“I hope you didn’t meet with any accident on the way,” observed a man on the back seat. “You was pretty resolute.”
“No; but I came near losing one of my little girls.”
“How did it happen?” asked a motherly-looking woman.
“It was in the depot at Springfield. The children 119 were thirsty, and, charging them not to stir until I came back, I crossed the room for water. There was a great crowd rushing here and there, trains were coming and going, all was bustle and confusion, and I hurried, not having been away but a moment; but little Fannie, my youngest girl, was missing. Helen, the eldest, had been so taken up with the sights and sounds about her, that she did not know that her sister was gone. I was almost frantic with fear, she had so suddenly and completely disappeared. So, throwing my bonnet back upon my shoulders to attract attention, I cried at the top of my lungs,–
“My child! my child! I’ve lost my child!”
“Child lost! child lost!” shouted a number of voices, repeating the description I gave of her. Nobody seemed to have seen her; and a terrible dread that I might not find her wrung my heart, when, to my joy, above the din, I heard some one exclaim,–
“She’s found! she’s found! Where’s the mother?” and a gentleman, holding her aloft, brought her to me. He was deeply agitated, and said,–
“Your little girl, madam, came very near being killed. I found her under the car between two of the wheels, playing with them, saying, ‘Car may hurt a me; car may hurt a me.’ 120 The last bell had rung, and I had barely time to drag her off the track when the train started.”
“It must have been a great care for you,” remarked a passenger, “to bring your children on so long a journey.”
“It was, indeed,” she replied. “Generally the worst part of it was in getting them into the trains: the children are so small, and the rush of passengers so great, that they were in danger of being trampled on, or prevented from getting aboard in season.”