There's a kind of wistful look
On his face;
Could we read it as a book
We might trace
Memories of a loved one, sweet,
Her who helps his weary feet,
As to fill Need's hungry maw
He calls "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny's gray and old,
Partly blind;
And his face is rough in mold,
But it's kind;
And his eyes are blue and pale,
Bleached by many a stormy gale;
Cracked, his voice, with many a flaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
We have missed him, for his place
None can fill,
And we long to see his face,
But he's ill.
He was strange and old and talked,
Muttered always as he walked.
Strangest newsie one e'er saw,
With "Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Maybe Johnny won't get well,
Who can tell!
He's been sick for quite a spell
Since he fell,
Crushed beneath the horses' feet,
As he called upon the street
Through the evening gray and raw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
Should God take him up from here,
This I know:
There'll be flowers on his bier,
Not for show;
And the Lord who loves the poor
Will grant Johnny this, I'm sure,
Right to shout 'neath Heaven's law,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."
[[1]] John McDowell, known as Copper Johnny, for many years a newsboy of Ottawa, was knocked down by a horse near the Russell House, Sparks Street. He was in the hospital when this appreciation was written.
[[2]] Johnny pronounced Le Temps—"Le Taw".
THE QUEST ETERNAL
Ofttimes across the plains of space I gaze,
When Night holds court amid her jewelled train,
And where her fairest handmaid beauteous glows,
I watch to see some signal-fire leap forth
To tell me if his soul's sojourning there;
For in his life I've heard him oft propound
This theory of the purpose of mankind—
The age-old mystery of the whirling spheres: