BY MRS. ZADEL B. GUSTAFSON.
Near the small town of Millbank, and just outside the great city of London, there is a little street called Church Street, and a little square called Smith Square, and where this street and square come together there is a row of houses, rented very cheap, and in one of them lived the little girl whose story I shall try to tell you.
She was about fourteen years old at the time I speak of, and her real name was Fanny Cleaver; but her back was so weak, one of her short legs being shorter than the other, and she was so very little—not having grown any since she was seven years old—that she had given herself the name of Jenny Wren, and by this name every one knew her. The queer little figure, as it hopped about, and the queer but not ugly little face, with its bright gray eyes, made her seem wonderfully like the cheerful, quick, tiny brown bird whose name she had chosen.
Jenny's mother was dead, and Jenny's father was a drunkard. If you do not know what misery comes into a home, whether it is a rich or humble one, when the father has the evil habit of drink, then you can hardly understand what a great trouble little Jenny had to bear, and all alone, too, for her bright mind, her true heart, and her skillful little hands were all the friends Jenny had. What could such a little creature do? She printed the words "Room to Let" with a stubbed pen on a piece of white card-board, and hung it in the window; and it had not hung there many hours before there came a knock at the door. The door flew open by a spring which had been touched inside. Across the narrow entry the parlor door stood open, and showed Jenny Wren sitting in a low, old-fashioned arm-chair, which had a kind of work-bench before it. Jenny looked at the handsome young lady standing on the door-step.
"I can't get up," said she, "because my back's bad and my legs are queer, but I'm the person of the house, miss, and won't you come in?"
"You have a room to let?" said the young lady. "My name is Lizzie Hexam, and I want to hire a room."
"Um-m," said Jenny; she was pressing bits of card-board between her teeth. "Take a seat—but would you please to shut the door first? I can't do it very well myself, because my back's so bad and my legs are so queer."
Lizzie Hexam closed the door, and sat down. She looked kindly at the very little creature, who went on with her work a few moments in silence, gumming together with a camel's-hair brush pieces of card-board and thin wood, which had first been cut out in different shapes. There were scissors and small sharp knives, and bright scraps of velvet, silks, and ribbon, lying on the bench.
"You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound," said the little creature, with a quick bird-like glance at her visitor.
"You make pincushions?"