Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 May 1875 — THE LITTLE OLD MAN. [ARTICLE]

THE LITTLE OLD MAN.

The Little Old-Man is somewhat over two feet high; he has a plump face, very red lips—usually puckered to a whistle—and very blue eyes; his yellow hair is inclined to curl; he wears pretty- cloth suits, and answers to the name of Willie. In short, he might readily be mistaken for a little boy in his fifth year; his mother, I believe, does consider him a little boy, but his infantile appearance deceives nobody else. So this staid, mature fellow, when moving along the pavements of his native town, is greeted by his friends and answers to the appellation of the Little Old Man. The Little Old Man is wise in worldly matters; he watches his father and all the big men, and is careful to rule his conduct by their example. Indeed, he sometimes appears to pass them in matters requiring foresight and skillful handling. The Little Old Man was sitting on his father’s gate-post sunning himself one day when he espied Mr. Osgood across the street. Raising his voice the Little Old Man called “Mr. Osgood!” vigorously, until.that gentleman. was constrained to come over and ask what was the matter. “ Wait a minute,” said the Little Old Man, “I've got somefin’ I’ve been a keepin’ for you!” “Indeed!” remarked Mr. Osgood; “ very kind of you, my Little Man.” “ It’s way down in my pocket,” puffed the venerable youngster, diving deeper and deeper into his trow'sers. “There!” He drew forth a peanut and presented it to his friend. As graciously as ever King conferred knighthood on humble subject did the Little Old Man confer this one small peamit. Touched by such evident friendship and self-sacrifice Mr. Osgood forced the peanut back upon him, but the Little Old Man in his turn forced the peanut upon Mr. Osgood, so that the latter was obliged to accept it, and to button it up in his vest pocket together with the disinterested generosity it seemed to express.

“ Thank you, my son, thank you, thank you!” said Mr. Osgood, turning aWay with a smile, made happier for the moment by reflecting that there were little ones, at least, in this world who had no axes to grind. “ I say, wait a minute, Mr. Osgood,” cried the Little Old Man; “ see here! Next time you go to a festible won’t you buy me a tin trumpet?” This Little Old Man knew what tender periods he might take advantage of to exact the service and homage due his age. He once bawled the whole length of the avenue after young and stylish Dr. Green, who was walking with a pretty cousin of the Little Old Man. The doctor —fervent in serving any member of the family—made haste to run to his assistance. “ Tie my shoe, ye string’s broke,” commanded the Little Old Man, offering a foot to the ardent suitor who was* seeking a hand. In his rambles this venerable juvenile one day entered a boot-store and was struck by the fact that bis feet were not arrayed in a manner becoming his age and station v . ■f. “ I want a pair o’ boots,” said the Little Old Man, sitting down and pulling off his muddy shoes. “I fink I’ll take vem up ’ere!”

So making his choice and calling the merchant to his assistance he thrust feet into the new boots and walked off. Astonished was he to learn in the course of the evening from a grave conversation which his father held with him that he wTonged the merchant by his boot transaction, inasmuch as he had seized boots as booty. “ Merchants do not give away their wares,” explained the father. “ They want money for what they offer you.” The Little Old Man—ripe in his sense of justice—after his next breakfast made Mste to carry his “Nest Egg to the dealer in leather and to shake from it every one of the nineteen coppers it contained; thus satisfying justice though he left himself penniless!

Poverty did not sting, however, until with hands in empty pockets he drew himself up before a confectioner’s windoW* realizing deeply the laws of tradiywhich he so lately learned. But the Little Old Man was not t»> be deprived of-sweets for his tooth if they did cost an equivalent. His fortune was invested in boots, and boots must be his bank. He entered and made a generous purchase, pulled off his boots and set them on the counter before the astonished dealer, and, hugging his parcels, jogged contentedly homeward in hisstockings. On one occasion a great devsire for licorice root possessed the Little Old Man, but he felt quite bankrupt. " But, bold in the conscious possession of virtue and an indulgent papa, he demanded “five cents’worth” at the hand of a complaisant druggist, and gave him a “good day” ifi return. “Here, my Little, Man,” called the druggist, “ haven’t you any money to pay for this?” > “ O yes,” replied the Little Old Mah, filling his mouth and ’smiling encouragingly. ■■■’ -. . . • • Wei Iwhere- is it ?” “ In mv famther's pawket 'l munched the' Little Old Man. As passing months added wisdom to his

mind, however, this youthful sage perceived the advisability of staving off future poverty and reinstating his credit. So he entered into business relations with a friend of his father’s named Mr. Cole. For certain services rendered to Mr. Cole he received that gentleman’s note of hand for the sum of one cent, United States currency, and waited a discouraging length of time for his debtor to pay down the hard money. But as Mr. Cole enjoyed his constant dunning and seemed determined never to redeem the note the Little Old Man was driven to severe measures. Ringing his debtor’s door-bell three times a day, and calling on him for payment both in private and public, only to lie laughed at, became unendurable. So one day when Mr. Cole was entertaining a party of friends, the Little Old Man pounced in upon him, leading a grinning policeman by the hand. “There!” he cried, waving Mr. Cole’s pointing him out to the protector of the people, “ I want you to ’rest him. He won’t pay me my cent!” But no pen could chronicle half his doings—his odd attitudes and questions and independent theories, his theological opinions and utter freedom from restraint. I suppose his hands are folded now and he is lying asleep with his red lips open, looking so like a child of four or five years that you can scarcely believe his friends when they tell you he is a perfect Little Old Man. —Mary Hartwell, in Christian Union.