Rensselaer Republican, Volume 14, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 January 1882 — NEW YEARS HYMN. [ARTICLE]

NEW YEARS HYMN.

?TLEI TRAVELER. The day I Met thia little friend of iniue (whom I never shall forget) I had just left some other friends, and I was sorry that my pleasant visit to them was over. Iha lalong journey to take before '•!’ reached home, and I was to take it alone. I did not mind this, in . one way, for I have grown used to traveling by myself, but I felt lonely enough that day after the cars had started. However, I was lucky 1 in having a most Comfortable section in the sleeping-car,, and was well provided with books and lunch and pleasant thoughts. 80, after I had looked miserably out of the window at nothing for half an hour, I began to settle myself comfortably for the day or two I inust spend in the train. There were several passengers, but no one whom I had ever seen before, and it was some time before I lost the feeling that 1 was with a company of unknown people, and uegan to take an interest in my fellow travelers separately. There were the usual young couple in the very Dew clothes, who tried to make us believe they had been married these ten years, and there were two elderly women who 7 knew each other and were journeying together, loudly talking over parish and neighborhood matters by the way. Not far from me was a round, red-cheeked old lady in a somewhat fantastic dress, with a big bonnet all covered over with ends of narrow ribbons and lusterless bugles. J am sure she had made It herself and was proud and conscious of it. She had a great deal of small luggage m the copartment with her, and I thought she must be changing her her home, for she never could be taking so many and such curious looking packages for a visit. Beside these people there were four or five business men and a catholic priest, and just opposite my place was a little girl.

For Home time I supposed she belonged to some one in the car, and had I chosen to sit by herself for a While and look out of the window. Then I thought her father must have left her to go to some other part of the train, where he had found some one to talk with. But two hours went by, and it was toward noon, and I watched the little thihg grow sleepy and at last put her head down on the seat, and the doj] she bad held so carefully slid to the floor. I picked it up and carefully ■i placed it on her arm again, so that she might find it when she waked. I had noticed that the conductor had spoken to her, and I thought I would ask him about her when he next came along. She did not' sleep very long; the -stopping of the train startled her, and when she opened her eyes I smiled at her and beckoned ner to come to me. So she climbed on the seat besidd me, still holding the doll, and I asked her wnat its name was, and if she was .alone, apd where she was going. She Ippked up gravely into my face and told me'the doll’s name and her own, and then she did not say anything else. *Bhe was .younger than I had thought at firsthand set she was grave, and sober and saddened. “Isn’t your papa with you?” said I; nut she only snook her head and looked up at me again as -she sat beside me. I was strangely drawn to little thing; she puzzled me, and she’ was so Wistful. She seemed contented, and we both looked out of the window and talked now and then about the things we saw. She satin my lap so she could see better. After some time she said to me, “Mother Is dead,’,’ In a half-question-ing way, is if she expected me to say semething; but what could I say except that I was Sorry?—though there waa an that wonder in her face at having been brought in contact with so great amyftfry. Thisnew, undreamed-of, unoomfarfeble ohange was almost too much for hpfmipd to recognize at all, - out she hacj.been chocked by it, and ’eVerytillngVas different from what it Used to be. She knew that at any rate. . ■ ■

