I was so glad to learn from Mr. Pease, that some of these little children, who had no parents, lived there in the house with him, and that he kept the others in the day time, giving them their dinners at noon. Poor, little innocent children! I looked at one little face after another, and I couldn't make it right that they should have to live where they can't help sinning,—where they are taught to be wicked,—where they are whipped and beaten for not being wicked,—because rich people love silks and jewels too well, to give Mr. Pease money to find them bread and shelter, and take them away.
Oh, if the rich ladies and gentlemen who live in fine houses, had only seen those poor children as I did, and heard their sweet voices, I can't believe that they would suffer them to remain in such a sinful and wretched condition. Some of them have sent money, which has helped Mr. Pease to buy a place in the country, where he means to carry all the children he can get, away from that vile neighborhood.
Is not that nice? How I should like to see them running over the fields, when work is done; tumbling about under the trees, growing brown and rosy and healthy; listening, not to curses and oaths, but to the warble of some dear little bird, praising God in his own sweet way, for his share of light and air and sunshine!
And now, as you sit in your happy homes, where you hear only kind, good, pure words,—where you never tremble at your father's footfall, or creep under the bed for fear of your own mother,—where you are never hungry, or thirsty, or cold,—where you meet only loving smiles, and go to sleep with the hand of blessing on your bright young head,—oh, remember the poor little outcast ones still forced to live at the Five Points; and if you cannot give them money to help them away, fold your hands and pray God every night to "keep them from the evil that is in the world."
"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"—and little Hatty tossed off her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who sat making the baby's new red frock,—"I am glad it is Saturday; I don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time, into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.
Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and Hatty said she should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of "helping" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her pocket: then she looked up and said,
"Bridget! I wish I were you; I should have such a good time tasting the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."
Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her draw a great long sigh.