Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 February 1892 — HIS LITTLE JOHN. [ARTICLE]

HIS LITTLE JOHN.

Ihe Editor Wasn’t Too Busy to Write • Little Notice, It was almost midnight when he came slowly up the three flights of stairs leading to the editorial rooms and knocked timidly at the door. “Come in,” called out the city editor, without looking up from his writing. He came in slowly, a tall, middleaged man, too thinly clad for such a cold and stormy night. His wrists and hard bony hands showed red and bare beneath the sleeves of his thin and ragged old coat. He had an honest but ignorant face and an awkward, embarrassed air. He pulled off his old liat and held it in both hands, while he asked: “Is it too late to get a little notice put into the paper to-night, mister?” “No; guess not,” replied the reporter. “Got it written?” He pointed to a table near his own desk, and the man sat down before it. He took the pencil between his stiffened fingers, bit at the end of it while in meditation, drew the pad of paper toward him, and began to write. But he made slow and seemingly painful work of it. He crossed out a word here and there and his hand trembled strangely. Once he furtively drew his ragged sleeve across his eyes. Then he turned to the editor and said, in a tone of troubled hesitation aud appeal: “I—l—don’t want to trouble you none, sir, but I—l—ain’t used to writin’, an’ 1 never could spell good. If you—you had time to—to—write the notice for me I’d try to pay you what you think it’d be wutli.” Something in the man’s tone and manner touched the editor’s heart, and, busy as he was, lie said: “I’ll write it for you if there isn’t too much of it.”

“Only three or four lines, sir.” “Oh, a noticeof a meeting, perhaps, or something of that sort?” “No, sir; a notice of a—a—” the man’s voice died away to a whisper, his chin dropped to his swelling chest, his whole frame trembled, as he said, “a notice of a—death!” “I am very sorry,” said the editor, kindly and with genuine sympathy. “What is the name?” “ ‘Johnnie,’ we never called him anything else. He was named ‘John,’ after me, but I’d rather have it pripted ‘Johnnie.’” “When did he die?” “This evening, sir.- It was very sudden, and it comes harder on that account, though God knows it would be hard enough if we’d been expectin’ it. Such things never come easy to them that loves their children, and 1—I—” lie held his faded old hat before his face for a moment. “How old was he?” asked the editor, glancing with misty eyes at a photograph in a little red-plush frame on his desk, the photograph of a handsome, bright-eyed little boy with thick curls and smiling face. “Four years and six months to a day sir, and our only one. That makes it seem still harder. His mother’s ’bout heart-broken, and I—l—well, it’s turrible hard to sit and watch a little life like that go out, and to think of what the home will be without it. You got children, sir?” .The editor pointed toward the photograph, and said: “This is my little boy.” “He’s a sweet-lookin’ little feller. I hope he’ll be spared to you. We’ve got a good photograph of Johnnie. That’s one comfort. I wouldn’t take a million dollars for it now. Now, how much will it be for writin’ and printin' that notice?” “Nothing at all.” “No? Well, I'm a thousand times obliged, and I—l —hope nobody’ll ever have to write such a notice foi you ’bout that little boy of yours.” He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief wet with his tears, and went down the stairs as slowly as he had come up, and back to his poor little desolate home, to walk softly with bowed head in ttie presence of death, and to try to comfort his bruised heart with the thought that the dear little boy had gone to joiu the hosts of heaven.—Free Press.