STEPHEN.
I was staying down in Kent with some friends of mine, when I made the acquaintance of the little boy whom you see lying on the ground in the picture.
One early spring morning, towards the end of February, I went out for a constitutional—that is, as I daresay you know, a walk for the sake of one’s health. I wandered off down the park into a little wood, or shrubbery, which had a green path winding through it, with arbours or summer-houses placed here and there under the overhanging trees. The wind was very keen, and patches of snow were still upon the ground, though the days were beginning to lengthen, and there were many signs of warmer weather at hand. As I walked along, I noticed now and then a young leaf showing itself above the ground, which told me of the coming primroses; and I could see green shoots, from which bluebells would soon be springing to nod their graceful heads to the passers by.
Walking along briskly, I had nearly reached one of the little arbours, when I observed several children standing in front of it. I knew them well by sight and name: they were the children of the lodge-keeper of the park, and lived close by. There were four of them, and they were all standing staring away, as hard as their eight young eyes could stare, at something inside the arbour. Reaching the spot, I discovered that the object of their curiosity was a poor little lad of about ten years of age, who was lying on the ground with his eyes closed, and his head resting against the seat. He was a fair, curly-headed, pretty boy, but his clothes were very poor and ragged, and his little face was pinched and wan. I soon discovered that he was not asleep, but either benumbed by the cold, or insensible from exhaustion.
A little black and tan terrier, of no great value or beauty, was sitting by his side, seeming to watch him with great anxiety; and I was surprised to see also some toys lying on the ground, but these I found belonged to the lodge-keeper’s children, who had left them in the arbour the day before, and had in fact come that morning to fetch them.
I sent off one of the children to their father to come and carry the boy to the house. The family were just collecting at the breakfast table when I returned from my early walk, bringing this poor little waif in with me. My friends took an interest in him at once, and after he had been well warmed and fed, he recovered sufficiently to tell us his story.
He was a London boy, and had lived there with his mother, who earned a scanty subsistence for them both by needlework. At her death, two or three weeks before, he was left alone in the world. Then he heard the neighbours talk of the workhouse; and having a vague dread of being sent there, he had resolved to go right away into the country. His only companion was this little terrier, which had attached itself to him in the odd way in which stray dogs will sometimes adopt a master. Begging now and then for food at farmhouses and cottage doors, and sleeping at night in sheds or outhouses, he had managed in three days to come about thirty miles from London; but he would have died from exhaustion or cold if I had not found him that morning.
This happened about two years ago, and I call him one of “my little friends,” because I still take the greatest interest in him. The family with whom I was then staying have looked after him ever since. He was sent to lodge at the cottage of a labourer, and goes to the village school, where he is such a good boy and so quick at his lessons, that I have no doubt he will get on well in the world.
