The Story of Patsy written by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
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THE STORY OF PATSY
by
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
Author of _The Birds' Christmas Carol_
[Illustration: "PATSY MINDING THE KENNETT BABY."]
[Illustration: VIGNETTE.]
To
H.C.A.
IN REMEMBRANCE OF GLADNESS GIVEN TO SORROWFUL LITTLE LIVES
"The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west--
But the young; young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others
In the country of the free."
MRS. BROWNING.
The original Story of Patsy was written and sold some seven years ago
for the benefit of the Silver Street Free Kindergartens in San
Francisco. Now that it is for the first time placed in the hands of
publishers, I have at their request added new material, so that the
present story is more than double the length of the original brief
sketch.
K.D.W.
New York, March, 1889.
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
* * * * *
_"Patsy minding the Kennett Baby."_ _Frontispiece_
_Vignette._ _Title_
I. THE SILVER STREET KINDERGARTEN.
II. PATSY COMES TO CALL.
_"Here's an orange I brung yer!"_
III. TWO 'PRENTICE HANDS AT PHILANTHROPY.
_Miss Helen._
IV. BEHIND THE SCENES.
_"The boys at my side prattle together."_
_"Here is the hat!"_
V. I SEEK PATSY, AND MEET THE DUCHESS OF ANNA STREET.
_"The Story of Victor."_
VI. A LITTLE "HOODLUM'S" VIRTUE KINDLES AT THE TOUCH OF JOY.
_Carlotty Griggs "being a Butterfly."_
_Paulina's "good-mornings to Johnny Cass."_
VII. PATSY FINDS HIS THREE LOST YEARS.
_"He sat silently by the window."_
_Tail Piece._
CHAPTER I.
THE SILVER STREET KINDERGARTEN.
"It makes a heaven-wide difference whether the soul of the child is
regarded as a piece of blank paper, to be written upon, or as a
living power, to be quickened by sympathy, to be educated by
truth."
It had been a long, wearisome day at the Free Kindergarten, and I was
alone in the silent, deserted room. Gone were all the little heads,
yellow and black, curly and smooth; the dancing, restless, curious eyes;
the too mischievous, naughty, eager hands and noisy feet; the merry
voices that had made the great room human, but now left it quiet and
empty. Eighty pairs of tiny boots had clattered down the stairs; eighty
baby woes had been relieved; eighty little torn coats pulled on with
patient hands; eighty shabby little hats, not one with a "strawberry
mark" to distinguish it from any other, had been distributed with
infinite discrimination among their possessors; numberless sloppy kisses
had been pressed upon a willing cheek or hand, and another day was over.
No,--not quite over, after all. A murderous yell from below brought me
to my feet, and I flew like an anxious hen to my brood. One small
quarrel in the hall; very small, but it must be inquired into on the way
to the greater one. Mercedes McGafferty had taunted Jenny Crawhall with
being Irish. The fact that she herself had been born in Cork about three
years previous did not trouble her in the least. Jenny, in a voice
choked with sobs, and with the stamp of a tiny foot, was announcing
hotly that she was "NOT Irish, no sech a thing,--she was Plesberterian!"
I was not quite clear whether this was a theological or racial
controversy, but I settled it speedily, and they ran off together hand
in hand. I hastened to the steps. The yells had come from Joe Guinee and
Mike Higgins, who were fighting for the possession of a banana; a
banana, too, that should have been fought for, if at all, many days
before,--a banana better suited, in its respectable old age, to peaceful
consumption than the fortunes of war. My unexpected apparition had such
an effect that I might have been an avenging angel. The boys dropped the
banana simultaneously, and it fell to the steps quite exhausted, in such
a condition that whoever proved to be in the right would get but little
enjoyment from it.
"O my boys, my boys!" I exclaimed, "did you forget so soon? What shall
we do? Must Miss Kate follow you everywhere? If that is the only way in
which you can be good, we might as well give up trying. Must I watch you
to the corner every day, no matter how tired I am?"
Two grimy little shirt bosoms heaved with shame and anger; two pairs of
eyes hid themselves under protecting lids; two pairs of moist and
stained hands sought the shelter of charitable pockets,--then the cause
of war was declared by Mike sulkily.
"Joe Guinee hooked my bernanner."
"I never!" said Joe hotly. "I swapped with him f'r a peach, 'n he e't
the peach at noon-time, 'n then wouldn't gimme no bernanner."
