“Happy?” you exclaim; “happy” to go away thus from home and friends? Suppose that home were at the “Five Points?” suppose their fathers and mothers drank, and stole, and quarreled, and taught those children to do the same, till their very souls sickened at the name of home? till even the grave, dark and gloomy as it appears to fresh young life, would seem a safer, better, happier place? What then? Then suppose a good man, with his heart full of compassion for those little suffering, tempted, and, as yet, innocent children, should lay his hand of blessing on their heads, as Jesus did, and say, “Come unto me.” Suppose he should tell them that if they would leave these wretched homes he would take them thousands of miles away from the great swarming city, into the country, where the air is pure and fresh as the hearts of the people, among whom he would find them happy homes; where they would be taught to read and write, and never be beaten because they were unwilling to steal or lie. Suppose I should tell you that this gentleman, Mr. Van Meter, has taken many, many cars full of such children, to the far West, and that many of them have been adopted as own children into families who love all that is good, and to whom God has given means to provide for all their wants. Oh, what a change from the dirty, dark, noisome dens of the Five Points; no wonder the little children feel happy; no wonder they look up in Mr. Van Meter’s cheerful face, with eyes brim-full of trust and tenderness; no wonder they put their little hands in his and say, “Take us, we will go wherever you tell us;” and no wonder that his heart swells when, months after he leaves them in their new homes, he receives their letters, thanking him for bringing them there, and telling him how much they have learned, and how kind are their new friends, and how one of them is to be a farmer, and one a doctor, and one a minister; and then they beg him to bring away more children from those dreadful places, to the good and beautiful homes of the West. And well they may beg for their old playmates, the poor children who are left behind; oh, you can have no idea how wretched, how dreadful, are the lives they lead. Not long since, two young girls, five and nine years old, were living alone in a miserable room, with no fire, no food, and scarcely any clothing; but they were thankful even for a shelter at night, and in the day, they begged from door to door, for a mouthful of food; it was pitiful how hungry they were; it was pitiful their pinched, care-worn, old little faces. One day when they came home from begging, they found their landlord in the old dirty desolate room they called their home. He had come for the money they were to pay him for the use of it.
“Money?”
The poor little frightened girls looked up in his face.
“Money?”
They had none to give—not a cent; and so they were turned into the street.
Taking hold of each other’s hands, and wiping, with their ragged aprons, the fast falling tears, on they went, those little sisters, past happy homes, where rosy, well-fed children peeped at them from out richly curtained windows; past many a little happy face, upon the sidewalk, never stained with such bitter, desolate tears; past the good, past the bad, past the indifferent, up to the gate of a large stone building, where they stopped, knocking with their little half-frozen fingers. Why should the little sisters knock there? That is a prison; they have committed no crime—why should the little sisters knock there?
Because their father and mother are there—because they have no home on the wide earth if that wretched prison can not be their home. Do you wonder now, that Mr. Van Meter begs people to give him money, that he may take such children away from sin and suffering, to the pure homes of the beautiful West? I know your heart says with mine, God speed!
TWO LIVE PICTURES.
I wish I were an artist. I would paint two pictures that I saw to-day.
This was the first.