to-day; but you must let the children go. I’ll
come to your house in a few days. Don’t object; I
won’t hear a word. If you’re as poor as you let on
to be, you’ll be glad enough to get your young ones[47]
into places where they’ll get enough to eat. That’s
all, not a word, now.” And he turned to the next
applicant, leaving the widow to go home with her
heart so cold.

Let Susie go to Slicker’s tavern! What kind of a
house would it be without her? Who would attend
to the house while she sewed? And what would
become of her girl in such a place? And then to
send George, who had to wait on Harry, to send
him away forever was to shut out all hope of ever
being in better circumstances. Then she could not
sew, and the children could never help her. God
pity the people that fall into the hands of public
charity!

The next few days wore heavily on with the
widow. What to do she did not know. At night
she scarcely slept at all. When she did drop into a
sleep, she dreamed that her children were starving,
and woke in fright. Then she slept again, and
dreamed that a one-eyed robber had gotten in at the
window, and was carrying off Susie and George.
At last morning came. The last of the food was
eaten for breakfast, and widow Martin sat down to
wait. Her mind was in a horrible state of doubt.
To starve to death together, or to give up her children![48]
That was the question which many a poor
mother’s heart has had to decide. Mrs. Martin soon
became so nervous she could not sew. She could
not keep back the tears, and when Susie and George
put their arms about her neck and asked what was
the matter, it made the matter worse. It was the
day before Christmas. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily.
Even in Slab Alley one could hear sounds of
joy at the approaching festivities. But there was
no joy in Widow Martin’s house or heart. The
dinner hour had come and passed. The little children
were hungry. And yet Mrs. Martin had not
made up her mind.

At the appointed time Lampeer came. He took
out the two indentures with which the mother was
to sign away all right to her two eldest children. It
was in vain that the widow told him that if she lost
them she could do no work for her own support, and
must be forever a pauper. Lampeer had an idea
that no poor person had a right to love children.
Parental love was, in his eyes, or his eye, an expensive
luxury that none but the rich should indulge in.

“Mrs. Martin,” he said, “you may either sign
these indentures, by which your girl will get a good
place as a nurse and errand girl for the tavern-keeper’s[49]
wife, and your boy will have plenty to eat
and get to be a good hostler, or you and your brats
may starve!” With that he took his hat and opened
the door.

“Stop!” said Mrs. Martin, “I must have medicine
and food, or Harry will not live till Sunday. I
will sign.”

The papers were again spread out. The poor-master
jerked the folds out of them impatiently, in a
way that seemed to say, “You keep me an unconscionable
long time about a very small matter.”

When the papers were spread out, Mrs. Martin’s
two oldest children, who began to understand what
was going on, cried bitterly. Mrs. Martin took the
pen and was about to sign. But it was necessary to
have two witnesses, and so Lampeer took his hat and
called a neighbor-woman, for the second witness.

Mrs. Martin delayed the signature as long as she
could. But seeing no other help, she took up the
pen. She thought of Abraham with the knife in his
hand. She hoped that an angel would call out of
heaven to her relief. But as there was no voice from
heaven, she dipped the pen in the ink.

Just then some one happened to knock at the door,
and the poor woman’s nerves were so weak that she[50]
let the pen fall, and sank into a chair. Lampeer,
who stood near the door, opened it with an impatient
jerk, and—did the angel of deliverance enter?

It was only Willie Blake and Sammy Bantam.

[51]

CHAPTER VIII.
SHARPS AND BETWEENS.

Let us go back. We left Willie awhile ago
puzzling over that twenty-four dollars.
After many hours of thought and talk
with Sammy about how they should manage it, two
gentlemen gave them nine dollars, and so there was
but fifteen more to be raised. But that fifteen
seemed harder to get than the fifty they had already
gotten. At last Willie thought of something. They
would try the sewing-machine man. Mr. Sharps
would throw off fifteen dollars.

But they did not know Mr. Sharps. Though he
made more than fifteen dollars on the machine, he
hated to throw anything off. He was always glad to
put on. Sammy described him by saying that “Mr.
Sharps was not for-giving but he was for-getting.”

They talked; they told the story; they begged.
Mr. Sharps really could not afford to throw off a
cent. He was poor. Taxes were high. He gave a[52]
great deal. (I do not know what he called a great
deal. He had been to church three times in a year,
and twice he had put a penny in the plate. I suppose
Mr. Sharps thought that a great deal. And so
it was, for him, poor fellow.) And then the butcher
had raised the price of meat; and he had to pay
twenty-three dollars for a bonnet for his daughter.
Really, he was too poor. So the boys went away
down-hearted.

But Sammy went straight to an uncle of his, who
was one of the editors of the Thornton Daily Bugle.
After a private talk with him he started back to Mr.
Sharps. Willie followed Sammy this time. What
Sammy had in his head Willie could not make out.

“I’ll fix him!” That was the only word Sammy
uttered on the way back.

“Now, Mr. Sharps,” he began, “my uncle’s name
is Josiah Penn. Maybe you know him. He’s one
of the editors of the Thornton Daily Bugle. I’ve
been talking with him. If you let me have a Feeler
and Stilson sewing-machine for fifty dollars, I will
have a good notice put in the Daily Bugle.”

Mr. Sharps whistles a minute. He thought he
could not do it. No, he was too poor.

“Well, then, Willie,” said Sammy, “we’ll go[53]
across the street and try the agent of the Hillrocks
and Nibbs machine. I think Mr. Betweens will
take my offer.”

