“Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp,” he said, on alighting from his vehicle. “He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient.”
“What is his name?” asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had no children of her own—those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.
“His name is Henry,” replied her husband.
“Henry what?”
“Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn’t that it, my boy?”
Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said—
“You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants you to do.”
“Yes, come along.” And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.
“Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do?” Yes, that’ tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge—the hewer of wood and drawer of water—for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of saving—one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought for, and regard toward the child to be exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.
“I don’t see that your mother has killed you with clothes,” said Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying him from head to foot. “But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and go to the pump across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of water.”
Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.
When night came, at last—it had seemed a very long day to him—and he was sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and laid himself down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and sobs. Poor child! How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to the narrow apartment, every nook and corner of which were dear to him, because his mother’s presence made all sunshine there! And bow earnestly did he long to be with her again! But he soon sank away to sleep, from which he did not awaken until the half angry voice of Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for “lazying it away” in bed until after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself, he went down and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring in wood, then to grind the coffee, afterward to bring water from the pump, and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done, he was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn’t want him, where he found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled and swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little matters to be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast time. After he had finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him plenty to do for some hours, and then her husband laid out work for him, at which he devoted himself all the rest of the day, except when he was wanted in the kitchen for some purpose or other. And so it continued, day after day, from morning until night. Not an hour’s relaxation was allowed the child; and if, from weariness or disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a piece of work, a severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was sure to follow.
Thus things went on, every day adding to the cold of a rapidly advancing northern winter. But Mrs. Sharp still thought, according to her first conclusions in regard to Henry’s clothes, that “they would do.” They were not very warm, it is true—that she could not help admitting. “But then he is used to wearing thinner clothes than other children,” she reasoned, “or else his mother would have put warmer ones on him. And, any how, I see no use in letting him come right down as a dead expense upon our hands. He hasn’t earned his salt yet, much less a winter suit of clothes.”
But the poor little fellow was no more used to bearing exposure to the chilling winds of winter than she had been when a child. He therefore shrunk shiveringly in the penetrating air whenever forced to go beyond the door. This did not fail to meet the eye of Mrs. Sharp—indeed, her eye was rarely off of him when he was within the circle of its vision—and it always irritated her. And why? It reproved her for not providing warmer clothes for the child; and hurt her penurious spirit with the too palpable conviction that before many weeks had passed they would be compelled to lay out some money for “the brat,” as she had begun frequently to designate him to her husband, especially when she felt called upon to complain of him for idleness, carelessness, dulness, stupidity, wastefulness, uncleanliness, hoggishness, or some other one of the score of faults she found in a child of ten years old, whom she put down to work as steadily as a grown person.
A single month made a great change in his external appearance; such a change as would have made him unfamiliar even to his mother’s eye. While under her care, his clothes, though poor, had always been whole and clean—his skin well washed, and his hair combed smoothly. Now, the color of his thin jacket and trowsers could scarcely have been told for the dust and grease which had become imbedded in their texture. His skin was begrimed until it was many shades darker, and his hair stood stiffly about his head, in matted portions, looking as if a comb had not touched it for weeks. One would hardly have imagined that so great a change could have passed upon a boy in a few weeks as had passed over him. When he left his mother’s humble abode, there was something about him that instantly attracted the eye of almost any one who looked at him attentively, and won for him favorable impressions. His skin was pure and white, and his mild blue eyes, with their expression of innocent confidence, looked every one in the face openly. Now there was something repulsive to almost every one about the dirty boy, who went moping about with soiled face and hands, a cowed look, and shrinking gait. Scarcely any one seemed to feel a particle of sympathy for him, either in or out of the house where he dwelt.
Time passed on, and New Year’s day rapidly approached, the anxiously longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward since he left his mother’s presence. Every passing day seemed to render his condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew colder and colder, and the snow lay all around to the depth of many inches. A suit of cloth clothes had been “cooked up” for him out of an old coat and trowsers that had long since been worn threadbare by Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were, they yet afforded a most comfortable substitute for those their welcome appearance had caused him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had worn when he left Boston were still considered good enough, if thought of at all, notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been worn so thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay between his feet and the snow-covered ground. In regard to sleeping, he was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in a large unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering. Here he would creep away alone in the dark every night, on being driven away to bed from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after his daily toil was done, and get under the thin covering with all his clothes on. There he would lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep warm, and think of his mother, and long for New Year’s day to come, until sleep would lock up his senses in unconsciousness.