"Joseph, has that sewing woman been down this evening; the one who always stops to give you a kind word and look, and smell of your flowers?"
"What, the one that looks so pale, the one who makes shirt collars; the one you gave the bouquet to, sir?"
"Yes; and I want you to give her another, here is the money."
"I wish I had known it a few minutes ago, for her daughter went by; she stopped a moment just to admire this one, and said, how she did wish she could afford to buy it for her mother; and then she said, it did not matter, she had such good news to tell her, and she picked up her basket, and away she ran."
There was a queer idea came into my mind, when he said basket, just as though there could be but one girl out to-night with a basket. I was about to drive away the idea as a foolish one, when something whispered me, "Ask him." So I did.
"A girl with a basket? Who is that girl with a basket; do you know her name?"
"Oh, yes. We call her, the little pedler. She is a nice girl. Her mother's name is May."
The queer idea was a true one after all. And so this woman, whom I had often seen speaking pleasant words to this poor legless Negro man, who sits night after night, upon the Broadway side-walk, selling bouquets, is Mrs. May, the little pedler's mother.
"Do you know where she lives?—could you get anybody to carry this to her to-night?"
"Yes, sir, here is Tom Top, he will go in a minute; he will do anything for me, or for a lady; he is ragged and dirty, but he is a good boy; it is a pity he had not somebody to be good to him. Tom, will you go to Mrs. May's for me? Stella, the little pedler's mother, you know where she lives?"