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Title: The Water-Cress Boy, or Johnnie Moreland
  [also includes a story "Dick Cave, The Ragged-School Boy"]
Author: Watson, Jean Logan (1835-1885)
Date of first publication: 1882
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London and Edinburgh: Gall and Inglis, not later than 1897
Date first posted: 18 March 2009
Date last updated: 18 March 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #280

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




THE

WATER-CRESS BOY

or

Johnnie Moreland


BY

JEAN L. WATSON

AUTHOR OF "THE HEIRESS OF HAVENSBY," "WILLIE'S UP-BRINGING,"
ETC.


LONDON

GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;

AND EDINBURGH.


Contents.


CHAP.                                 PAGE

   I. REDMERE                            9

  II. PAUL AND NEST                     14

 III. JOHNNIE MORELAND                  18

  IV. JOHNNIE'S BUSINESS                24

   V. HOPE DEFERRED                     33

  VI. CHRISTMAS TIME                    44

 VII. THE SEARCH                        48

 DICK CAVE, THE RAGGED SCHOOL BOY       55




THE WATER-CRESS BOY.




CHAPTER I.

REDMERE


                         "Oh! the joy
     Of young ideas painted on the mind,
     In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
     On objects not yet known, when all is new,
     And all is lovely."--HANNAH MORE.


The little town of Redmere lay slumbering under a July sun. The trees
were decked in their green, and gooseberries and currants tinted the
gardens with amber and crimson. The roses were in full flower, and the
streets were dusty under a blue sky; but the meadows were cool and
fresh, and white with the summer snow of daisies. Redmere could boast
of its old ivy-covered church, with its rector's house next to the
squire's, only separated from it by the great beech hedge. It had its
old inn, too, with the horse-block in the yard, where the idle lads of
the town gathered in to chat with the stable-boys, or the men lounged
while they smoked their pipes. The inn was called the Boar's Head,
leading men's minds back to the days when the cultivated land was a
forest, and kings loved to chase the boar amidst its wilderness of
oaks and beeches. The Boar's Head inn was the haunt of the men of rod
and fly, for near it a river, the delight of anglers, flowed along
amongst the daisied meadows. It was also the haunt of artists, for
that same river had its little breaks and sylvan nooks, its rustic
styles, and mossy banks, that the painter loves. Then there were such
lovely wild flowers,--orange coltsfoot, and white ranunculus, and
straw-coloured willow leaves drooping into the water. The lovely spots
around Redmere for the artist's brush were innumerable; and so it
happened that, one fine afternoon, two young men arrived at the Boar's
Head with easel and brushes, ready to begin work on the morrow.

These young men were great friends, and they delighted in each other's
workmanship. Paul Staunton, the elder of the two, loved to paint
portraits, and his friend, Hector Palmer, loved rustic bowers, where
the green leaves covered the half-rotten framework with their
verdure, or the spot in the meadows where the daisies were broken by
patches of yellow butter-cup, crow's-foot, lady's fender, and vetch,
and by the crimson clover flowers, or the rusty red of sorrel.

The only family in Redmere that one of the artists knew about was the
squire's, his mother being a far-away cousin of the squire's wife.
Mrs. Cambridge received her cousin's son cordially; he entered with
this introduction: "I am Paul Staunton, and this is my friend, Hector
Palmer, son of the gallant Captain Palmer. We are artists on a tour
for sketches and commissions."

And so the influential families round Redmere, following the squire's
example, showed the two young men no lack of hospitality though the
commissions were not so numerous.

The friends were quite different in disposition and manners, as
friends usually are; but it is only with Paul Staunton we have to do,
for Hector Palmer, being soon called away, passes from our story;
while Paul remained behind to finish some sketches he had begun.

Paul was a strange mixture of gentleness and stubbornness, shyness and
confidence, scorn and candour. While claiming little from others, he
exacted a great deal from himself. Besides, he had an unhesitating
faith in his own powers.

The family of the squire consisted of the father, a bluff fox-hunting
man, and his energetic wife, who managed every one, even her husband,
who trusted her completely; three sons and three daughters, and an
orphan niece, a daughter of the squire's brother. Nest Barnet, the
squire's niece, seemed a good deal out of place in the family, yet she
was so silent and unobtrusive, that no one could really feel her in
the way. Her cousins were gay, dashing girls; handsome and bold, they
could follow their brothers to the hunt, and leap two-barred gates,
and it was said they could hold a gun with any of their brother's
companions. Nest, with her broad brow, large eyes, and delicate,
girlish mouth and chin, had little in common with that household. She
had her flower-painting card boxes, worsted balls, egg-shell baskets,
and books, the last greedily devoured. She could not assist her aunt,
for Mrs. Cambridge's plans were perfect, and she declined interference
with her daily rounds. As little could she help her uncle, though he
often drew her to him and patted her soft cheek, and this slight
attention, more than she received from any other of the family, drew
her heart out to him beyond all others; besides, she fancied often she
could see a likeness to her father, his younger brother, who had died
so early, leaving her well nigh penniless.

Such was the family to which Paul Staunton, claiming kindred with its
mistress, introduced himself and friend that fine summer day.

Strange, and yet we can hardly call it strange, that the only one in
all that household to whom Paul Staunton was drawn, was the penniless
orphan niece, Nest Barnet; but perhaps the reason was that Mrs.
Cambridge, seeing Nest had really a taste for painting, had put her,
along with her daughters, into Paul's hands, to be instructed in
colours. Her cousins, after a few efforts, gave up in disgust; but
Nest, with her usual steady perseverance, stuck to her easel and
encouraged her teacher.




CHAPTER II.

PAUL AND NEST


     "Without our hopes, without our fears,
     Without the home that plighted love endears,
     Without the smiles from plighted beauty won,
     Oh! what were man?--a world without a sun."

                                        CAMPBELL.


Paul Staunton, the most backward lad in society, was free with Nest;
and she, with her delicate eye, and the sweetest natural fondness for
this simple, common, beautiful world, believed most firmly in her
teacher, who was patient and indulgent. Soon Paul was her saint and
hero, and she was quite ready to be absorbed in him. It was a
characteristic of Paul that the commonest text sufficed him. He
carried his treasures within himself, and only the slightest touch
from the outside world could draw them out. He would stand and
contemplate a piece of moss until every leaf had a tale to tell, and
he filled his pockets with what the poorest country lad thought the
veriest weed.

