Jasper Republican, Volume 1, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 July 1875 — THE SONG THE TEA-KETTLE SANG. [ARTICLE]

THE SONG THE TEA-KETTLE SANG.

The tea-kettle was humming something that sounded like this, and started Nora, who was half-asleep by the fire: Puff, puff, puff, steam, steam, steam! Wake, little maiden, out of your dream, There’s a beggar at the door; Steam, steam, steam, puli; puff, puff! On the table there’s sapper enough For one little maiden more. “ Dear me!” said she to herself, “ I did not hear anyone at the door. What a funny tay-kettle! I believe, after all, it’s telling a story.” But no; for, sure enough, when she opened the door there sat a forlorn little being on the step, with white hair that looked like thistle-down, and so long and tangled that it hid her face entirely. All that Nora could see of her was her head and a bit of old cloak, -and, as she remarked afterward; “ The white reminded her, for all the world, of a tall thistlestalk in the autumn, that had caught and was clinging to a bit uv rags.” ‘‘Come in and warm yourself, won’t you ?” said she, half afraid of the weird little object. The child arose without a word and followed her into the room. Nora placed her a seat by the fire, and she spread out her tiny purple hands to catch the heat with an air of great satisfaction. “ I wonder if the taykettle conjured her up, sure,” thought Nora. “ She might be a steam sprite, if there be any such, but indade I niyer heard of the like.” She was the possessor of a learned volume which went very deeply into fairy lore; hut it did not mention anything of the kind.

“ Where do you live, sure ? Did ye get lost, poor little thing?” she questioned the child. “ I live down by the wharf and I didn’t get lost, only a dog stole my basket with all I had for the day in it, and I don’t dare to go home. Aunty whips me when I don’t carry anything home, and she’d kill me for losing the basket,” said the mite, in a precise, piping little tongne. “What’s yername, thin?” said Nora, her rosy Irish face all ashine with sympathy. “Mamma used to call me Tina,” said she, “but aunt calls me Mary.” “And where is the mother, that ye live with the aunt?” “ She said she was going to heaven, but they took her away in a box. I suppose they carried her there, though they didn’t go up when I saw them. She was sick, oh, such a long time! and I wanted her to go because she said she shouldn’t he sick any more, but he happy with papa,” said the little thing, solemnly. “ And the aunt is a cruel thafe of a woman and sends ye out a-begging, with your poor bits of toes to the ground, in weather like this! Bad ’cess to an aunt like that! I’d lave her to herself, entirely. You shall stay with me to-night, anyway, We’re poor enough ourselves, me mother and I. Me mother lives oat in a hotel* She use to be cook and made lots o’ money, but then she got sick, being over the fire so much, and now she only helps the cook and does little odd jobs, and little wages she gets. I worruk, too. I’m cashgirl at Haberly’s, and, with what we both earrun, we get along. Me mother sleeps with me nights, Mid to-night, coz ’tis Saturday night, she’s coming to supper. It’s her I’m kaping the table for.” “ Will she like to have me here?” said the child, looking anxiously toward the door. “ Sure she will. Me mother has the kind heart Don’t you fear, me dear. How could anybody shut their doors on the like o’ yon? Yo*’ll look like a bit of fairy.” Just then the door opened, and a woman with a kind face, very like Nora’s, entered the room. “ Here’s me mother,” said Nora,spring-

ing up gladly. “ Mother, see what a nice little company I’ve get.” “ Nice indade,” said Mrs. Murphy, patting the corn-silk head “ And who might sheVmedear?”^"” “ Her name’s Tina, and she lives with her aunt, and her aunt is cruel and hates her; and, mother, I’m going to kape her with me—for a while, at least She’s lost her basket, and doesn’t dare to go home' and the weather is cowldP’ said honest Nora, all in one breath. “ Well, well, we’ll see about it, me dew; but now let us take a bit o’ something to eat, if the tay’s all ready.”