"The peach warn't no good," Mike interpolated swiftly, seeing my
expression,--"it warn't no good, Miss Kate. When I come to eat it I had
ter chuck half of it away, 'nd then Joe Guinee went t' my lunch bucket
and hooked my bernanner!"
I sat down on the top step, motioned the culprits to do likewise, and
then began dispensing justice tempered with mercy for the twenty-fifth
time that day. "Mike, you say Joe took your banana?"
"Yes 'm,--he hooked it."
"Same thing. You have your words and I have mine, and I've told you
before that mine mean just as much and sound a little better. But I
thought that you changed that banana for a peach, and ate the peach?"
"I did."
"Then, why wasn't that banana Joe's?--you had taken his peach."
"He hadn't oughter hooked--took it out o' my bucket."
"No, and you ought not to have put it _into_ your bucket."
"He hooked--took what warn't his."
"You _kept_ what wasn't yours. How do you expect to have a good fruit
store, either of you, by and by, and have people buy your things, if you
haven't any idea of making a good square trade? Do try to be honest; and
if you make an exchange stick to it; fighting over a thing never makes
it any better. Look at that banana!--is it any good to either of you
now?" (Pause. The still small voice was busy, but no sound was heard
save the distant whistle of the janitor.)
"I could bring another one to Joe to-morrer," said Mike, looking at his
ragged boot and scratching it along the edge of the step.
"I don't want yer to, 'f the peach was sour 'n you had ter chuck it
away," responded Joe amiably.
"Yes, I think he ought to bring the banana; he made the trade with his
eyes open, and the peach didn't look sour, for I saw you squeezing it
when you ought to have been singing your morning hymn,--I thought you
would get into trouble with it then. Now is it all right, Mike?--that's
good! And Joe, don't go poking into other people's lunch baskets. If you
hadn't done that, you silly boy," I philosophized whimsically for my own
edification, "you would have been a victim; but you descended to the
level of your adversary, and you are now simply another little rascal."
We walked down the quiet, narrow street to the corner,--a proceeding I
had intended to omit that day, as it was always as exciting as an
afternoon tea, and I did not feel equal to the social chats that would
be pressed upon me by the neighborhood "ladies." One of my good
policemen was there as usual, and saluted me profoundly. He had carried
the last baby over the crossing, and guided all the venturesome small
boys through the maze of trucks and horse-cars,--a difficult and
thankless task, as they absolutely courted decapitation,--it being an
unwritten law of conduct that each boy should weave his way through the
horses' legs if practicable, and if not, should see how near he could
come to grazing the wheels. Exactly at twelve o'clock, and again at two
each day, in rain or sunshine, a couple of huge fatherly persons in
brass buttons appeared on that corner and assisted us in getting our
youngsters into streets of safety. Nobody had ever asked them to come,
their chief had not detailed them for that special duty; and I could
never have been bold enough to suggest that a guardian of the peace with
an immaculate uniform should carry to and fro a crowd of small urchins
with dusty boots and sticky hands.
But everybody loved that Silver Street corner, where the quiet little
street met the larger noisy one! Not a horse-car driver but looked at
his brake and glanced up the street before he took his car across. The
truckmen all drove slowly, calling "Hi, there!" genially to any
youngster within half a block.
And it was a pleasant scene enough to one who had a part in it, who was
able to care for simple people, who could be glad to see them happy,
sorry to see them sad, and willing to live among them a part of each
day, and bring a little sunshine and hope into their lives.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Donohue! All safely across?"
"All safe, miss! Sorry you troubled to come down, miss. I can be
depended on for this corner, miss, an' ye niver need bother yerself
about the childern after ye've once turned 'em loose, miss. An' might I
be so bold, seein' as how I might not have a better chance--would ye be
so kind as to favor me with yer last name, miss? the truth bein' that
ivery one calls ye Miss Kate, an' the policemen of this ward is gettin'
up rather a ch'ice thing in Christmas cards to presint to ye, come
Christmas, because, if ye'll excuse the liberty, miss, they do regard
you as belongin' to the special police!"
I laughed, thanked him for the intended honor, which had been mentioned
to me before, and gave him my card, not without a spasm of terror lest
the entire police force should invade my dwelling.
The "baker lady" across the street caught my eye, smiled, and sent over
a hot bun in a brown paper bag. The "grocery lady" called over in a
clear, ringing tone, "Would you be so kind, 'm, as to step inside on
your way 'ome and fetch 'Enry a bit of work, 'm? 'Enry 'as the 'ooping
cough, 'm, and I don't know 'owever I'm goin' to keep 'im at 'ome
another day, 'm, he pines for school so!"
