“LITTLE MOTHER.”

BY JULIA HUNT MOREHOUSE.

It was Judge Bellow’s big, fine house, that stood on the corner by the park. Every body knew that, but every body did not know that the one little girl who lived in that house was restless and unhappy and often cross.

“Why do you roam about so, Nell? Why don’t you settle down to something?” her mother asked, one bright, spring day.

“Oh, I am sick of everything. I have read all my books, and I hate my piano. The croquet isn’t up, and there is nobody to play with me, if it was.”

“Why don’t you find some kind of work to do?”

“That is just the trouble. There’s nothing that needs to be done; servants for every thing; and what does crocheting amount to, and plastering some little daubs of paint on some plush! Why, I believe that little Dutch girl that sells things out of her big basket, on our corner, every morning, is a good deal happier than I am. I mean to ask her sometime what makes her so.”

A few weeks more and the hot summer came on, and Nell missed the little Dutch girl on the corner. It really worried her that the bright, womanly face did not come any more, but she supposed she had moved to a better stand or perhaps left the city.

One morning Nell took a walk with her teacher; a long walk, for they found themselves outside the city, where there were open holds and every house had green grass and trees close around it.

“What a little, little house! That one with the woodbine all over it—and I do believe—yes, it really is my little Dutch girl scrubbing the steps,” and away she bounded and was soon beside the little worker.

“Oh! I’m so glad to find you again! Why don’t you come to our corner any more?”

“Baby’s been sick a long, good time,” explained Lena, wiping her hands on her apron. “Won’t you ladies please to walk in, if you please, ma’am?”

It was a queer little figure that showed them into the cool, clean room; short and broad and dumpy. Her shoes were coarse, her dress of faded black, with a white kerchief at the neck, so like an old woman. Her face too, was short and broad; her nose was very short and her eyes very narrow. So you see she was not pretty, but her face was all love and sunshine. She sat down on a low stool and took up the baby in such a dear, motherly way, smoothing its hair and dress and kissing it softly.

“You don’t mean that you live here all alone?” asked Nell.

“Oh, no; there is Hans and baby and me, and there is old Mrs. Price in the other part.”

“But your father and mother?”

“Mother died a year ago. Oh, she was one such good mother, but baby came in her place. Baby looks like mother, and now I have to be her little mother, you see,” and she set the little dumpling out upon her knee, with such pride and tenderness.

“And your father?”

The little Dutch girl dropped her head and answered very low, “Father has been gone a long time. They say he is shut up somewhere. He don’t come home any more.”

“Oh, how very dreadful! I don’t see where you get money to buy things with.”

“Hans is fifteen and works in a shop. He gets some money, and he will get a good deal, by-and-by. The rest I get from the flowers. You see I raise them myself, mostly.”

“But do you get enough for clothes and playthings, and do you always have enough to eat?” persisted Nell.

“I don’t have any clothes, I make over mother’s. We have Kitty for playthings. Enough to eat? Baby always has enough, don’t she, lovie?” cuddling her up close.

A new world was opening up to Nell.

“Excuse me, but don’t you have any pleasure trips, or birthday parties, or Christmas?”

“No; I don’t just know what those things are, but we have nice beef and apples for dinner on Christmas.”

“And are you always happy as you seem—really happy?”

The “little mother” opened her eyes wide in wonder. “Why, of course. What else should we be? Mother always told us it was wicked to be cross, and that we must not fret much, even over her going away to heaven.”

Nell did some hard thinking on her way home, and being a sensible little girl, she made up her mind that one way to be happy is to be busy, and not only busy, but useful, and she set about the new way in earnest.

She learned that it is possible to be unselfish and happy any where; she in her wealthy home, and the “little mother” in her one room, with her baby and her flowers.