A LOST CHILD.
It was wearing on to three o’clock on the first day of the fair, and the crowd was at its height. At a corner of the main building, where the throng was thickest, stood a child, a girl of some four summers, sobbing, not loudly or obtrusively, but with her face buried in her pinafore. The passers-by, intent upon their own pleasure, took no notice of her, until a gaunt, elderly man halted in front of her with the query, “What are you crying for?” “For mama,” said the child raising her tear-stained face from behind her pinafore. “Don’t you know where she is?” “No,” sobbed the little one, “she’s goned away,” and here her grief broke out afresh. Attention being thus directed to the child, the standers-by grew interested. Among them were two young ladies in rather loud costume. “Guess she’s lost,” remarked one of them. “Want to know?” queried the other, “Ain’t she sweet?” “Some; should say her mother don’t know much; such a looking hat.” “You mightn’t do better, Ethie.” “I’d be sick if I couldn’t.”—“Well, what’s to be done?” asked the man who first noticed the child. “Has anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?” Nobody had, and then suggestions as to what to do were volunteered. “Ask her name?” was one of them. “What’s your name, sissy?” “Roose,” sobbed the child. “And where do you live?” “With mama.” “And where does she live?” “At home.” “That’s not the way to ask her,” exclaimed a brawny young man, whose lowest whisper would startle a horse, and bending over her he asked, “How did mama come to the fair?” “With me and Toby.” “Is Toby your father?” “No,” said the child, smiling through her tears, “Toby’s a dear little dog.” “Did mama walk to the fair?” “We’s drove in a wagon and Toby too, ever so long ways.” “What’s the name of the place you came from?” The question was beyond the child, who simply shook her head. “Don’t bother her,” interjected a bystander, “get your wagon and drive her round the ground and the mother will see her.” “I can’t very well,” said the man of the loud voice. “My horse has got the gorum, and I want to watch the sheep judges.” “Well, take her home with you; you’ve neither chick nor child.” At this a laugh rose, and suggestions as to what should be done, each more senseless and impracticable than another, began again. To send her to Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat her in the centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the show-house stairs, with the band, or among the fancy articles, where her mother would be sure to go, were among the more reasonable. Each one was clear that it was the duty of somebody else to exert themselves to find the mother, and each one was equally clear he was not called upon to undertake the task. And so precious time was slipping, and what to do with the child remained undecided. At this juncture, a short and somewhat stout woman broke through the ring. “Hech, what’s a’ this about? A lost bairn, say ye.” Bending over, she lifted the child, and sitting down on a bench pressed her to her bosom. “My bonnie doo, and hae ye lost your mammie! Wha ocht ye?” The child, with staring eyes, answered not. “You might as well speak Greek,” grimly remarked the gaunt man. “Eh, what’s that! Do you think she disna understan the English lang’age? Na, na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An hoo did you lose yer mammie, my pet?” “Mama gave me penny to get candy, and Toby ran after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but he runned a long way and was bad, and—and—I couldn’t find mama or Toby,” and the recollection of her misfortune renewed her grief. “Eh, ma wee bit lady,” exclaimed the good-hearted woman, as she clasped the sobbing child more closely, “but hoo are we in this thrang to find Toby or yer mither either. Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o’ ye. Will na some o’ ye gang and see if ye canna fin a woman lookin’ for her bairn, instead o’ gapin there at us like so mony gomerils.”
“If you’ll give me ten cents I’ll go,” said a pert boy.
“Ha, ha, my man, ye’ll be a Conservative; ye want an office.”
“There’s the president,” remarked one of the bystanders.
“What! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit red ribbon? Hey, Mr Praseedent; come yont: I want yer advice.”
“What’s this; what’s this?” asked the president.
“Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother o’t I dinna ken.”
“Couldn’t be in better hands,” said the president.
“She micht be in waur, tho I say’t mysell. But that’s no what I’m drivin at. Hoo am I to get her mither!”
“Oh, that’s not hard to do. You have seen a lamb lose its mother, but did you ever see the ewe that failed to find her? You just sit where you are, and the mother will come along.”
“I’ve seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower knowe and heugh an never fail to find the wanderer, but what could she do were as mony auld tups thranging roun as are here? Na, na; yer comparison winna stan, Mr Praseedent. Jest tell me what I’m to dae, an no be stanin’ there twirlin yer whisker.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Take the child home with you; she is tired and not fit to stay here longer. The mother will be sure to come to the office, and I will know where to send her. I’ll take your address,” and he pulled out his notebook.
Glancing at the child, which had fallen asleep on her bosom, the woman kissed the peaceful little face, and replied, “that’s gude advice. Everybody kens me. I’m Mrs Crowdie, and I live on the —— concession of Hinchinbrook, and if ye want to ken mair o’ me ye can speer at that decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, wha lifts my taxes, and as oor waggin will be ready, I’ll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye.”
Tired with the day’s fatigue and grief, the child did not wake until the wagon halted at Mrs Crowdie’s door, when, seeing everything new and strange, she cried a little for her mother, but was easily soothed, and, on supper appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satisfying her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had much to do “in settin things to richts,” as she termed it, about the house, and scolded the man-servant for “thinkin mair o’ what he saw at the fair than o’ his wark,” she found time to lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously left on her hands, and beguiled the smiles to her cheeks by kindly arts. When it grew dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting Mrs Crowdie’s promise that “she would see her the morn,” and that she would “let pooshack sleep with her,” she lisped her artless prayer at her knee and, laid in bed, dropped into the land of Nod with her arms around Mrs Crowdie’s big black cat.