Mrs. Cambridge had made enquiries about Paul Staunton, and found that
the young man had no prospects save his profession, and therefore
could be no match for any of her daughters, and so she did not
discourage the intimacy she saw springing up between her orphan niece
and the young artist--an intimacy of which, perhaps, they were not
themselves aware, but which was no doubt ripening into something truer
than friendship, when the time would come to call out the knowledge of
it to both their hearts.

And time wore on--as it wears on with all of us through joy or sorrow,
absence or presence--with glad fulness, or with bitter achings of
heart; and the sunshine left the hills, and the leaves and flowers the
woods, but still Paul Staunton lingered at Redmere, and yet he was not
idle, he had other pupils besides Nest, and he had got a few
commissions which kept him in the neighbourhood. He had never
mentioned love to Nest, yet he was getting more and more interested in
her, and had he reasoned the matter, he would perhaps never have
spoken of what was in his heart. How could he, who could scarcely make
a clear subsistence for himself, attach himself to a penniless girl?
At last spring came, and though Redmere was beautiful in its glad
time, Paul felt he must now leave it. He entered the house one day,
and there was a sadness on his brow which Nest saw at a glance.

"I must leave Redmere to-morrow," he said, quietly; "my work is done,
Nest, and duty bids me go."

Paul was going, and there was no talk of his return, and Nest's hands
trembled as she helped him to put up his pictures.

"I shall miss you, Nest," he said, humbly, "when we are parted."

Nest's breast heaved, her eyes filled with tears, and she managed to
say, "Will you ever come back, Paul?"

"I cannot come back," he murmured, sadly, "I am poor, and it may be
years before I could offer you a home, Nest." That was all he said of
the great love of his heart, and Nest understood him. This was no time
for coquetry.

"Could I not help you, Paul?" she said, simply; "I am of no use here,
I might help you."

"Do you think so?" he said, his face flushing with pleasure: "Then,
Nest, we need not part."

And that was all they said; and Paul felt that Nest was the one, the
very one, he would need beside him in his journey through life.

And Nest was content, as she sat, with sweet calm brow, a picture such
as it does any man good to gaze upon from his table foot, and know
that it is his wife, the mistress of his household, in whom her
husband's heart may safely trust for ever. Everything now seemed
beautiful to Nest, for the beauty began in her own heart. She was not
greatly troubled that she had no grand preparations, and that there
were no preliminaries to be attended to, and no lawyers drawing our
marriage-contracts before the irrevocable step was taken, and though
the aunt and cousins were supremely indifferent; and the servants
confided to each other that a bride should be rather crying than
laughing, for a crying bride was a happy one. But no one told
Nest--she had none to remind her of the tender meaning of the wise old
proverb, no one to warn her of the realities of life, so much holier
and purer than any mere illusion; and so she sang as she stitched a
few things, and dreamt dreams of a long and happy future.




CHAPTER III.

JOHNNIE MORELAND


     "The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle
     so quiet, and uncomplaining, was possessed of so much
     affection that no one seemed to care to have, and so
     much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind
     or think about the wounding of."--DICKENS.


At the door of an old tumble-down-looking tenement in the East End of
London, one Sabbath evening, two children sat, a boy and a girl,
apparently about the ages of nine and six. The boy was lame, and his
crutch lay within reach of his arm; the girl was sickly-looking and
scantily clothed, though the evening was chill and damp. There was
nothing but misery in sight; wretched men and women gathered in small
groups of twos and threes, and bare-footed, bare-headed children
quarrelled and fought in out-of-the-way corners; while the two little
ones seemed to shrink away from the noise and confusion around,
probably their delicate health precluding them from the sports of
their more robust companions. Just then a young man entered the
square, and tried in vain to attract the attention of the boys busy at
play, who either answered him rudely or with derisive laughter, when,
turning round, he caught sight of the two solitary children, and going
up to them, said kindly,

"What are your names, little ones, and why do you sit there alone?"

"Please sir," said the boy, touching his tattered cap, "They calls me
Johnnie Moreland, and this is my little sister Anne; we don't play with
the others, 'cause you see I be lame, and Anne likes best to stay with
me."

"Will you come with me, Johnnie and Anne," then asked the gentleman,
gently, "and I will teach you stories, and you will hear pretty hymns
sung?"

"But we 'aint got no hedication," said the boy, "and we don't know
nothink."

"I will teach you, though," was the answer.

"Let's go then, Anne," said the boy, starting up, but Anne held back,
shy and afraid.

"She be'nt no way used to company," said the boy, making apologies for
her; then, putting his arm round her waist, he said, persuasively,
"Come, Anne, with the gentleman, that's a good girl."

"Yes, come," echoed their new friend, "and I will teach you to sing
hymns too, and you will know about Jesus, and He will take care of
you, my poor children."

"Please sir," asked Johnnie, "who is Jesus? wot is to take care of us?
Is He very rich, and does He live in one of them big 'ouses I pass
every day when I goes to market?"

"You shall hear all about him, Johnnie, when you come to school," was
the answer, "and now we are close to it."

Just then they reached a quiet-looking little mission-house, where the
hum of voices might be heard through the closed doors, which the
gentleman softly opened and entered, followed by the two children.
Johnnie's jacket was thin and worn, and his trousers were ragged about
the ancles, while Anne wore only an old tippet and tattered frock,
fastened together with broken strings. For the first time the children
felt ashamed of their scanty clothing, seeing that, though the boys
and girls around them were poor, they were clean and comparatively
tidy; but they soon forgot the discomfort of the situation, listening
to the new and strange words which they heard. Johnnie, especially, was
shrewd and intelligent: the life he led had sharpened his wits, and
given him wisdom beyond his years.

