People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 September 1895 — LITTLE BLUE CAP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LITTLE BLUE CAP

WAS paying a visit to my friends, the Durands. They were c a friendly, plain c living couple who c lived in a manufacturing town in Ohio, 'o near the banks of s the river, in a great ? cottage, a mere bird’s nest, almost hidden by wisteria

and Virginia creeper. Durant, s hands bore the marks of honest toil, for he had been a locksmith in his yjuth. and had by industry and economy raised himself steadily until he became the proprietor of quite a thrifty business, and secured a competency for his old age. His wife, a quiet, gentle creature, worshipped her husband, and both of them wore on their faces an expression of serenity which betokened ease of conscience and a life of peace. Durand was approaching sixty years of age, and his wife must have been fitly, yet. in spite of their wrinkles and gray hairs, these two treated each other with an affectionate deference which was a pleasure to behold.

While we wore engaged in conversation just before dinner, Durand rose and opened a drawer to take out some trifle which he wished to show to me. While he was turning over the contents of the drawer, it chanced that a little cap, such as might have been worn by a doll, or an infant, fell to the floor. I picked it up, and noticed that it was made wf coarse blue linen, with bits of twine instead of ribbons. As I handed it to him, I said gayly; ‘‘Are you preparing a baby basket, Mr. Durand?” I had no sooner spoken than I regretted it, for I recollected at that moment having heard that the only shadow on my friend's life was the fact of their union being a childless one. For a minute Durand made no reply, but looked at the little cap affectionately then as he laid it carefully away again, he said, in a tone ot seriousness: "That is a souvenir, and I will tell you how it came into my possession. When I was fourteen years old, I was working in a large factory, and I had a companion, of the same age as myself, who, on account of his ugly features, we nick-named Monkey-face. He was a sly, mischievous urchin very fond of playing boyish pranks, but a jolly little chap, and full of pluck. He was so lazy that he would have been turned out of the factory had it not been for the indulgence of the superintendent, who had been a friend of his father, and took an interest in the boy for the sake of his dead comrade. Monkey-face was an orphan, and the only relative he had ever known was the woman who brought him up. a cousin of his mother. This woman, Mrs. Bolton, was a rude creature, who maintained herself by keeping two or three mechanics as boarders. Her affection for her young charge was manifested only by blows. Perhaps if he had known a parent’s love he would have been less perverse. "One afternoon, the lad took it into his head to run away from the factory, and go vagabonding about with a gang of idle urchins like himself. As they were coming slowly home after nightfall, they heard, to their astonishment, the cry of an infant. The sound seemed to issue from a long, dirty alley, which opened on the street, and at the other end of which was a dimly flickering

lamp. After a short consultation, the street boys ventured softij 7 into the alley, and one of them espied, beside an ash-barrel, a little bundle of rags which struggled and wailed. He seized hold of it. and the whole party dashed toward the thoroughfare, triumphant,’ stopping under a lamp to examine their capture. It proved to be a baby girl a few weeks old, wrapped up in coarse attire, a poor little innocent whom a wretched, perhaps desperate, mother had abandoned to the charity of stragers. “A council was held to decide what should be done with the booty, and the young captors gave free play to their mischievous imaginations. One wanted to put the baby back where they had found it: another, to hide it in an empty prune box. which stood at a grocer’s door; a third proposed to climb up a second-story balcony ano leave the youngster there, and how astonished the people would be next day! But Monkey-face scouted all these ideas, and declared that the baby must be taken to a foundling asylum. “Monkey-face’s decision was hailed with enthusiasm, and he claimed the right to carry the treasure-trove in consideration of his sensiole suggestion. “ ‘Give me the kid,’ he said. The baby had all this time been screaming piteously, but it stopped suddenly when Monkey-face took hold of It, and, while lie walked along with an air of triumph, it fixed its great blue eyes upon his ugly face and smiled, at the same time

stretching Its tiny hands out as if to caress him. “ ‘She is laughing!’ cried the boy in delight; ‘see how she looks at me!’ “Then a new impulse seized him. “ ‘I will not take her to the foundling asylum,’ he cried. ‘I will keep her myself.’ “His companions protested indignantly, but in vain, for, as they well knew, Monkey-face had at the end of each arm an argument so strong that it would be useless, as well as unsafe, to oppose his wishes. “When he reached home with his burden, Mrs. Bolton exclaimed, furiously: “ ‘Do you think I have not epough to do to fill your mouth, you lazy imp? Take that brat to the police-station—-quick now!’ Swat! biff! A box on each ear showed the boy that she was in earnest, and he fled from the house. "That night he did not return, and the next morning he was in the factory as soon as it opened, for the first time in his life. “ ‘Mr. George,’ he said timidly to the superintendent, ‘how much will you pay we if I work hard all day?’ “ ‘I have already told you, twentyfive cents,’ answered the man in surprise; and Monkey-face worked indefatigably until night. The superintendent, amazed and delighted at the change, paid the boy for his work and even gave him a dime in advance, at his urgent request, as he said he needed it. “That night Monkey-face was again absent from his home, and his cousin, Mrs. Bolton, went to the factory the next evening, lay in wait for him” and dragged him home in spite of his struggles, administering a thrashing on the way. But it was no use; as soon as the old woman turned her back to prepare supper, the boy slipped out of the house and did not return.

“The factory superintendent having been informed of the state of affairs, made up his mind to settle the matter at once, by finding out where Monkeyface spent his nights, and for this purpose watched the lad as he left the factory. Mr. George, in company with one of the workmen, followed the wanderer at a short distance, and observed him enter a bakery and buy a couple of rolls; next he went into a grocery, and came out carrying a bottle of milk, and then turned his steps toward a lonely, deserted quarter, near the river. Suddenly his followers saw him plunge into an alley; the place having no lamps was as dark as an oven, but Monkeyface was dimly visible as he stopped before a paling, fronting a deserted cabin. The next minute he had scaled it with the agility of the animal which was his namesake, and entered the cabin. “The two men, determined to discover his hiding place, waited a few minutes, and then cautiously followed him, and saw him seated on the floor of the wretched hut, which was illuminated by a tallow candle stuck against the wall. He was seated on the floor, and gravely pouring milk into a nursing bottle, and in a corner, on a bed of dried leaves, a baby was sleeping soundly, wrapped up in an old blanket. “Monkey-face transformed into a nurse! ' “ ‘What the dickens are you doing here?’ asked the superintendent, throwing open the door of the cabin suddenly; and the boy, startled at first by the intrusion, soon recovered himself and answered slowly: “ ‘Haven't I got a right to have a little sistdT - ?’ “Then, after a pause, he added grandly, T earn twenty-five cents a day. That is enough for us both, and we don’t ask any one for anything. Here are the rolls I intend for my own supper.’ ” The narrator paused, smiled softly, and added: “The next day the owner of the factory, being informed of the matter, raised my pay to three dollars a week—just double.” “What?” I cried. “It was you.” “Ah, I have betrayed myself,” said Durand. '“Yes, I was the young rascal who was in a fair way to become an idle vagabond; and, thanks, to the blue eyes of that little girl, I became a good workman, and afterward set up for myself in business. Now, you understand why I kept that little blue cap; she had it on when we found her.” “And what has become of her?” I eagerly asked. The old man answered: “We have never parted.” Then smiling, he looked at his wife and added: “Have we my dear?” She smiled in return, but her eyes were moist as she looked at him, and under her eyelids I saw tear-drop eiistenins.

I WILL KEEP HER MYSELF.