Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 April 1888 — Sorrows of the Poor. [ARTICLE]

Sorrows of the Poor.

Some one has declared that there arc few sadder sights than that of a family Bible in a pawnbroker’s window. Still gnothgr person says that the story told by such A. mute witness is rivaled by that to be read from seeing a set ol carpenter’s tools in the same place. Both are tokens of downfall—the one of religions feeling, and the other of industrial and domestic life. A teacher in a city school attended largely by the poor tells the tollowing story: “I was going home late from school on a cold night, when I met one of my scholars—the brightest girl of all. She was trotting along, clasping something tightly to her breast under her great shawl—the garment, which was her mother’s, making her little figure look strangely grotesque and forlorn. The tears were running, disregarded, down her cheeks. “Why, what can be the matter?” I asked, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Oh, nothing, ma’am,” she said, as soon as she recognized me; but the effort of speaking was too great, and she burst into sobs. “It must be something,” I insisted. “Step inside this doorway and tell me. What is that under your shawl ?” Then her sobs redoubled, and she allowed me to draw forth the concealed package—Longfellow’s poems, which I had given her at Christmas. “I’ve got to pawn it,” she whispered, holding her head low in shame. “Why? Who wants the money?” “Mother; there’s nothing to eat in the house. She meant to finish her sewing to-day, and get the pay for it; but last night father was gone till twelve, and when he came home he wasn’t just right. So, being kept awake all night, mother had a blind headache to-day, and couldn’t do her work. I don’t suppose I ought to feel so about my book—l can get it back again; but it’s hard to think of its lying round in the shop.” “Suppose you make me the pawnbroker?” said I, giving her some money. “And when you have had twelve perfect days at school, you shall have it back again.” How her eyes sparkled! “May I?” she cried. “May I, truly? Oh, how good you are! Oh, I am glad!” She could not thank me in words, and so she impulsively kissed my hand, as she laid the book in it, and darted away with the money. It is needless to say that she was “perfect” for more than the next twelve day; and it is only safe to prophesy that when she grows up, my sturdy little maid will try to carry all the familv burdens on her own shoulders.— Youth’s Companion.