It was not their friend, but a clergyman, who addressed the meeting,
and very kindly did he speak, asking questions every now and then, to
see if the children followed him. As they had been promised, he told
them of the Lord Jesus Christ, who came down from heaven to save a
lost world, and who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and
forbid them not," and of His good Spirit He would send to help them to
be good, and to teach them to ask Him for what they needed. Strange
words these were to Johnnie and Anne, and not much of them could they
understand. Nevertheless, they liked to hear them, and they liked the
hymns that were sung, so the time passed only too quickly. As they
were leaving, the gentleman spoke to them, and told them to come back
next Sabbath, adding, "And until then, Johnnie, don't forget to pray to
the Lord Jesus to take care of you, He will hear you from heaven. Will
you promise me to do so, both of you?" To which they answered, "Yes,"
resolving to do as they were told by the kind gentleman, though
scarcely knowing how.

It was now dark, and the children sped homewards without speaking, and
climbing to the top floor of the old house from the door of which the
gentleman had lured them, they turned into a small room. A farthing
candle burned on the table, beside a bed on which lay a woman, who
spoke in querulous accents to the children as they entered, and asked
them where they had been so late, adding, "There's no getting ye up,
Johnnie, in them mornings, when ye don't go to bed early."

"Oh! mother," they both exclaimed, "we've been and heard such
beautiful words." "And you can't think how happy they made us," added
Johnnie.

"Well, I am glad you've been made happy," she answered wearily,
"though, it seems to me long before words makes poor folks happy."

"But we've heard about a great King, who is rich and good, and will be
kind to us, and He loves children."

"I hope it may be true then," she exclaimed; "for my part, I've never
heard of no king who cares aught for we poor people."

"Well, but we must pray to him, the gentleman said," argued Johnnie,
adding, "Come, Anne, we'll do it, for we promised;" and though Anne
was very sleepy, they both knelt down and said: "Great King Lord
Jesus, send us good Spirit to help us;" and after this they felt
happier than they had ever done before, and, slipping into bed, were
soon fast asleep.




CHAPTER IV.

JOHNNIE'S BUSINESS


     "In my poor mind, it is most sweet to muse
     Upon the days gone by--to act in thought
     Past seasons o'er, and be again a child:
     To sit, in fancy, on the turf-clad slope,
     Down which the child would roll
     To pluck gay flowers."--LAMB.


You may be sure Johnnie and Anne Moreland were regular attendants at
the mission-school, and the kind teacher felt encouraged by their
earnestness and attention.

They had now learned much about the Lord Jesus and His good Spirit;
and the troubles of life, the hunger and the weariness, seemed more
easily borne when they knew there was an eye that watched them, and a
Friend in heaven who loved them. Their mother did not concern herself
much about them; but she tried to make them clean and tidy before they
went to school, for she felt that since they attended it, they had
become more obedient children, and the hymns they sang to their little
brother Dick always quieted him when cross, so she rather encouraged
them than otherwise in their love of instruction.

Mrs. Moreland was a widow who sometimes got employment charring, at
other times selling apples or oranges on the street. She was a
strong-built, hard-featured woman; though not by any means devoid of
natural affection. Yet, alas! a large part of her earnings found their
way to the gin shop round the corner; and thus Johnnie, weak and
delicate though he was, besides being lame, had to give his assistance
to maintain the household, and, but for this assistance, Dick and Anne
would often have gone days without food. Compared with other families
around them, the Morelands were pretty comfortable, and compared with
other mothers, Mrs. Moreland was not, upon the whole, a bad one; and
now, almost imperceptibly, the good influence of her children was
telling upon her own life and character. She was going seldomer to the
beer shop, and her temper in consequence was improving; besides, she
was getting more industrious and taking better care of her money.
Still it needed all Johnnie's help to keep the pot boiling; but, by the
wondrous power of love, and the help of the Lord Jesus, whose aid he
now sought daily, he was kept from sinking beneath the burden laid
upon his young shoulders.

It was in May when Johnnie and Anne first attended their
mission-school, and now the bright summer time is past, and autumn too
is nearly at a close. They know it by the cold, shortening days; for
in the heart of a great city the poor know little of the beauties of
the budding spring, the rich luxuriance of summer, or the fading
glories of the dying year: it is only by the lengthening or shortening
days that they mark the seasons as they pass.

"Get up Johnnie, or the market will be over before you get there,"
exclaimed Mrs Moreland, one cold October morning, as she bent over her
boy, who slept, on his hard shake-down, the calm untroubled sleep of
childhood.

"Oh! it surely ain't time yet, mother?" was the answer of the poor
little fellow, rubbing his eyes the while to keep himself awake.

"Why, bless you! yes," said the woman; "it must be nigh on five, and
if you miss the chance of cresses this morning we must go without our
breakfast, as there ain't no bread in the 'ouse."

"Oh, dear!" cried Johnnie, getting slowly out of bed, "it is so dark
and chill in the streets, and scarce none will buy my cresses now,
they say they make them shiver so."

"We must try and do something, though, to keep body and soul
together," said his mother, adding, as Johnnie was coughing violently,
"but see that ye put on Dick's comforter, and now when I bethink me,
there's a crust hof bread on the table,--take it lad, it will 'elp you
along this cold morning."

Johnnie by this time was up, and pulling on his thin garments by the
light of the lamp in the court without. Before leaving, he knelt down,
and after thanking God for His kind care of him throughout the
darkness of the night, he asked Him to bless his mother, brother, and
sister, and make himself a good boy, ending with the words which
closed his every petition, "for the sake of Him who died to save sich
poor sinners as we be," and then flung the basket over his shoulder,
and walked forth briskly into the darkness.

One holiday, the only one in his busy life Johnnie had had, when the
kind teacher took his little scholars down into the country, and the
remembrance of this day helped to cheer him as he trudged along. He
thought of the hedgerows he then saw, where the blackberry bunches
hung, and the dog-roses bloomed amidst blue straggling vetch and
clinging convolvulus, or the many-tubed honeysuckle wafted its
fragrance on the breeze. He recalled the picture of the quiet
homesteads, with their ponds over-hung by alder-trees, and their
little gardens crowded with a medley of old-fashioned flowers; the
farmyards, where dogs barked in the sunshine, and cocks crew from
raised haystacks. How snug beside them looked the labourer's cottages,
either clustered into hamlets, or standing singly, with their backs to
the highway, seeming to turn away from everything but their own spot
of earth and sky; and the cheerful villages too, with their old grey
churches, and neat parsonages; the small shop, in whose bow-windows
might be seen sundry wares; and the never-failing "Cross Keys" or
"Hunter's Rest," furnished with its wooden horse-block, where two or
three men might always be seen lounging and smoking their long pipes.