Tina seemed pleased with the little flowered plate Nora placed for her. Her eyes were as bright and wide as stars, and she seemed more than content with her surroundings, but she could not eat. * “Maybe you had your dinner late?” said Nora, anxiously. “ I don’t have dinners,” piped Tina; “ I only has breakfasts and suppers.” “I’m afraid the child’s going to be sick. Her cheeks are so flushed like, and her eyes is too bright,” said Mrs. Murphy.

But Tina said she wasn’t sick, and she liked to look at the pretty room, and the red flowers on the paper. “ The paper do be pretty. I put it on myself, dear,” said Mrs. Murphy. “ But you will be sick if you don’t take a bit. I always know me Nora’s going to be sick when she don’t care for her supper.” “ Do you know, mother, that tay-kettle’s found speech for itself? It woke me up a talking and Singing away this very night,” said Nora, earnestly. “It made a sort o’ song about somebody’s being at the door, and there being room at the table for one more. And sure enough there was Tina at the door, though I hadn’t heard her at all!” “Och, you were dreaming, me dear; tay-kettles don’t spake.” “ Why, no, ’twasn’t exactly spakin’,” said Nora; “ it was just singing along a sort o’ song.” It was a fearfully cold night, and as it grew later the wind arose Mid blew fearfully. Mrs. Murphy bad thought of taking Tina home herself, as they had but one bed, and that one hardly wide enough for two; but she could not have the heart to take such a frail-looking thing out into such bitter cold. But warm-hearted Nora would have slept on the hard floor herself rather than have her brave that dangerous aunt, to say nothing of the cold, for, aside from the pity she felt for her, she took a great fancy to the child. She told her fairy stories until bed-time —the wonderful adventures of that sagacious youth, Jack the Giant Killer, the fascinating story of Puss in Boots, and the perils and triumphs of those valuable philanthropists, the Seven Champions of Christendom. Tina’s brown eyes shone like stars out of the tangle of white hair, and she hardly dared to breathe, for fear of losing the spell.

“ I like stories,” she said, clasping her little brown hands; “and you are so good. I never saw anybody so good before, ’cept mamma, and she went away so long ago I can’t hardly ’member. I spect you’re an angel, aren’t you? Angels are gooder than anything.” Poor Nora, with her little, freckled, Irish face and funny, tum-upnose! She didn’t look much like an angel. She couldn’t help laughing at the idea herself, though she felt immensely flattered. She thought that Tina looked like an angel when she was attired for bed that night., She had put one of her own white dresses on her, and had combed the corn-silk locks back from the little, fair, wistful face. The child’s beauty was striking, and it was high-bred beauty, too; even Nora recognized that. But there were black and blue marks on the delicate shoulders and arms that made her warm Irish heart ache, and she kissed them with something like tears in her honest blue eyes. - “ It isn’t me that’ll ever let you go back to the aunt again,” said she, half to herself. “If I have but a crust the bit thing shall share it, and I’ll slape on the floor meself, if me mother objects to being crowded.” The next morning Tina was flush and feverish, but still said she wasn’t sick; her head ached—that was all. Nora hurried home from mass as fast as ever she could, to keep her company, and the two children spent a happy day together. Nora kept a bright fire and told stories until her stock was entirely exhausted. Tina seemed thoroughly happy and took no thought of the morrow. Nora, to her, was like one of the go-ad fairies in her stories—she would take care of her. Aunty and the days when she went begging were already like a dream.

