William Howitt.
When little Alfred returned home, on a Saturday afternoon, from one of the delightful visits to the woods of which I have told you, his mamma lifted him up on the sofa beside her, and said,
“How good our heavenly Father is to my little Alfred! He has given him a kind papa, who loves him dearly. Little boys cannot be thankful enough to God for that great blessing. There are many little children who have very unkind fathers. Some of them are wicked enough to spend all their money for rum, and do not get anything for their poor little children to eat.”
Alfred’s little sister Flora had run up to her mamma, to listen to her as she talked with Alfred. She was a tender-hearted little girl, and her lip quivered, and the tears came into her eyes, when she heard about the children who had such naughty fathers.
Then Mrs. Penrose took little Flora upon her lap, and went on talking to Alfred. She said,
“And my little Alfred’s papa takes him in the pleasant woods, and in the fields, and lets him gather the sweet flowers which grow there. And he and little Flora can hear the happy birds sing all day long. Now, there are some little children who never see a flower grow, or hear a bird sing, and they scarcely even see the pretty blue sky which is over their heads.”
“O, mamma!” said Alfred, “are they blind and deaf?”
“No, my love, but they live in dark and crowded places in the city. Some live in garrets, and some in cellars, where the houses are high and the streets very narrow. So the beautiful things which God has given us to make us glad are quite shut out from them. When I lived in the city I went one day to see a poor family who lived in a cellar, in a dark and dirty court. The father of this family was a drunkard. He had even sold, for rum, the bed on which his sick wife lay. When I went to her, the poor woman had only some straw, in a corner of the cellar, to lie upon. The children had very little fire, although the weather was cold, and nothing to eat, except what people carried them from day to day.
“Among the children was one pale, sickly-looking little boy, named Johnny. He was only eight years old; but his mother told me that she did not know what she should have done without little Johnny. He did everything that he could for her during the day; and when she coughed or moved at night, the little boy would run up to her and ask her if she would have some water, or if he should raise her head higher.
“In a corner, Johnny had a faded rose planted in some dirt which he had scooped from the cellar, and put in an old tin cup.