I give a nod which means, Certainly!
Mrs. Weiss appeared at her window above the grocery with a cloth wound
about her head; appeared, and then vanished mysteriously. Very well, Mr.
Weiss,--you know what to expect! I gave you fair warning last time, and
I shall be as good as my word! Good heavens! Is that--it can't be--yes,
it is--a new McDonald baby at the saloon door! And there was such a
superfluity of the McDonald clan before! One more wretched little human
soul precipitated without a welcome into such a family circle as that!
It set me thinking, as I walked slowly back and toiled up the steps. "I
suppose most people would call this a hard and monotonous life," I
mused. "There is an eternal regularity in the succession of amusing and
heart-breaking incidents, but it is not monotonous, for I am too close
to all the problems that bother this workaday world,--so close that they
touch me on every side. No missionary can come so near to these people.
I am so close that I can feel the daily throb of their need, and they
can feel the throb of my sympathy. Oh! it is work fit for a saviour of
men, and what--what can I do with it?"
I sank into my small rocking-chair, and, clasping my arms over my head,
bent it upon the table and closed my eyes.
The dazzling California sunshine streamed in at the western windows,
touched the gold-fish globes with rosy glory, glittered on the brass
bird-cages, flung a splendid halo round the meek head of the Madonna
above my table, and poured a flood of grateful heat over my shoulders.
The clatter of a tin pail outside the door, the uncertain turning of a
knob by a hand too small to grasp it: "I forgitted my lunch bucket, 'n
had to come back five blocks. Good-by, Miss Kate." (Kiss.) "Good-by,
little man; run along." Another step, and a curly little red head pushes
itself apologetically through the open door. "You never dave me back my
string and buzzer, Miss Kate." "Here it is; leave it at home to-morrow
if you can, dear,--will you?"
Silence again, this time continued and profound. Mrs. Weiss was
evidently not coming to-day to ask me if she should give blow for blow
in her next connubial fracas. I was thankful to be spared until the
morrow, when I should perhaps have greater strength to attack Mr. Weiss,
and see what I could do for Mrs. Pulaski's dropsy, and find a mourning
bonnet and shawl for the Gabilondo's funeral and clothes for the new
Higgins twins. (Oh, Mrs. Higgins, would not one have sufficed you?)
The events of the day march through my tired brain; so tired! so tired!
and just a bit discouraged and sad too. Had I been patient enough with
the children? Had I forgiven cheerfully enough the seventy times seven
sins of omission and commission? Had I poured out the love--bountiful,
disinterested, long-suffering--of which God shows us the measure and
fullness? Had I--But the sun dropped lower and lower behind the dull
brown hills, and exhausted nature found a momentary forgetfulness in
sleep.
CHAPTER II.
PATSY COMES TO CALL.
"When a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie,--the mitherless bairn!"
Suddenly I was awakened by a subdued and apologetic cough. Starting from
my nap, I sat bolt upright in astonishment, for quietly ensconced in a
small red chair by my table, and sitting still as a mouse, was the
weirdest apparition ever seen in human form. A boy, seeming--how many
years old shall I say? for in some ways he might have been a century old
when he was born--looking, in fact, as if he had never been young, and
would never grow older. He had a shrunken, somewhat deformed body, a
curious, melancholy face, and such a head of dust-colored hair that he
might have been shocked for a door-mat. The sole redeemers of the
countenance were two big, pathetic, soft dark eyes, so appealing that
one could hardly meet their glance without feeling instinctively in
one's pocket for a biscuit or a ten-cent piece. But such a face! He had
apparently made an attempt at a toilet without the aid of a mirror, for
there was a clean circle like a race-track round his nose, which member
reared its crest, untouched and grimy, from the centre, like a sort of
judge's stand, while the dusky rim outside represented the space for
audience seats.
I gazed at this astonishing diagram of a countenance for a minute,
spellbound, thinking it resembled nothing so much as a geological map,
marked with coal deposits. And as for his clothes, his jacket was ragged
and arbitrarily docked at the waist, while one of his trousers-legs was
slit up at the side, and flapped hither and thither when he moved, like
a lug-sail in a calm.
"Well, sir," said I at length, waking up to my duties as hostess, "did
you come to see me?"
"Yes, I did."
"Let me think; I don't seem to remember; I am so sleepy. Are you one of
my little friends?"
"No, I hain't yit, but I'm goin' to be."
"That's good, and we'll begin right now, shall we?"
"I knowed yer fur Miss Kate the minute I seen yer."
"How was that, eh?"