[Illustration: Johnnie recalled the picture of the only holiday he ever
had in his busy life--_p._ 28.]

Though he knew not the names of the flowers he saw in the trim
gardens, or those he plucked by the wayside, or on the sunny banks,
for his knowledge, as far as this world was concerned, was limited
to the buying and selling of water-cresses, his stock-in-trade; yet he
had learned at the Sabbath school about God and Christ, and therefore,
when he wandered through the depths of that glorious forest, he could
look around on everything he saw, and say like the poet, "My Father
made them all." How sweet, then, was the song of the lark, or the
notes of the robin in the bush--that robin sacred even to mischievous
bird hunting boys, because of the pretty tale of the "Babes in the
Wood," as well as for the pleasing superstition which has allotted to
him the special protection of heaven, insomuch as it is thought that
"those who harry their nests will never thrive again."

So, to ears that had never heard aught of these songs, save the
twitter of the house-sparrow, or the lay of the imprisoned lark in
some cage at a bird-catcher's door, this forest music was never to be
forgotten. It was well that Johnnie had some pleasant remembrance to
make his path bright this dull morning.

As he went along, the blinds drawn down over the windows of the houses
showed that life in the great city, with very few exceptions, still
slept. Here and there a milk-woman, earliest of her class, passed him
by; or, it might be a policeman, who, at the approach of footsteps,
turned full upon the small pale face his bull's-eye lantern, but
quickly withdrew it again, reading there no harm to the community over
which he kept watch.

As he proceeded on his way, daylight began to dawn, and, from the
doors of small houses, tradesmen and labourers began to issue forth,
to commence their daily toil, and, ere he had reached Farringdon
Market, the din of voices was heard mingling with the sound of
vehicles which brought the goods from the neighbouring country.

To an inexperienced child, the dim light and confusion would have been
terrifying and distracting; but Johnnie was too much accustomed to it
to have any fear. Coolly he wended his way to the stall of the kind
Irishwoman, past the waggoners with smock-frocks, carrying the baskets
brought from distant gardens to their different customers--past the
barrows full of carrots and turnips which some old tattered-looking
men were wheeling to their stall--and past the crowd of eager
purchasers already assembled around their favourite merchant.

By the light of the flickering candle placed upon the lid of the
hamper, Johnnie selected his fresh water-cresses, receiving from his
old friend a bunch or two into the bargain, who said, as she wrapped
her arms in her apron, "God help the poor childer this could morning,
and God help that little one, he don't seem fit anyhow for sic a
life," muttering to herself, "They 'aint got no chance, them young
things. Well, well, there is a heaven above, and surely One there
takes heed to them poor infants."

Johnnie, having got his supply, threaded his way, as swiftly as his
lameness would permit him, out of the market, and soon might be heard
his "Fresh water-cresses, oh!" mingling with, "Potatoes, sprats,
periwinkles, wink, wink, cats' meat, old clo," and the common street
cries.

As he went along on his way, shops began to be opened, and his cry
attracted customers. The general grocer hurries from over his counter
to secure a few bunches to place in the window beside candles, soap,
cheese, fish, etc.; and the broker, over whose door hangs the three
golden balls, proclaiming to the poor a speedy and convenient road to
ruin, steps out of his wide shop-front to buy some for breakfast,
which his buxom wife, with gilt ear-rings and brooch, has been
preparing in the little room leading from the shop. Now and then a
labourer stops at the familiar cry and purchases from his store,
giving him, it may be, a halfpenny over and above, or a smart
tablemaid calls him to the door of a better-class house, and drops a
coin into his hand in return for the fresh bunch of his cresses for
"Missis' breakfast." And in this way, long ere the morning is gone,
Johnnie returns homeward with a pretty good supply of coppers. His poor
little feet are blue with cold, and his hands well-nigh powerless,
still the discomforts of his lot are nearly forgotten, as he thinks
how this money will enable him to provide a breakfast for his
household.




CHAPTER V.

HOPE DEFERRED


     "He is a being of deep reflection--one
     That studies with intensest eye;
     Watching the works of air, earth, sea, and sun--
     Their motion, altitude, their form, their dye,
     Cause, and effect."--WORDSWORTH.


The family room of a poor artist in St. Martin's Lane, London--we can
fancy it. Traces of gentle birth and breeding may be seen. Casts,
prints, and portfolios, with scant furniture, such as might only have
belonged to a tradesman or better sort of mechanic, and all not in
absolute disorder, they were too busy for that, but colours, canvas,
and pottery, all huddled together, without any wish for effect.

The artist himself, half a dreamer, half a drudge, lapsing into
absorbing trances and again returning from dreamland to this everyday
world to find everything going wrong and threatening nearly to make
his wife and child victims; feeling at times nearly crazed, and yet
he had worked and starved till his face grew thin and sunken, and his
eye strained.

The world keeps saying that a man may prosper if he _will_, and it
points to the successful men in triumph as examples, as a Sir Joshua
Reynolds or a Vandyke, of those who knew their business and could do
it. But the race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the
strong; and though Paul Staunton could do his work well, he lacked a
something which took with the multitude. And what of his gentle,
patient wife, who had married him, believing thoroughly in her
husband, and did so still, loving and honouring him so much that it
almost drove her frantic to see him suffer? Had she been a wiser
woman, or had been more worldly, she would have hesitated before she
cast in her lot with a penniless artist, even though he was
acknowledged a genius. But Nest Barnet was chosen by the poor artist.
The squire's family, at Redmere, rather encouraged than discouraged
the match; though the squire himself, to do him justice, was not clear
about the wisdom of the step. His wife, however, ruled him in this, as
in other matters, and so he gave up the point to her superior
judgment. Then Nest and Paul were like two children, eager to have
the business over; and so, on a grey October morning, with the autumn
sunbeams faintly brightening the yellowing vine over the sexton's
house, and the orange and grey lichens ornamenting the church with its
heavy Saxon arches, these two were made man and wife, amidst the
congratulations of their friends, and set off together on the voyage
of life, for their city home, Paul's lodgings in London, on the
strength of 50 in hand and future orders. Oh! these old simple
beginnings, they deserved to have sunshine in their path, if only for
their firmness and faith.