“ It’s onlikely that spalpeen iv a woman she calls aunty is any relative of hers,” said Mrs. Murphy, as she watched her while she was sleeping that night. “Mind, Nora, that child has gentle blood. These vile women steal pretty, frail-like children to send a begging, bad ’cess to ’em. The mother’s a weepin’ for the poor little lamb now, I doubt not.” “ Ah, mother, we’ll never let her go hack to the likes ov her, will we ? Didn’t the praste say as the good saints would give back all a body spent in deeds o’ charity?” “ But, me dear, how are yon iver going to provide for another ! Aren’t your own poor bits of toes almost out of the ould shoes now ? And when will ye be able to buy another pair? Coal is so dear, and there’s so much spint in this weather. Then I want yon to go to school and get a bit*’ learoin’, and not grow up in such haythin ignorance.” “ But I don’t want to go to school,” said Nora; “I can read now. I’d a hape rather kape Tina.” Poor little Tina! she was really ill. All night she tossed and moaned in her sleep and in the morning she could hardly lift her head from the pillow. Mrs. Murphy

did all (die could for her before she went to her work, and Nora hung over her until the very last moment, almost brokenhearted that she most leave her to suffer done. Bat work begins cm Monday morning, and if she did not go to the store she would lose her place. Then what would become of her friend? When she came home atnoon she found her in a fever; her eyes looked wild and strange, and she talked incoherently. “ Whativer shall I do for her?” said poor Nora, in despair. “ It’s the favur she have, sure; and who knows but she’ll die, the poor thing? I’ll niver get over it if she do die on my hands. P’r’aps a jug of hot water at the fate would draw the hate from the head, and p’r’aps a bit of hot tay, if I could make her drink it, would make her feel better. “ Tay-kettle,” _ she said, as she stood that useful vessel on the glowing coals, “ you towld me to take the little thing in and give her the supper; now tell me what to do for her if you can. She is that ill that it’s fit to break one’s heart just to look at her.”

But the tea-kettle only looked mildly contemplative and didn’t open its mouth; and as Tina was quiet for a few moments she sat down by the fire to think what she could do to help the little sufferer. “ I’ll not lave her again,” she said to herself; “ I Shall lose me place; but the saints will provide.” Leaning her head on her hands she was quite lost in thought until that funny, witch-like old tea-kettle started her with another one of its sage sayings in rhyme. The steam was pouring in a flood out of its crooked nose and it sang along in this wise: Steam, steam, steam, puff, puff, puff! The doctor, the doctor, ’tis plain enough What to do for a child! Nora started to her feet in a moment. A doctor, sure enough. Why did she not think ot it before? She was so unused to sickness that, with all her thoughtfulness, the idea of calling a doctor never entered her mipd. She hardly knew there were such sort of people in the world. “I’ll run for one this instant,” She said. “ I’ve got two dollars iv me own, that I was saving for the boots; but it’s better to let me feet go bare than let Tina be moaning in illness. I’m much obliged to you, tay-kettle, and sure I’ll always be after asking advice of you. You’re as good as gould.” And she made a little courtesy, that was not mockery, by any means, to the homely household god; for if there was a fairy she believed that one haunted the tea-kettle.

Then, hardly stopping to put on her things, she rushed out of the house. “ Do you know where there he’s a doctor?” she asked of Mrs. Donahoe, over the way, who always had a sick baby. But no, Mrs. Donahoe didn’t know where there was a doctor who tame for nothing to visit poor people, and she “ had no account of any other.” And so Nora rushed away on the wind to find a doctor’s sign. She found two or three, hut the first one was away attending to a patient; the second was ill himself and did not go out; the third told her shortly, without giving any reason, that he could not go to visit her patient. “ If all the doctors he’s as stony-hearted as you I may as well go home now,” said she to herself as she stood on the sidewalk. She clasped her two little red hands together, looking in every direction as if in search of help. “ What did you say about a doctor, my child ?” said a gentleman who was waiting in an elegant carriage by the street-side, noticing her look of distress. “ Oh, if I could only find a doctor, sir! The little one at me house is that sick I’m afraid she’ll die.”

“ Indeed! Well, I’m a physician myself, and I will go to see the child at once if you desire it Your sister, I suppose.” “ No, sir,” said she, without stopping to give any explanation. The number is 10 Canal court, if you please. I’ll be at the door and show you the way up when you get there; and thank you kindly, sir.” “He didn’t look as'if he’d be that good,” she thought, as she ran toward home. “ I should ’a’ said that he was stern-like and stuck up, in his fine carriage, and with his gould-headed caste; but you niver can tell by looks.” He was rather a stern-looking man. Nora was half afraid of him as he came up the rickety steps into the house. He was not so very old, but his hair was Showwhite, Mid his features were sharp and compressed, as if he had known trouble, and he had a grand air which seemed to awe the very house. Nora had brushed Tina’s hair hack from the little, flushed face, and she lay quite still, with her wide, fever-bright eyes fixed on the doctor. He gave one glance at her and then started back as if in alarm. “ Who is that child ?” he demanded, in a tone of more severity than the occasion required, Nora thought. “I don’t know what her last name he’s; I couldn’t make out by what she said. Her first name’s Tina.” “ I thought so,” he said, in a tone half triumphant, half anxious. “But where did you find her? She’s no relation of yours, certainly.” And he felt the fevered pulse with more than professional anxiety. “ She came here Saturday night, and we took her in,” said Nora. “She was afeared to go home coz she’d lost her basket and her aunt hates her. She sinds her out a begging. Me mother doesn’t think it he’s her aunt at all, though, but some thafe of a woman that stoled her coz she was pretty.” The doctor bit his lips and bent very low over the little, prostrate figure. “ He he’s a quare man,” said Nora to herself. “Do you think she will die, sir?” she asked, with tears in her eyes. “ I hope not, my child; but she is very ill,” he said, in husky topes, “lamin-

debtod to you, my good girl, more than I can express,” he went on, “ for this little beggar child is my grand-daughter. Her mother was lost to me years ago. She married a worthless man against my will, and I never forgave her. When she was dying she wrote to me, begging me to care for her child when she was gone. I did not receive the letter for some time, as I was in Europe then, but when I did receive it I hastened home with all possible speed. When I reached here she had been dead for nearly two months, as far as I could learn, and I could find no trace of the child. I have been searching for her ever since, and despaired of ever finding her. But as soon as my eye fell on her face this morning I recognized her, for she is the very image of her mother when she was a child. She has her eyes, her hair, her forehead, her expression. We called her Tina, too.” And the strong man’s voice was broken, as ts he were weeping. “If he have been hard to his daughter, he repints, and may the saints forgive him!” prayed Nora. “O sir!” she said, “there do be a good fairy in our tay-kettle, and ’twas she that bade me take Nora in* I niver should a knowed she was at the door!” The doctor looked at her as if he thought she was insane. But when Tina got well she found some sympathy in her faith in the “tay-kettle fairy.” Tina was very, very ill for a time, but she got well at last. All through her illness, though she was delirious nearly all the tithe, and did not seem to recognize anyone, she would'have no one to wait on her but Nora. Nora’s hand was the only one that could bring her relief; Nora’s very presence seemed to quiet her.

When she was able to be moved to the luxurious home of her grandfather Nora went with her, and Nora’s mother also. “ I want my Nora always,” she said. And the saints did pay the honest little Irish girl tenfold for what she “ spint in charity.” There was no more “ climbing other people’s stairs,” no more pinching poverty, no more hard work for either herself or her mother after that; for Tina’s grandfather in his gratitude could not do enough for them. He gave them a dear little homelike cottage for their very own, furnished in a way that would have suited the most fastidious; and, what was better than anything else, it was so near to Tina —just at the end of the garden. And besides that he gave them a sum of money which seemed almost fabulous to Nora and her mother. This was to be kept in bank and the interest of it to support them in their cheery little home. Nora is going to school, and is growing into a perfect little lady, though the burr will cling to her Irish tongue; and she still holds to her faith in fairies, and cherishes that old tea-kettle as if it were a golden treasure. And you may be sure she still “ spinds” in deeds of charity, for such a warm little heart as hers could never be made forgetful by prosperity.— Albany Journal.