Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure, - [sight word readers .txt] 📗

the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the New Song.

“Some people tell us that these things are not true. Others say they won’t last. My friends, I know, and many of you know, that they are true, and even if they were not to last, have we not even now ground for praise? Shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? But we don’t admit that these things won’t last. Very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, ‘How long will it last?’ If these objectors be now able to take note of the world’s doings, they have their answer from Father Time himself; for does he not say, ‘Christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?’ The Blue Ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on Christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. Who will come now and put it on?”

“I will!” shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with “bah!” and “pooh!” He soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue.

“Hetty,” whispered Mrs Frog in a low, timid voice, “I think I would like to put it on too.”

If the voice had been much lower and more timid, Hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. She knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of God.

“Come along, mother,” she said—but said no more, for her heart was too full.

Mrs Frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast.

Thus did that poor woman begin her Christian course with the fruit of self-denial.

She then set about the work of putting her house in order. It was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, “Lo! I am with you alway.” In all her walk she found Hetty a guardian angel.

“I must work, Hetty, dear,” she said, “for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am I to do with baby? There is no one to take charge of her when I go out.”

“I am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that I get such good pay from the lady I work for, but as you want to work, I can easily manage for baby. You know I’ve often wished to speak of the Infant Nursery in George Yard. Before you sent Matty away I wanted you to send her there, but—” Hetty paused.

“Go on, dear. I was mad agin’ you an’ your religious ways; wasn’t that it?” said Mrs Frog.

“Well, mother, it don’t matter now, thank God. The Infant Nursery, you know, is a part of the Institution there. The hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in London through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for—nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms—while the mothers are at work. They charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. They will keep Matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won’t it, mother?”

“It will indeed, Hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?”

“Yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! There is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you’ll have to be up to time, mother.”

Mrs Frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the Institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor!

Now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology.

We return again to Mrs Frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with Hetty.

“I can’t bear to think of ’im, Hetty,” said Mrs Frog. “You an’ me sittin’ here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an’ to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. He’s bin pretty bad to me of late, it’s true, wi’ that drink, but he wasn’t always like that, Hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink.”

“Yes, mother, I can, and, bless the Lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. When is his time up?”

“This day three weeks. The twelve months will be out then. We must pray for ’im, Hetty.”

“Yes, mother. I am always prayin’ for him. You know that.”

There was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. They soon changed the subject to one more agreeable.

“Isn’t Bobby’s letter a nice one, mother?” said Hetty, “and so well written, though the spellin’ might have been better; but then he’s had so little schoolin’.”

“It just makes my heart sing,” returned Mrs Frog. “Read it again to me, Hetty. I’ll never tire o’ hearin’ it. I only wish it was longer.”

The poor mother’s wish was not unnatural, for the letter which Bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader’s patience, and, as Hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in the writing. Nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother’s heart. We shall therefore give it verbatim et literatim.

Brankly Farm—Kanada.

“Deer Mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this Plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. O you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for Kensintn gardings—wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals—wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my—ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus—all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we’ll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun Bobby.”

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Mrs Frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband’s return.

“Yes, mother. Bless the people that sent ’im out to Canada,” said Hetty, “for he would never have got on here.”

There came a tap to the door as she spoke, and Mrs Twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome.

“I came, Mrs Frog,” she said, accepting the chair—for there was even a third chair—which Hetty placed for her, “to ask when your husband will be home again.”

Good Mrs Twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman’s feelings by needless reference to jail.

“I expect him this day three weeks, ma’am,” replied Mrs Frog.

“That will do nicely,” returned Mrs Twitter. “You see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con— in getting men like Ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of—of getting on in life, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life,” said Mrs Frog, sadly.

“Well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman—the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, Mrs Frog—which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as I happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the Yard, to the mothers’ meeting, I thought I’d just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send Ned to me the moment he comes home.”

“I will, ma’am, and God bless you for thinkin’ of us so much.”

“Remember, now,” said Mrs Twitter, impressively, “before he has time to meet any of his old comrades. Tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. I won’t tell you what. That is my message to him. And now, how is my Mita? Oh! I need not ask. There she lies like a little angel!” (Mrs Twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) “I wish I saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, Mrs Frog.”

Mrs Frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. She was thankful, however, to the good Lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages.

“Ah!” sighed Mrs Twitter, “if we could only transport you all to Canada—”

“Oh! ma’am,” exclaimed Mrs Frog, brightening up suddenly, “we’ve had such a nice letter from our Bobby. Let her see it, Hetty.”

“Yes, and so nicely written, too,” remarked Hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed Bobby’s production to the visitor, “though he doesn’t quite understand yet the need for capital letters.”

“Never mind, Hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters,” returned Mrs Twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; “and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short.”

“Yes, it’s rather short, but it might have been shorter,” said Mrs Frog, indulging in a truism.

Mrs Twitter was already late for the mothers’ meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint Mrs Frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. She sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that Bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which Canada had received since it was discovered.

“Now, mind, send Ned up at once,” said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room.

“Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night.”