If you visit much among the poor, few things will touch you more than the unnatural sagacity and trustworthiness of children who are little more than babies.  You will find these little things left in a bare room by themselves,—­the eldest six years old,—­while the poor mother is out at her work.  And the eldest will reply to your questions in a way that will astonish you, till you get accustomed to such things.  I think that almost as heart-rending a sight as you will readily see is the misery of a little thing who has spilt in the street the milk she was sent to fetch, or broken a jug, and who is sitting in despair beside the spilt milk or the broken fragments.  Good Samaritan, never pass by such a sight; bring out your two-pence; set things completely right:  a small matter and a kind word will cheer and comfort an overwhelmed heart.  That child has a truculent step-mother, or (alas!) mother, at home, who would punish that mishap as nothing should be punished but the gravest moral delinquency.  And lower down the scale than this, it is awful to see want, cold, hunger, rags, in a little child.  I have seen the wee thing shuffling along the pavement in great men’s shoes, holding up its sorry tatters with its hands, and casting on the passengers a look so eager, yet so hopeless, as went to one’s heart.  Let us thank God that there is one large city in the empire where you need never see such a sight, and where, if you do, you know how to relieve it effectually; and let us bless the name and the labors and the genius of Thomas Guthrie!  It is a sad thing to see the toys of such little children as I can think of.  What curious things they are able to seek amusement in!  I have known a brass button at the end of a string a much prized possession.  I have seen a grave little boy standing by a broken chair in a bare garret, solemnly arranging and rearranging two pins upon the broken chair.  A machine much employed by poor children in country places is a slate tied to a bit of string:  this, being drawn along the road, constitutes a cart; and you may find it attended by the admiration of the entire young population of three or four cottages standing in the moorland miles from any neighbor.

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You will not unfrequently find parents who, if they cannot keep back their children from some little treat, will try to infuse a sting into it, so as to prevent the children from enjoying it.  They will impress on their children that they must be very wicked to care so much about going out to some children’s party; or they will insist that their children should return home at some preposterously early hour, so as to lose the best part of the fun, and so as to appear ridiculous in the eyes of their young companions.  You will find this amiable tendency in people intrusted with the care of older children.  I have heard of a man whose nephew lived with him, and lived a very cheerless life.  When the season came round