All Nest's friends were not so easy about the match, however. She had
an old uncle in the great city whither she was bound, who stormed and
raged; but he had scarcely noticed his sister's child, so she had not
thought he would care whom she married, and had not consulted him and
did not much care now about his anger.

It is more than two years since that knot was tied, and Paul and Nest
have been combating flesh and blood woes among the bricks and mortar
of London. These years had not been sunshiny ones. Paul had striven
and worked, but all in vain. His paintings would not sell, he tried
every kind of imaginable sketch in flower and figure; he was not
proud, he would do much for Nest and his little son, much, but not
truckle to the world's low taste for commonplace. To Nest it had been
a seen evil, and she had looked into the gulf, but missed the depths
in her youthful boldness and faith. She had never lost her faith in
her Paul, she could have borne anything for her husband, and she
worked marvels for him. She learned to engrave, drew and painted, from
old, fresh memories, articles of stone-ware for the potteries. She was
clothed in the cheapest and most lasting of printed linen gowns and
aprons, and fed herself and child on miraculously small morsels; but
her face had lost its roundness, and had got sharp and worn, since the
day she stood beside her lover in the old church of Redmere. Still she
had never lost her sweetness of nature, and could not be pinched into
meanness, or be brought to part with her love, charity, and patience.

It was a cold morning, when Paul came into his room, which Nest had
made as comfortable as she well could for her husband's breakfast.
True, there was the litter of brushes and colours, and wild pictures,
but a fire burned in the grate; and on the table, though the food was
frugal, it was not uninviting. Some letters were lying, which the
postman had just brought in, and before Paul tasted his food, he
hastily opened them and began to read. Nest came behind him, and
gently laid her hand on his head, for she saw he was getting agitated
by the contents. "It's the old thing, Nest," he said, "nothing but
disappointment: the rich man has returned the picture, I see nothing
but the workhouse for us, little wife."

"Do you not remember, Paul," answered his wife, cheerfully, "that when
the night is darkest, the day is breaking? Never fear, my husband will
get on yet, and I will see my Paul acknowledged by all as a great
artist."

Paul looked up in her face and said, bitterly, "I wish I had never
seen you, Nest, and then you would have been happy; I could have borne
sorrow and pain alone, but that you and our child must suffer, maddens
me. I wish I had left you in your country home."

"Paul, Paul!" cried his loving wife, "why do you say such horrible
things, 'wish you had never seen me,' 'wish you had left me behind,'
when you went to battle with the world? How little you know the heart
of a wife. I would rather be with you, my husband, poor and tried as
we are, than living in a palace. Have faith in God, Paul, and all
things will come right again."

But Paul heard not the cheering words, for his brain seemed on fire,
and he lifted his hat from the table, and rushed into the street,
leaving his breakfast untasted. He knew not why he fled, or why he
sought the open air, and he knew not where he was, until he found
himself suddenly on the banks of the Thames. For the first time the
wish crossed his mind, as he looked on its waters, rolling on to the
ocean, to plunge into them and be at rest, forgetful of the grief he
would have caused the heart of his poor wife.

As Paul stood and looked, fascinated by the river calling him, as he
almost fancied, to seek by it to get rid of his troubles, Johnnie
Moreland passed along with his basket, muttering to himself, as he
counted his money, "Good luck to-day, one and fivepence for mother."
Then, his eye catching sight of the water, it at once recalled to his
mind the verse of Scripture he had been taught a few days before in
the Sabbath school, and he said, half-aloud, just as he came in front
of Mr. Staunton, and quite unconscious that his words were heard,
"There is a river, the streams whereof maketh glad the city of our
God."

Though it was scarcely more than a whisper, Mr. Staunton caught the
sound, and over his mind rushed the memories of a quiet home and of an
aged grandmother who had well supplied the place of mother to the
orphan boy, and of texts of Scripture that boy used to repeat every
evening by her knee, when he went to bed with the birds, and the
remembrance of these things overpowered the careworn, desperate man.
He leant against the bridge for a few seconds, before he could recover
himself from the whirl of mind which these words had caused.

Johnnie, all unconscious, went on his way chucking his money, and
saying again, "One and fivepence this morning already, well, Dick and
Anne won't go without breakfast, nohow."

When Mr. Staunton was in some measure restored to a calmer frame, he
turned and looked after the retreating figure of the boy limping
slowly along, then, taking a few rapid steps, he soon overtook him,
and said hurriedly,

"Child, who taught you that verse of Scripture you have just
repeated?"

At first Johnnie did not speak, for he had hardly known to what Mr.
Staunton alluded, and so troubled and perplexed was the face that bent
over him, that the boy seemed lost in astonishment at the voice and
appearance of the stranger; but at last finding words, he stammered,
"Was it about the stream that makes glad the city of our God? Teacher
at Sunday-school made us learn 'em, an' somehow I minded them when I
saw the water."

"Repeat them again," exclaimed Mr. Staunton eagerly, as if afraid to
let go the impression thus received.

Johnnie slowly and deliberately did as requested, without comment.

"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Staunton, when the boy had finished,
adding sadly, "I wish I could give you some money, for you must need
it greatly; but I have not a copper in my pocket."

"I have one and fivepence in my pocket for breakfast," said Johnnie,
cheerfully, "and many mornings we be worse hoff; thank you all the
same Measter."

"Good-bye then, and God bless you!" said Mr. Staunton, and passed on
quickly, leaving Johnnie and his crutch far behind.

Half-an-hour's speedy walking brought Mr. Staunton home to his own
door, a humbler and more patient man. He no sooner entered the
sitting-room than his wife met him with a bright smile, saying, "Here
is an order for a picture, Paul; it came after you left, and see the
enclosed cheque for a hundred pounds. Are we not rich, my husband? and
did I not say 'the night was darkest just before dawn?'"

"Oh! my God," exclaimed the poor man, sinking on his knees, and
remembering with a thankful heart the danger he had just escaped; "Oh!
my God, I do not deserve this great kindness, 'Lord be merciful to me
a sinner;'" and Mrs. Staunton, sinking down beside him, changed the
"me" to "us," and echoed the petition most fervently.

After a few minutes thus spent, Paul was able to tell his wife what
had just happened to him, and how he had been saved from, it might be,
the commission of a terrible crime by the words of a poor lame boy;
and the kind wife wept while she thanked God for his deliverance,
saying through her tears: "Ah! my husband, you see the very hairs of
our head are all numbered, and not a sparrow can fall to the ground
without our heavenly Father's permission. He sent the boy with the
message, and His providence, though unseen, was watching over your
steps."

"Yes, I see it all Nest," answered Mr. Staunton, "and I humbly pray
that the lesson I have now been taught may never be forgotten. I
thought, in my pride and self-sufficiency, that I could be independent
of God, but He has showed me differently."

That day was but the beginning of good things to Paul Staunton, and
though he still had many trials and difficulties to encounter, he
never let go his faith in an all-wise God. A few months later, on the
death of Mr. Staunton's rich uncle, when he succeeded to a large
fortune, they received the gift with a humble, grateful spirit, and he
tried, as far as he could, to seek out and help those who once, like
himself, were on the brink of despair.

Amongst the first that he sought to discover and reward was the little
water-cress boy, who had been the means, under Providence, of saving
him from destruction, and he left no stone unturned to find out his
abode. Policemen were engaged to help him in the search, but all
means seemed in vain, for no trace could now be found of the child,
once a familiar sight in the neighbourhood where he gained his bread.




CHAPTER VI.

CHRISTMAS TIME


     "I love to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it
     is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least,
     when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and
     of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to
     you."

                                          WASHINGTON IRVING.


Christmas time had come, and even to the dwellers in poor lanes and
closes there were tokens of its presence; for here and there might be
seen ragged, dirty children blowing penny trumpets, or sucking
oranges; while the streets in the fashionable part of the town were
filled with well-dressed boys and girls, with their spruce nurses,
carrying all sorts of beautiful toys.

Here went a butcher's lad driving past, with a sprig of holly in his
coat and evergreens at his horse's head; while the fat turkeys lay in
his cart side by side, between pieces of prime beef, all covered with
red berries and glancing green leaves. Then the boy followed in the
fish-cart, he and his horse both showing signs of Christmas having
come. A savour of ginger-bread and other good things issued from the
baker's shop, and the windows of the confectioner were a perfect
fairyland of bright and beautiful things, not to speak of the bazaars
and toy shops, with their trees hung with lamps and balls of brilliant
colours.

The Christmas sun shone on that morning into the small room of Johnnie
Moreland; but Johnnie was too ill to rise from his bed and join the
merry groups on the street. He was very happy, though; perhaps there
was not a happier child in London, in spite of his hard, racking cough
and aching head, and he watched Anne with pleasure going off to the
meeting in the mission school and church.

"What nice hymns you'll sing, Anne," said Johnnie, "and you'll hear
about Jesus and heaven. I should like to have gone wid you."

Anne leant down and kissed him, saying gently, "I'll tell you all
about them things when I come back, Johnnie; only I do wish you could
have come too, and mother as well."

"I am glad you are going though," said Mrs. Moreland, giving Johnnie a
little hot tea and toast for his breakfast, of which the boy would not
partake without his customary blessing. Mrs. Moreland, since Johnnie
was too feeble to help to earn bread for the family, had turned over a
new leaf, and never entered the gin-shop. The good example of her
children was not lost upon the poor ignorant woman, while remorse for
the treatment Johnnie had been subjected to, in having been tasked
beyond his strength for her self-indulgence, helped to make her a
different character. By the aid of friends that the children had made
in the mission-school, and the little assistance Johnnie's teacher
could give them, she was able to make a scant livelihood, and even
provide the sick boy with a few comforts.

By-and-by, Anne returned from church, and Johnnie's eyes glistened with
pleasure as she described how pretty it looked, hung with evergreens
and verses of Scripture, oh! such beautiful verses: "Suffer little
children to come unto Me," and "Glory to God in the highest, on earth
peace." Then there were large tables in front of the pulpit, filled
with nice things, apples, ginger-bread, and picture books, and "the
music was so grand," said Anne, "and the hymns, one was 'Rest for the
Weary,' and another,

     'Shall we gather at the river,
       Where bright angels' feet have trod,
     With its crystal tide for ever,
       Flowing by the throne of God.'"

And the clergyman had told them such nice Bible stories; she had been
sent away with pockets stuffed with good things, and the teacher had
taken care that Johnnie should have his share, and mother too, for here
was a warm flannel petticoat and gown for her, in this cold weather.

Johnnie listened attentively to all he heard, making Anne repeat again
and again, and try to sing the hymn, "Yes, we'll gather at the river."

Christmas passed, and the New Year dawned, and still Johnnie lay. His
mind sometimes wandered; but it was always of heaven he spoke,--the
golden city, the Lamb on the white throne, the elders around it, and
of the water of life. Strange words these were for the rough
neighbours to hear, as they gathered, from time to time, round him;
and tears would be seen stealing over cheeks unused to weep; then
Johnnie would say, "Mother, my feet must be clean, for the ground there
is pure, shining gold."




CHAPTER VII.

THE SEARCH


     "Blessed is he who wisely doth
       The poor man's state consider;
     For when the time of trouble is,
       The Lord shall him deliver."


"I hope it may be the boy I'm in search of," said Mr. Staunton to a
young man who was telling him of Johnnie Moreland. This young man was
Johnnie's first friend and teacher.

"He answers to your description," was the reply, "I think you said you
did not know his name."

"No, unfortunately," responded Mr. Staunton. "In the hurry and
agitation of the moment I never thought of asking it; but he was lame,
used a crutch, had a pale, pleasant face, with large, brown eyes. I
would know him again among a thousand."

"Then come with me," said the stranger, "and we'll see if he is the
right child. Will you drive or walk?"

"Walk," replied Mr. Staunton, "that is to say, if you can spare time;
for I would wish to see with my own eyes some of these miserable
dwellings of poverty and woe."

