Finally, I crossed the street to them. Not one of them stirred. The eldest brother was standing, leaning against the building. He turned one eye on me, and kept it there. At his feet lay a bulging, ragged satchel. Evidently he was the protector.
The elder sister, with hands tucked snugly under her folded arms, winked and blinked at me dozily. The little boy with the Nubian lips was sound asleep,—a baby Osiris,—his chubby hands hiding together between his knees for greater warmth. The youngest sister, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, was the only uncomfortable one of the lot. There was no doze nor dream in her eyes yet—poor thing, she was cold!
I didn’t believe they had had anywhere to lay their heads during the night. Liberty of a city, to one kind of new arrivals, means just that, you know. Sundry crumbs indicated an absence of the conventional breakfast table. Poor little darkies!
“Children,” I said, like a benevolently-disposed city marshal, “you mustn’t sit here in the street.”
“We’s gwine on soon, mistis,” said the protector, meekly.
“I ’low we ain’t, Jim!” The big sister said this without any diminution of the utter happiness of her look.
“It’s powerful cold comin’ up fru the norf, mistis. I mus’ let ’em warm up once a day,” said Jim.
“Up through the north! Pray, where are you going?”
Jim twisted about. He looked down at the toe of his boot, reflectively.