JIM'S THANKSGIVING.

BY SYDNEY DAYRE.

"Is that your dog?"

Jim looked around. A bright-looking boy of eight years was sitting in a carriage which stood before a six-story dry-goods store. He was gazing admiringly at the pretty terrier Jim held in his arms. He moved toward him, drawn by the quickly established chord of sympathy between two boys on the subject of dogs.

"Ain't he a beauty! Well, yes, I s'pose he's mine. He fell off the box of a big style carriage, somethin' like that o' yourn, one day. I picked him up and run after it, but I couldn't ketch it. I didn't steal him," added Jim, earnestly.

"Course you didn't."

"I've done some mean things, but I promised mother I'd never steal. He was lame for a while, poor little creetur, but I nussed him very careful, and he's well now."

"How'll you trade? I'd like to have him."

But Jim hugged the dog closer to him, as the small boy drew various treasures from his pockets.

"There's a top'll spin for fifteen minutes; and look at that knife—four blades and a nut-pick; then there's these carnelians—look—nine; they're worth a quarter apiece. I'll give 'em all for him."

Jim shook his head. "He's all I've got, you see, and I'm fond of him. I've fed him when I went hungry myself."

"I'll give you some money, then. See, you could buy—some clothes."

Jim looked down at his pitiful rags, but stood firm.

"Take this anyhow," said the boy, with a look of sympathy, holding out a half-dollar. "Get something good for you and the dog."

Jim eyed the coin wistfully. "Won't your father care?" he asked.

"No, no," laughed the boy; "he isn't here, though. Been gone away for six months, and he's coming home to-night, and we're going to have the jolliest Thanksgiving. Where's your home?"

"I ain't got no home. There's no Thanksgivin' for me anywheres."

"Dear me!" the bright face lengthened into an expression of surprise and dismay. "But my mamma says everybody has something to be thankful for"; but he looked at Jim as if he thought there might be cases in which this was to be doubted. "I'll tell you what," he went on, after a pause. "You come to our house to-morrow afternoon, and I'll give you such a dinner! Say, now, will you?"

"I don't know," said Jim, slowly. "I'd like to. Where is it?"

"No. —— —— Avenue. You come there and ask for Johnny Welford. Now do; promise, won't you?—and bring your dog. Say, what's his name?"

"Well," said Jim, in a half-apologetic tone, "his whole name's George Washington, but I call him George for short. You see, I ain't got no folks, and I make b'lieve he's folks, and I talks to him, and he 'most knows all I say, and it seems 'most like he was my brother. I had a little brother once, and my mother was a real good woman, and—"

"There's my mamma," said the boy in the carriage. "Just show her that dog."

But Jim drew back as a lady approached, and nodding to Johnny, "I'll come," mingled in the crowd. He soon sought a poorer street.

"Ho, ho, George my boy, what do you think of that?" he said, showing him the money. "What'd you like for supper to-night? B'lony-sassage and crackers, eh? Yes, I knowed you'd say that," as George, wagging his tail vigorously, licked his master's face. "Or what'd you say to a reg'lar baker's roll and a bit o' hot steak?" George's attention was just here riveted on a cur of low degree passing by, and the short hair on his back stood up as he answered his growl. "No," went on Jim, "I thought you'd say that was too extravagant for the likes o' we; so we'll have the b'lony, George.

"And where shall we put up to-night, little feller, eh? Shall we go to the United States, or to the Jefferson Club House? Or shall we go out to the junction, where we slep' las' night? It's gettin' a leetle cold for country lodgin's, but they might be expectin' us, and we wouldn't like to disappoint 'em, eh, George? The warm side o' that straw-stack wa'n't bad, you know. We might take our supper out there and eat, eh?"

George wagged his hearty approval of the plan, and Jim took his way to a suburban dépôt. Here he awaited the making up of a freight train, and in the gathering twilight took his place on a platform unperceived. Night closed down as the train wound its slow length out of the city, and in the course of an hour Jim alighted amid a perfect wilderness of cross tracks, side tracks, coal heaps, and a wonderful quantity of freight-cars. He sought out his straw pile, and the two enjoyed a hearty meal. Then his quick eye was attracted by the half-open door of a box-car near.

"Let's see, now," he said, going up to it. "P'r'aps they've been a-keepin' one of their style rooms for us, George."

He lit a match and peered inside. It contained a few articles of shabby furniture, and an old carpet rolled up in one corner.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "I knowed they'd be a-lookin' for us, George, but I'm blamed if I thought they'd fix up for us like this. Quit now; don't you be a-waggin' yourself all over the keer, and a-rappin' your tail agin the fine furnitur'. Be genteel now."

Jim rolled himself and his pet in the carpet, and both were comfortably settled for the night, when voices were heard.

"What's here?" A man looked in, and then climbed up, followed by another.

"It's only me and my dog," said Jim.

"Ah, room for more, I guess."

