Doodles, the Sunshine Boy

by Emma C. Dowd

The next day Mrs. Stickney walked out of the big silver shop with the other workers, inwardly rebelling at the command that forced her to give up the daily wages so needful for the comfort of herself and her family. Only a little money was in the emergency purse. Six dollars a week left not much to spare, and women hands in the silver shop were not allowed to earn more than a dollar a day. If by dint of nerve and skill a toiler in skirts was able to add a few cents to the customary one hundred her work was so arranged that she must keep to her task more closely to compass even her regular pay. Yet Mrs. Stickney never complained; six dollars paid the rent, bought plain food, a slender amount of fuel, and enough clothing for actual need. But now? The mother had pondered the question through all the working hours, she had carried it to bed with her night after night, and it was no nearer the answer than when it had first dismayed her. She must get something to do—anything! But with hundreds of unemployed women ready to pounce upon every little odd job would there be any chance for her? On her way home she called at the settlement, not far from The Flatiron, hoping that one of the girls, whom she slightly knew, could direct her to somebody in need of a seamstress. But the friendly answer was disappointing.

“I am sorry I can’t give you any encouragement, Mrs. Stickney. We have more applications than we know what to do with. I will put your name on the waiting list, and there may be something later.”

So she went home to Doodles burdened with forebodings, though resolved that he should not suspect her worry. He was delighted at thought of having her with him all day long, and she fostered his pleasure by filling that first afternoon with song and stories and gay talk.

Just before six o’clock, Granny O’Donnell, shrewd as kind, toiled up the stairs with a little loaf of hot gingerbread—gingerbread such as only Granny knew how to make.

Then Blue came in, late and jubilant. He had earned an extra quarter by delivering some parcels for a paper customer, and more errands were promised.

Thus the supper hour went blithely, and afterwards the dishes in the pan rattled merrily to the tune of “Edinburgh Town.”

The prepared food which Mr. Gillespie had generously sent home with the mocking bird was now nearly gone. Blue looked sadly into the little box every time he filled Caruso’s cup. How could they spare half a dollar for more! Yet the Scotchman had said that the bird’s health depended on it. Happily, carrots were cheap, and patiently the boy grated them, mixing as much with the other food as he dared, often going beyond the prescribed proportion. He also went hunting through obscure corners of The Flatiron for dead flies and live spiders, making a fortunate find, one rainy Saturday, in a vacant room in the second story. Scores of lifeless flies dotted the floor and window sills, and Blue brushed them up with delighted hands. Treated with boiling water, they would make dainty tidbits for the gray bird. In these ways the dreaded day of famine was postponed.

Meanwhile Christarchus Apostus Geanskakes came to be the daily comrade of Doodles. As the strike continued, and Mrs. Stickney obtained employment in a restaurant kitchen, which kept her from home all of the daylight hours, this was especially satisfactory.

“I tell you how play,” the Greek boy had proposed on an early visit, and Doodles was blissfully ready to learn. So the daily lessons went on, the pupil making rare progress, and happy beyond anything he had ever known. Music was his joy, and to be able to cause such wonderful harmonies with—according to Blue—“just some horse hairs and those four fiddle strings” was an unending marvel and delight. If only he could have a violin of his own—a little one! Christarchus said you could get them cheap. But when he had suggested it to his mother she became so strangely grave that he did not speak of it again. Perhaps she was thinking of Uncle Jim. Christarchus urged his own instrument upon him whenever he was not practicing himself, and it was far better than any he could hope to buy. So side by side with the increasing anxiety of his mother and brother his happiness grew. And then, one sunny forenoon, when Doodles supposed him to be at school, Christarchus walked slowly in. His face foreboded ill.

“I go,” he said drearily. “My fader he go New York—get more pay—I haf go.” His big black eyes, usually brimming with sparkles of glee, were shadowy and mournful, as if, at any instant, they might melt into tears.