,“Poor; little girl.” said I. ( ‘‘She said she was going to die,” the child told me^tijiwatching me with bei*ead and'curious dyes as if everybody 'knew the secret of it' all and would n# tell hep. , “You will know all about it when ybu are older, dear, and you will see her again by-and-by,” I said, but she shook her head. ' ' „ “She jpn’t coming back any more,” , she,told me, aa if she were sure of that at atty rate. ' t : “I am going td have my lunch now,’ mid I. H andiyou will nave some too, 4 mnhfyou?”c < , , She was very hungry, and I was more fnufiil' plan, ever, for the fact of her friendliness grew mote and more n; plain. She hid very nice ways; she , eyidqhtly had bedn brought up carefully, and there was a quaint dignity and reserve about her; she did’nothing iu a hufryi asirshe'liad never been with otber ehlMten at all, and had learned umv Childish impatient ways. I noticed ~ Aer diqtibes, wipci> wene, beginning to » SpjF orn antl jOUtgrown, but were '» VeTy clean aud| well-kept. It was on the 1 ciSfge put she still wore what Jgkfasb have been her last summer’s hat, leghorn hat trimmed with white ribbon. and over .her shoulders she had fi vneof the dmallestof plaid shawls fol■dted corner-wise 1 and pinned over neats, ly. ■_ Hhe hgd some mittens, but she had r off and put them together; tfie conductor came in, ev jnueA ehHgeri to you, 1 ” lie said to ««;...«£ *wimt co take her out and give her some dinner when we I stonpeSTbOl Tgola dispatch that some thing Was wrong up the l line, and I had 1

to fly around as fast as I could. I only got part of a cup of coflee myself.” ‘ls she under your care?” I asked. The conductor moved the litte girl to a facing mine,>nd bent over to “rine-s left alonA in tlje world. Her father was a friend of mine, a freight conductor on the road, and be was killed pretty near two years ago. His wife was a nice little woman, and the company helped her some, and she sewed and got along very well for a while, but,she never had any health, and she died last Sunday, of the pneumonia, very suddenly-buried day before yesterday. The folks in the house sent a dispatch to a sitter in Boston they’d heard her speak of, and she answered right off that she’d take care of the child. They can’t sell off what little stuff there is until they hear from her. My wife told me how things were, and I spoke to the superintendent and he said I’d take her on free. I’d a taken her home myself and welcome, but as long as she has folks of her own she’d better go to them. I don’t believe much in fetching up other neople’s children, but the last thing I told my wife as I came out of the house was, that if I didn’t like the looks of the woman that comes for her I would Just fetch her back again.. She’s the best little thing I ever saw; seems', as if.she knew what had happened and was trying to make the best of it. I found this Pullman wasn’t full, and I thought she could move around in here more than in any of the other cars. There ain’t much travel at this season of the year.” “I’ll take the best care I can. of her,” said I; . “I’m going to Boston;” and the conductor nodded and touched Nelly’s cheek and disappeared. She seemed to look upon everybody as her friend. She walked with unsteady, short steps to the other end ol the car, and the bride,who was a pleas-ant-looking girl, spoke to her kindly and gave her some candy, but I am sure that presently the child said, as she had said to me, that her mother was dead, for I saw the girl bend over and flush a little, while her eyes filled with tears. I dare say she thought of her own mother whom she had lately left, and she put her arm around the child and kissed her, and afterward seemed to be telling her a story, at which she smiled now and then.

I read fora while, but in the middle of the afternoon I fell asleep,and when I waked again the car lamps were lighted, and I looked for the little traveler, who was standing in the passageway of the car. She had taken off her hat,and there was evidently something wrong with it, for she was looking at it anxiously and trying to fasten something that had bioken. 1 tried to beckon her to me, but in the seat Just beside her was the priest, a stour, up-sympathetic-looking old gentlepiail, and 1 was half-amused and half-touch-ed to see her give the hat to him and shots him where to fasten the strap of Ir. He was evidently much confused —he even blushed ;but he did what she asked him, with his clumsy fingers, and then j»ut the hat on tor ner as she stood before him and bent down her head as if he would have had to reach up to it. She was going away then, but he stopped her and gave her some money fro u his pocket; she came a step or two nearer to him and held up her face to kiss him, and then he looked out of the window a minute ano afterward turned and looked appealiugly. It had been like a flower dropped into bls prosaic life, I imagine; he was evidently quite surprised and pleased by so touching a confidence. It mmt have been a long, dull day for a child to spend, out she was as good as possible, and did not give anybody the least trouble. We talked with each other about her and felt as if she was under the care of every one of us. I could not help thinking how often we are at each other’s mercy as we go through this world, and how much better it would be if we were as trustful and unsuspicious as this little child and only looked for kindness at our neighbor’s hands. Just as it was growing dark she came to me and put her hand into mine and gave it a little pull.