"The boys said as how you was a kind o' pretty lady, with towzly hair in
front." (Shades of my cherished curls!)
"I'm very much obliged to the boys."
"Kin yer take me in?"
"What? Here? Into the Kindergarten?"
"Yes; I bin waitin' this yer long whiles fur to git in."
"Why, my dear little boy," gazing dubiously at his contradictory
countenance, "you're too--big, aren't you? We have only tiny little
people here, you know; not six years old. You are more, aren't you?"
"Well, I'm nine by the book; but I ain't more 'n scerce six along o' my
losing them three year."
"What do you mean, child? How could you _lose_ three years?" cried I,
more and more puzzled by my curious visitor.
"I lost 'em on the back stairs, don't yer know. My father he got
fightin' mad when he was drunk, and pitched me down two flights of 'em,
and my back was most clean broke in two, so I couldn't git out o' bed
forever, till just now."
"Why, poor child, who took care of you?"
"Mother she minded me when she warn't out washin'."
"And did she send you here to-day?"
"Well! however could she, bein' as how she's dead? I s'posed you knowed
that. She died after I got well; she only waited for me to git up,
anyhow."
O God! these poor mothers! they bite back the cry of their pain, and
fight death with love so long as they have a shred of strength for the
battle!
"What's your name, dear boy?"
"Patsy."
"Patsy what?"
"Patsy nothin'! just only Patsy; that's all of it. The boys calls me
'Humpty Dumpty' and 'Rags,' but that's sassy."
"But all little boys have another name, Patsy."
"Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it,--it's Dinnis,--but Jim
says 't won't wash; 't ain't no 'count, and I wouldn't tell yer nothin'
but a sure-pop name, and that's Patsy. Jim says lots of other fellers
out to the 'sylum has Dinnis fur names, and they ain't worth shucks,
nuther. Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess."
"Who is Jim?"
"Him and I's brothers, kind o' brothers, not sure 'nuff brothers. Oh, I
dunno how it is 'zactly,--Jim'll tell yer. He dunno as I be, yer know,
'n he dunno _but_ I be, 'n he's afeard to leave go o' me for _fear_ I
be. See?"
"Do you and Jim live together?"
"Yes, we live at Mis' Kennett's. Jim swipes the grub; I build the
fires'n help cook'n wipe dishes for Jim when I ain't sick, 'n I mind
Miss Kennett's babies right along,--she most allers has new ones, 'n she
gives me my lunch for doin' it."
"Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind?"
"O-h, yes; she's orful busy, yer know, 'n won't stand no foolin'."
"Is there a Mr. Kennett?"
"Sometimes there is, 'n most allers there ain't."
My face by this time was an animated interrogation point. My need of
explanation must have been hopelessly evident, for he hastened to add
footnotes to the original text.
"He's allers out o' work, yer know, 'n he don't sleep ter home, 'n if
yer want him yer have to hunt him up. He's real busy now, though,--doin'
fine."
"That's good. What does he do?"
"He marches with the workingmen's percessions 'n holds banners."
"I see." The Labor Problem and the Chinese Question were the great
topics of interest in all grades of California society just then. My
mission in life was to keep the children of these marching and
banner-holding laborers from going to destruction.
"And you haven't any father, poor little man?"
"Yer bet yer life I don't want no more father in mine. He knocked me
down them stairs, and then he went off in a ship, and I don't go a cent
on fathers! Say, is this a 'zamination?"
I was a good deal amused and should have felt a little rebuked, had I
asked a single question from idle curiosity. "Yes, it's a sort of one,
Patsy,--all the kind we have."
"And do I hev to bring any red tape?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, Jim said he bet 't would take an orful lot o' red tape t' git me
in."
Here he withdrew with infinite trouble from his ragged pocket an orange,
or at least the remains of one, which seemed to have been fiercely dealt
with by circumstances.
"Here's an orange I brung yer! It's been skwuz some, but there's more in
it."
[Illustration: "HERE'S AN ORANGE I BRUNG YER."]
"Thank you, Patsy." (Forced expression of radiant gratitude.) "Now, let
us see! You want to come to the Kindergarten, do you, and learn to be a
happy little working boy? But oh, Patsy, I'm like the old woman in the
shoe, I have so many children I don't know what to do."
"Yes, I know. Jim knows a boy what went here wunst. He said yer never
licked the boys; and he said, when the 'nifty' little girls come to git
in, with their white aprons, yer said there warn't no room; but when the
dirty chaps with tored close come, yer said yer'd _make_ room. Jim said
as how yer'd never show _me_ the door, sure." (Bless Jim's heart!)