“O!” said Mr. Sharps, “you don’t want that
machine. It’s only a single thread, and it will ravel,
and—well—you don’t want that.”

“Indeed, my mother says there isn’t a pin to
choose between them,” said Sammy; “and I can
give Mr. Betweens just as good a notice as I could
give you.”

“Very well, take the machine for fifty dollars. I
do it just out of pity for the widow, you know. I
never could stand by and see suffering and not relieve
it. You won’t forget about that notice in the
Daily Bugle, though, will you?”

No, Sammy wouldn’t forget.

It was now the day before Christmas, and the
boys thought they had better get the machine down
there.

So they found Billy Horton, who belonged to
their class, and who drove an express wagon, and
told him about it. He undertook to take it down.
But first, he drove around the town and picked up
all the boys of the class, that they might share in
the pleasure.

[54]

Meantime, a gentleman who had heard of Willie’s
efforts, gave him a five dollar bill for widow Martin.
This Willie invested in provisions, which he instructed
the grocer to send to the widow.

He and Sammy hurried down to widow Martin’s,
and got there, as I told you in the last chapter, just
as she was about to sign away all right, title, and
interest in two of the children whom God had given
her; to sign them away at the command of the hard
Mr. Lampeer, who was very much irritated that he
should be interrupted just at the moment when he
was about to carry the point; for he loved to carry
a point better than to eat his breakfast.

[55]

CHAPTER IX.
THE ANGEL STAYS THE HAND.

When the boys came in, they told the widow
that they wished to speak with little sick
Harry. They talked to Harry awhile,
without noticing what was going on in the other
part of the room.

Presently Willie felt his arm pulled. Looking
round, he saw Susie’s tearful face. “Please don’t
let mother give me and George away.” Somehow
all the children in school had the habit of coming to
this long-headed Willie for help, and to him Susie
came.

That word of Susie’s awakened Willie. Up to
that moment he had not thought what Mr. Lampeer
was there for. Now he saw Mrs. Martin holding the
pen with trembling hand, and making motions in
the air preparatory to writing her name. Most people
not used to writing, write in the air before they
touch the paper. When Willie saw this, he flew[56]
across the room and thrust his hand upon the place
where the name ought to be, saying,—

“Don’t do that, Mrs. Martin! Don’t give away
your children!”

Poor woman! the pen dropped from her hand as
the knife had dropped from Abraham’s. She grasped
Willie’s arm, saying,—

“How can I help it? Do tell me!”

But Lampeer had grasped the other arm, and
broke out with—

“You rogue, what do you mean?”

Willie’s fine blue eyes turned quickly into Lampeer’s
one muddy eye.

“Let go!” he said, very quietly but very determinedly,
“don’t strike me, or my father will take
the law on you.”

Lampeer let go.

Just then the groceries came, and a minute later,
Billy Horton’s wagon drove up with the machine,
and all the other boys, who came in and shook hands
with the poor but delighted mother and her children.
I cannot tell you any more about that scene. I only
know that Lampeer went out angry and muttering.

[57]

CHAPTER X.
TOMMY PUFFER.

Willie was happy that night. He went
down to the festival at the Mission.
There was Tommy Puffer’s soft, oyster-like
body among the scholars of the Mission. He
was waiting for something good. His mouth and
eyes were watering. He looked triumphantly at the
boys from the other school. They wouldn’t get anything
so nice. The superintendent announced that
no boy’s name would be called for a paper bag of
“refreshments” but those who had been present
two Sundays. And so poor starving Tommy Puffer
had to carry his pudding-bag of a body home again
without a chance to give it an extra stuffing.

[58]

CHAPTER XI.
AN ODD PARTY.

I cannot tell you about the giving of
the broom-machine to the blind broom-maker;
of the ton of coal to Parm’ly,
and of all the other things that happened on
Christmas Day when the presents were given. I
must leave these things out. As for Aunt Parm’ly,
she said she did not know, but dat dare coal seemed
like it come from de sky.

But there was an ample feast yet for the boys at
the Sunday-school, for many biscuits, and cakes, and
pies had been baked. But every time Willie looked
at the walking stick he thought of “the poor, the
maimed, the lame, and the blind.” And so he and
Sammy Bantam soon set the whole school, teachers
and all, a-fire with the idea of inviting in the inmates
of the county poor-house. It was not half so hard to
persuade the members of the school to do this as it
was to coax them to the first move; for when people[59]
have found out how good it is to do good, they like
to do good again.

Such a company it was! There was old crazy
Newberry, who had a game-bag slung about his neck,
and who imagined that the little pebbles in it were
of priceless value. Old Dorothy, who was nearly
eighty, and who, thanks to the meanness of the authorities,
had not tasted any delicacy, not so much
as a cup of tea, since she had been in the alms-house;
and there were half-idiots, and whole idiots,
and sick people, and crippled people, armless people
and legless people, blind people and deaf. Such
an assortment of men, women, and little children,
you cannot often find. They were fed with the good
things provided for the Sunday-school children, much
to the disgust of Tommy Puffer and his mother.
For Tommy was bent on getting something to eat
here.

There were plenty of people who claimed the
credit of suggesting this way of spending the Christmas.
But Willie did not say anything about it, for
he remembered what Christ had said about blowing
a trumpet before you. But I think Sammy Bantam
trumpeted Willie’s fame enough.

It would be hard to tell who enjoyed the Christmas[60]
the most. But I think the givers found it more
blessed than the receivers. What talk Mr. Blake
heard in his rounds I cannot tell. If you want to
know, you must ask the Old Ebony.