“Come and see the birds,” said she, and I suddenly became aware of the chirping of a robbin somewhere near us. It was a sunny sound to hear in the winter twilight, with the rattling of the train and shriek of the whistle, for it is generally the note of the robin i who was going to sleep on his nest in an apple tree, or high on an elm bough, some early summer evening, But Nelly led me toward the old lady with so many bundles, and I found one of her treasures was a bird cage, and there, sure enough was the red breast, a fat fellow with smooth feather?, who winked and blinked at us and stopped his chirping as we stood beside him. “She seeptis pleased with him, the little girl does,” said the bird's owner. “I’d like to have her seethe rest of my I birds. Twenty-three I have got in all;

thirteen of .’em’s canaries. The woman in the other part of the house is takin’ care of ’em while,l’m gone. I’m going to Stockbridge th Spend thanksgiving with mymiece. It was a great piece of work to get started, and I didn’t feel at first as if I could leave the birds, but I tnew Martha’s lolks would feel hurt if [ put them off again about coming. But I had to take the old robin along with me. Some folks said it might be the death of him, but he’s never been one mite scared. His cage Stands in a window at home where be sees, a sight of passing,. He’s the tamest thing you ever saw. Now I’m so fur on my way I’m glad I did make up my mind to start, though it’ll be bad getting there lathe night. I think a change is good for. anybody, and then I’m so tied down most of the time with the birds that I don’t get out much, and there’s nobody to fetch in the news.” “Why don’t you fetch up a few car-rier-pigeons with the rest of your family?” skid I, and this seemed to amuse her very much. “Bakes aliveil don’t want nomore,” said she; “but then I’ve said that all along; allthe folks that keeps canaries in our 'plkce Comes to me if anything < [ails ’em. I was telling this little girl if I’d known I waa going to see her Pa , have brought along ajnice little linnet for her; he’ll sing all day long; 'but he and the one I put with him is always fighting each other, and all my other cages is too full a’ready. I reckon you’d be good to the little bird, would | you not, dear?” I The little traveler smiled eagerly, I while I suddenly thought of the five I sparrows that are sold for a farthing of I this world’s money, and yet they are 1 worth so much to God.

I think we were all anxious to see what kind of a woman the aunt woulc Im, and I was half afraid she would look hard-hearted, and I knew in that case I should always be sorry ' when I thought of the little girl whose hand I was so sorry to let go. I had looked after her at night. I had waked a dozen times to look at her sweet little shadowed face as she slept with the doll held fast in her arms. At the station in the morning I found some one who came to meet me, but I could not go until I saw the aunt. I waited with the conductor for a few minutes, and I Was beginning to fear 1 imi’t say good-by to my little traveler and never know her i fortunes. Every one of the passengers had given her something, I believe—pietiire-pa-pers and fruit and candy, and I do not know what else —and I had even - seen the old priest kiss her good-by most tenderly.and lay his hand on her head in what I am sure was a heartfelt blessing. I do not know whether it dome good old Latin benediction, or a simple longing that God would be near to the lonely child and that His saints would defend her as she goes .through the world to heaven. I was glad when I saw just the woman I had wished and hoped for, coming hurriedly toward us—there was no doubt that it was all right, She was sure of the child at a glance. I had fancied all the time that she must look like her mother. “My dear baby! ’ the woman said, with a sob,and caught her in her arms, while the little girl, with a quick, instinctive love, put out her short arms and they Clung to each other without a word. It was all right, as the conductor said again, half to himself, arid half to me. After a minute the woman said brokenly that she thanked him for his kindness. Poor Ellen,she never knew she was sick till the news came she was gone. He must tell people that Nelly would have a good home. They stopped to talk longer,and Nelly stood gravely by, but I had to hurry away, and after I was in the carriage 1 wished I could go back to kiss the little thing again.