So saying, he took the young teacher's arm, and together they went
forth to seek the house of Johnnie Moreland. Resolutely they proceeded
amid throngs of people and conveyances, in and out, among the closes
and alleys, their hearts sore with the terrible sights they then
witnessed,--women and men fighting and swearing, or lying drunk on the
pavement; children almost naked, shivering with cold and hunger,
holding out poor thin hands for a copper to buy bread.

At last the old, tumble-down tenement was reached, and they climbed
the frail, rickety stair, and paused at the half-open door of a room
on the top landing.

"Hark," said the young man, "do you hear a child's voice?"

They listened, and heard the verses of a hymn being repeated. It was
this:--

     "Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly,
       Far, far away; far, far away;
     Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky,
       Far, far away; far away.
     Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow,
       Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow;
     Hearts, like their garments, as pure as the snow,
       Far, far away; far away.

     There never trembles a sigh of regret,
       Far, far away; far, far away;
     Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set,
       Far, far away; far away.
     There I from sorrow for ever would rest,
       Leaning with joy on Immanuel's breast;
     Tears never fall in the home of the blest,
       Far, far away; far away.

     Friends there united in glory ne'er part,
       Far, far away; far, far away;
     One is their temple, their home, and their heart,
       Far, far away; far away.
     The river of crystal, the city of gold,
       The portals of pearl, such glory unfold;
     Thought cannot image, or tongue hath not told,
       Far, far away; far away.

     List what yon harpers on golden harps play,
       Come, come away; come, come away;
     Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
       Come, come away; come away.
     Come to these mansions there's room yet for you;
       Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
     Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
       Come, come away; come away."

Gently they tapped at the door, which was opened by Anne, who smiled
brightly when she saw her kind friend.

"Johnnie will be so happy to see you," she said, "for he wearies for
you to come;" and so saying, she ushered them into the room, where the
sick boy lay on his little bed, his face white and pinched, but a
brightness in his eyes which showed the peace of the heart.

"Mother has gone out," he said, holding out his thin, wasted hand,
"but Anne was reading to me, oh! such pretty verses, and I were
thinking of the trip you took us in summer to the grand forest, where
I saw the waters and the flowers,--them must be somethink like
heaven."

"Heaven will be far, far grander than all that, Johnnie," answered his
friend, kindly adding, "but I have brought a gentleman to see you
to-day."

"My little fellow, do you remember me?" said Mr. Staunton, drawing
near the bed, convinced that he was the boy he had sought so
anxiously.

"No," replied Johnnie, musing, "don't think I nowhere saw you before."

"Yes, yes, Johnnie, you did," replied Mr. Staunton. "Don't you remember
a gentleman who once spoke to you when you were looking at the river,
and repeating the verse of Scripture, 'There is a river, the streams
whereof make glad the city of our God?'"

"Ah! yes," exclaimed Johnnie, a sudden light breaking over his face;
"but you be'nt he; he were pale and sadlike."

"Yes Johnnie, I am the same, though I may look different; and as I am
now a rich man, I have come to see you, and take you where you shall
be well cared for, and nursed, and, please God you, yet may get well."

"How kind of you," replied the boy, amazed at the tidings, adding,
"but what made you think on me."

"Just because I loved you, and you know our Saviour, when on earth
loved little children, and said, 'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'"

"But Mother, and Anne, and Dick,--oh! you are kind, but I would rather
be with them, for Anne to say hymns to me, and my teacher to come and
see me."

"But Anne will go and visit you often, and so will your friend here,
and I will arrange for your mother to go with you, and be your nurse,
and you will have good and warm clothing and everything nice."

"Oh! sir," said Johnnie, "I can say nothink to thank you. I will just
do what you and teacher say is best."

Just then Mrs. Moreland entered, she had been to the shop for some
more needlework, and great was her astonishment and thankfulness when
she heard Mr. Staunton's kind offer.

Johnnie Moreland, the doctors say, is now improving, under careful
treatment in an hospital, in which his mother is one of the nurses,
and a good and kind one she makes. Dick and Anne have been boarded in
a comfortable home, and are sent to school by their kind friend.

Mr. Staunton still pursues his beloved art, but now only as a
recreation, and Nest has as much faith in him as ever, and her face
beams kindly on him at his easel. Over the handsome mantlepiece, in
his fine mansion, may be seen his last work, which the connoisseurs he
loves to assemble round his hospitable table, declare is one of great
merit. It represents a lame boy seated on a sunny bank on the edge of
a forest, with a purling stream flowing near. It is an Arab of the
city, viewing for the first time the flowers and the clear waters, and
listening to the song of birds. He has a strange, bewildered
expression on his face, half pleasure, half wonder. The scene
represents the visit to the forest, which was so well remembered, and
the form and features are those of Johnnie Moreland.


THE END.




DICK CAVE

The Ragged-School Boy


In a dark, dingy-looking room, in a public house in Westminster, there
might have been seen, a few years ago, a number of boys gathered
together. A stranger would have been puzzled to know what they were
about.

These boys are thieves, and they are met to practice the art of
pocket-picking.

Many of them are well known at the various Police Offices in London.
Committed to prison again and again, they leave it to follow their old
trade. One of them is called Dick Cave--let us follow him, and learn
his history.

His bringing up was a strange one, but, alas! there are many wretched
boys who could tell the same tale.

[Illustration: One evening in winter, Dick was wandering about the
streets.]

His mother had taught him one thing--to beg. When he was left like an
orphan, he had not a single relation in the world to care for him;
but, as he was clever at begging, he was taken by a man who kept a
thieves' lodging-house, and was expected to beg his own living. Many a
time did poor little Dick make a door-step his bed, rather than return
to meet the kicks and blows that awaited him. He dragged on this
miserable life till he was about eight years old, when he ran away
from his persecutor. For three years he never slept in a house, except
when he got into prison for stealing. He usually slept under the
arches of one of the bridges, along with other boys as wicked and as
wretched as himself. He did not know that God watched over him, as he
lay there on his hard, cold bed; no one had ever instructed him about
God or eternity; no mother had taught him to pray; he was living in
Christian London, and yet was as ignorant of religion as the wild
bushmen in Africa.