Jim had thought he was going to have a fine night's rest; but he lay awake long, his thoughts going back to the little boy who had liked his dog, who had given him more money than ever he had had at one time before, and who had promised him a Thanksgiving dinner. He liked the idea of going very much, not only for the good dinner, which was quite an attraction to the poor hungry little tramp, but he wanted to see the nice little fellow again, and see where he lived, and perhaps talk more about dogs. The thought of giving him his dog crossed his mind for a moment, but was cast aside as a thing impossible, the very idea producing an almost unconscious hug so fervent as to extort a patient howl from George.

He wished, though, that he could "slick up" a little to go to Johnny Welford's house. He wondered if he could get a pair of second-hand shoes for what was left of his half-dollar, and made up his mind to search among office sweepings early in the morning for the cleanest paper collar he could find. He had an indefinite hope that some good might come to him from this visit. Perhaps Johnny's father might help him to something to do. He did odd jobs now, ran errands, swept steps and crossings, but it was his great ambition to get "somethin' reg'lar" to do.

As he lay thinking, the men who shared his shelter were talking, but he paid little heed to them till he heard the words "John Welford"—"coming on that train," and then he listened with every nerve on a tension, till his heart was filled with fright and horror at what he heard.

He heard the whole plan. A large bowlder lay close to the track a short distance from the junction, and crow-bars were hidden near. The men were to wait till the watchman had made his last patrol out that way before the time for the passing of the train, when they would quickly hoist destruction into its path.

"He sent me up for four years, but I'll send him up for longer than that," said the man, with a laugh and an oath which made Jim shudder.

When the two at last left the car he waited till they were beyond hearing, and crept cautiously out. He knew that if they suspected his intention they would think no more of crushing out his life than of treading on a worm, but he was resolved on saving that train if he died in doing it. It was bright starlight, but dark enough to admit of his watching the men without much danger of being discovered. He saw them finish their work, and hide in the bushes near. Then, with trembling hands, but full of firm purpose, he set about carrying out his plan.

Running back to the straw pile, he quickly made up a bundle of it, and slipping off his old shoes, sped noiselessly along the track, past the wreckers. Just beyond the bowlder the road made rather a sharp curve, bringing a high bank between the two men and Jim's selected place of action, and this, he hoped, would conceal from them what he was doing, at least long enough to insure success.

He divided his bundle of straw, and laid a heap on the track. Then he waited and listened, with his heart beating too loudly for him to hear any other sound. He looked up at the stars over his head. "My mother is up there somewheres, p'r'aps," whispered the little fellow; "maybe she'll ask some 'un to help me."

As the head-light at last appeared in the distance he set a match to his heap, and saw it blaze up brightly. Lighting by it the portion still in his hand, he ran wildly forward, waving it to and fro. But the engine came steadily forward: would it never, never stop? He reached a short bridge over a culvert, and sprang on the abutment at its side, still brandishing his beacon, and, scarcely knowing it, shrieking at the top of his voice. His hands were burning, the smoke blackened his face and took away his breath; but, yes—it surely was slowing. The engine passed him; he listened, and could hear the brakes worked by the desperate strength of frightened men. Passengers crowded out on the platform, and saw the little figure still waving the last sparks of his safety-light. And then a dark form stole up to him, a cruel blow sent him crashing against the last car, and he fell. Its wheels had not stopped moving.

Men sprang down, raised him, and carried him into the car, where he was laid upon a seat.

"It's the one who stopped the train—a boy. Why did he do it?—what's the matter?" The conductor had sent men forward on the track, and soon knew the terrible reason. It spread through the cars like wild-fire. Women cried and fainted, and strong men turned pale. Every one knew that it might have been his or her life which had gone out ere now but for the boy who lay there. A woman wiped the blood and smoke from his face with shaking hands and quick-dropping tears.

Presently a boy's clear voice cried out, "Johnny Welford's father?—Johnny Welford's father?"

A tall man turned in surprise, and bent over him. "Did you call my name, my boy?"

"Be you Johnny Welford's father?"

"Yes, I am John Welford."

"Be you a-goin' home to Thanksgivin'?"

"I—hope so"—his voice broke—"thanks to you."

Jim smiled. "I guess mother sent some 'un to help me. Where's George?" The dog had crept close to his master, and no one had driven him away. "Hello, old feller.—Give Johnny Welford my dog—he'll know. Tell Johnny Welford I can't—come to his house—for—Thanksgivin'." The voice died away.

Jim had his Thanksgiving dinner at Johnny Welford's house, but it was a few spoonfuls of wine, given by the white hands of Johnny Welford's mother. And he was the only guest, for there was no merry-making in the beautiful house where the poor little street Arab lay in the balance between life and death. And from many other hearts in the city went up, with fervent thanksgiving, the earnest prayer that the little life which had been so freely offered for others might be spared.

"And you lost your poor foot, my boy," some one said, months after. "You'll have to go without it all your life."

"Why, yes," said Jim, with a laugh; "but, bless me! I'm enough sight better off with one foot 'n ever I was with two. Why, it's been Thanksgivin' for me and George all the time ever since. Eh, old feller?"