"P'raps I can't come every day, yer know, 'cos I might have fits."
"Fits! Good gracious, child! What makes you think that?"
"Oh, I has 'em" (composedly). "I kicks the footboard clean off when I
has 'em bad, all along o' my losin' them three year! Why, yer got an
orgind, hain't yer? Where's the handle fur to make it go? Couldn't I
blow it for yer?"
"It's a piano, not an organ; it doesn't need blowing."
"Oh, yes, I see one in a s'loon; I seen such an orful pretty lady play
on one. She give her silk dress a _swish_ to one side, so! and then she
cocked her head over sideways like a bird, and then her hands, all
jinglin' over with rings, went a-whizzin' up and down them black and
white teeth just like sixty!"
"You know, Patsy, I can't bear to have my little Kindergarten boys stand
around the saloon doors; it isn't a good place, and if you want to be
good men you must learn to be good little boys first, don't you see?"
"Well, I wanted some kind of fun. I seen a cirkis wunst,--that was fun!
I seen it through a hole; it takes four bits to git inside the tent, and
me and another feller found a big hole and went halveys on it. First he
give a peek, and then I give a peek, and he was bigger'n me, and he took
orful long peeks, he did, 'nd when it come my turn the ladies had just
allers jumped _through_ the hoops, or the horses was gone out; 'nd
bimeby he said mebbe we might give the hole a stretch and make it a
little mite bigger, it wouldn't do no harm, 'nd I'd better cut it, 'cos
his fingers was lame; 'nd I just cutted it a little mite, 'n' a cop come
up behind and h'isted us and I never seen no more cirkis; but I went to
Sunday-school wunst, and it warn't so much fun as the cirkis!"
I thought I would not begin moral lectures at once, but seize a more
opportune time to compare the relative claims of Sunday-school and
circus.
"You've got things fixed up mighty handy here, haven't yer? It's most as
good as Woodward's Gardens,--fishes--'nd c'nary birds--'nd flowers--'nd
pictures--is there stories to any of 'em?"
"Stories to every single one, Patsy! We've just turned that corner by
the little girl feeding chickens, and to-morrow we shall begin on that
splendid dog by the window."
Patsy's face was absolutely radiant with excitement. "Jiminy! I'm glad I
got in in time for that!--'nd ain't that a bear by the door thar?"
"Yes; that's a mother bear with cubs."
"Has he got a story too?"
"Everything has a story in this room."
"Jiminy! 'ts lucky I didn't miss that one! There's a splendid bear in a
s'loon on Fourth Street,--mebbe the man would leave him go a spell if
you told him what a nice place you hed up here. Say, them fishes keep it
up lively, don't they?--s'pose they're playin' tag?"
"I shouldn't wonder," I said smilingly; "it looks like it. Now, Patsy, I
must be going home, but you shall come to-morrow, at nine o'clock
surely, remember! and the children will be so glad to have another
little friend. You'll dress yourself nice and clean, won't you?"
"Well, I should smile! but these is the best I got. I got another part
to this hat, though, and another pocket belongs with these britches."
(He alternated the crown and rim of a hat, but was never extravagant
enough to wear them at one time.) "Ain't I clean? I cleaned myself by
the feelin'!"
"Here's a glass, dear; how do you think you succeeded?"
"Jiminy! I didn't get much of a sweep on that, did I now? But don't you
fret, I've got the lay of it now, and I'll just polish her off red-hot
to-morrer, 'n don't you forgit it!"
"Patsy, here's a warm bun and a glass of milk; let's eat and drink
together, because this is the beginning of our friendship; but please
don't talk street words to Miss Kate; she doesn't like them. I'll do
everything I can to make you have a good time, and you'll try to do a
few things to please me, won't you?"
Patsy looked embarrassed, ate his bit of bun in silence, and after
twirling his hat-crown for a few seconds hitched out of the door with a
backward glance and muttered remark which must have been intended for
farewell.
CHAPTER III.
TWO 'PRENTICE HANDS AT PHILANTHROPY.
"With aching hands and bleeding feet,
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day and wish 't were done.
Not till the hours of light return
All we have built do we discern."
Patsy had scarcely gone when the door opened again the least bit, and a
sunny face looked in, that of my friend and helper.
"Not gone yet, Kate?"
"No, but I thought I sent you away long ago."
"Yes, I know, but I've been to see Danny Kern's mother: there is nothing
to be done; we must do our best and leave it there. Was that a boy I met
on the stairs?"