One cold evening in winter, Dick was wandering the streets, wondering
how he should get his supper. It was raining, and he felt very
miserable. He stood for some time at the window of a print-shop,
looking at the pictures. One of them struck him especially: it was one
that I daresay some of you have seen, "The Cottar's Saturday Night."
Poor Dick gazed at it till his eyes swam with tears. Though he could
not read, he could understand its meaning, and the contrast between
that happy family round the fire, and his own life, stung him to the
heart.

He exclaimed aloud, "I wish I was that lad!" and then, as if to get
rid of the painful thoughts that oppressed him, he set off running as
hard as he could. The next morning, however, he returned to his old
course of life.

One Sabbath evening, he was hanging about the doors of a large church;
not that he had any thoughts of going in--what did he know about
worshipping God! He was waiting for the congregation to come out, to
pursue his trade.

He was in the act of drawing out a handkerchief from a gentleman's
pocket, when the owner of it turned sharply round. Dick had some
impertinent apology on his lips, but the gentleman stopped him, by
speaking to him in a friendly way, and inviting him to come to school
next Sabbath. There was something in the kind voice and manner of the
gentleman, that made Dick consent at once.

The next Sabbath found him in a ragged school. There were two
teachers; one of them was the same gentleman Dick had met with the
Sunday before, and he felt quite proud to find himself recognised.

This school had only been opened a few weeks; and as it was composed
of the very worst of characters, many of them even more depraved than
Dick, it had not much of the order and solemnity of a Sabbath school.

Dick Cave had not been long there before he and several of his
companions felt a strong desire to leave off their thieving practices,
and learn something better. He and another boy had been talking of
this one Sunday morning, and finished by saying, as they had done many
a time before--"But what's the use? Who would employ us? What could
we do?"

Dick started, and thought surely the teacher must have overheard them,
when at the close of the school he said--

"Are there not many of you boys who are tired of your evil course of
life? Would you not gladly leave it, and become honest lads?"

"Yes! yes!" shouted many a voice; while some (Dick among them) started
to their feet, and said, "Only tell us how we can do it!"

The reason of the teacher speaking thus, was, that he had now an
opportunity of recommending four boys to situations; and before the
next Sabbath, four, who had distinguished themselves by their good
conduct and attention at school, were placed in their situations. One
of the fortunate candidates was our friend Dick. His joy at the
change, and his gratitude to his kind teacher, knew no bounds.

"You, sir," said he, "are the only friend I ever had in my life."

"Well, Dick," said the gentleman, "be an industrious, good lad; mind
your master's business as if it were your own; beware of following
evil companions and your own bad habits, and I'm your friend for
life. And, Dick, if you will take the Bible for your guide, God will
be your friend too."

"Well, sir," said Dick, brushing away a tear; "to tell the truth, I
think it's a strange thing that God Almighty should care for such a
wicked chap as me; but, somehow, I don't much like to talk about these
things, because, you see, sir, it might look like hypocrisy."

The teacher read to him the beautiful words of Jesus, "I came not to
call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;" and reminded him of
the lesson they had lately had of the Prodigal Son. He gave him much
good advice, as to how he should conduct himself in his new
employment; and so they parted.

Dick shewed that kindness and instruction had not been lost upon him.
He fulfilled his duties as errand-boy so well, that his master was
pleased with him, and offered to raise his wages after a few months'
trial.

One Sabbath, Dick lingered behind the rest of the boys, when the
school was dismissed. He wanted to speak in private with his teacher.

"Well, Dick," said the latter, "what is the matter? you look as if you
were in trouble."

"Oh, sir, I shall never do for an errand-boy."

"Why not, Dick? Your master told me, only a few days ago, how well you
suited him."

"Oh, but master does not know. The truth is, sir, I've been so long
used to bad ways, that they are strong upon me--and--and--I'm come to
tell you"----

"Well, Dick, go on."

"Why, sir, I'm afraid I shall be at my old trade again."

"Dick! What do you mean?"

"Oh sir, you don't know what it is to have been _born a thief_, as I
may say. Many a time, when I have been going errands, I have been
tempted to steal when I saw opportunities--it seems so natural to do
as I have been used to all my life. Sometimes the thought has come so
strong on me, that I have set off a running as hard as I could. I'm
afraid, sir, the old habit will be too much for me some day, and
then----"

"Then what, Dick?"

"Then, I should disgrace the school, and you, sir, that have been such
a good friend to me--and I should be the same miserable wretch that I
was when you picked me up. What must I do, sir?"

"Do you think, Dick, that if _I_ could walk along with you, when you
are going on your errands, you could steal with _me_ at your side?"

"No, sir, indeed!"

"Well, Dick, if you like, you may have a better friend than me along
with you always--you _cannot_ steal if He is with you."

"I know what you mean, sir; do you think I might make so bold as to
ask Him?"

"Do I think?--Nay, I am sure. Is he not the '_friend of sinners_?'
Come, Dick, let us ask Him together to be your friend, to keep you
safe in temptation, and deliver you from all evil." They knelt and
prayed together.

Many a time after that did that poor orphan lad pray to his Father in
heaven; and vagabond, thief, as he had been, he found that there was
pardon and a Father's blessing for him, through Jesus, "the friend of
sinners."

His kind teacher kept his promise that he would be a friend to him.
When, by the exertions of some benevolent people, a number of boys
from the different ragged schools were provided with means to emigrate
to Australia, through his recommendation Dick Cave was one of them.

He often writes to his old teacher, and delightful it is to read his
letters, so full of gratitude to him for his kind efforts for his
good, and to God for having plucked him as a brand from the burning.

Reader, is it thus with you? Dick Cave, ignorant, depraved as he was,
heard and obeyed the voice of God; _have you_?

If your mercies and your privileges are greater than his--if your
temptations are less--remember that "to whomsoever much is given, of
him shall much be required."


Transcriber's Note:

1. page 28--corrected 'trig' to 'trim'

2. page 53--removed repeated 'of' in sentence "It is an Arab of of the
city,..."

3. Throughout book, replaced 'Johnny' with 'Johnnie' to reflect title


[End of _The Water-Cress Boy_ by Jean L. Watson]
