MY LITTLE HERO.

HOW we wish that we knew a hero!” Say the children, pressing round; “Will you tell us if such a wonder In London streets can be found?” I point from my study-window At a lad who is passing by: “My darlings, there goes a hero; You will know his oft-heard cry.” “’Tis the chimney-sweep, dear father, In his jacket so worn and old; What can he do that is brave and true, Wandering out in the cold?” Says Maudie, “I thought that a hero Was a man with a handsome face.” “And I pictured him all in velvet dressed, With a sword,” whispered little Grace. “Mine is only a ‘sweeper,’ children, His deeds all unnoticed, unknown; Yet I think he is one of the heroes God sees and will mark for his own. “Out there he looks eager and cheerful, No matter how poorly he fares; No sign that his young heart is heavy With the weight of unchildish cares.

“Home means to him but a dingy room, A father he shudders to see; Alas for the worse than neglected sons Who have such a father as he! “And a mother who lies on a ragged bed, So sick and worn and sad; No friend has she but this one pale boy— This poor little sweeper-lad, “So rough to others, and all unskilled, Yet to her most tender and true, Oft waking with patient cheerfulness To soothe her the whole night through. “He wastes no time on his own scant meals, But goes forth with the morning sun; Never a moment is wasted Till his long day’s work is done. “Then home to the dreary attic Where his mother lies lonely all day, Unheeding the boys who would tempt him To linger with them and play. “Because she is helpless and lonely, He is doing a hero’s part; For loving and self-denying Are the tests of a noble heart.”