“I wonder why young mothers don’t write for their children’s first copy Dante’s inscription, and teach their baby lips to lisp of the world what he says of hell.  It’s surprising to me that that parson is not crazed at his sense of the certain perdition into which everybody except himself is hurrying.  Perhaps, after all, there is something in the question of La Rochefoucauld, ’Is it not astonishing that we are not altogether overpowered at the misfortunes of our friends?’ Well, man learns something every day.  When I first saw a chicken take a billful of water and hold up its head, in my childish simplicity I imagined it thanking God:  I afterward discovered it was only letting the water run down its throat.  My mind, like good wine or bad butter, must be strengthening by age.

“Why can’t we take things quietly, as we did when we were boys?  I expect I had a rather comfortable time of it then, though I did get whipped for tearing my clothes, and killing flies, which I used to do worse than any bald hornet.

“Now, that youngster walking before me is whistling like a lark, and, by the Lord Harry, he has scarcely a shoe to his foot!”

He was a poor boy, perhaps seven or eight years old.  His face was pale and careworn, and though he whistled, it was a solemn kind of whistle, that sounded more like a lamentation than the outburst of childish gladness.  His clothes were too thin and worn for his slight frame, for the morning, though clear and bright, was frosty, and his little bare toes peeping out of his shoes were blue with the cold.  He hurried through the streets with a bundle of papers, but, even while intent on their sale, he had the walk of an old man, and his small shoulders stooped as though they bent under the weight of years.

Redfield eyed him narrowly.

“Paper, sir?”

“So, in this frenzied struggle after bread, you are an itinerant vendor of periodical literature?”

“You mean I sell papers, sir?  Yes.  I’ve only been at it three weeks.  I’m ‘stuck’ this morning.  Haven’t got a good beat yet.  Paper, sir?”

“Have you no fears of risking your commercial character by appearing on the streets in that unheard-of dress?”

The boy reddened.

“I’ve been sick,” said he, at length, “for a very long time.”

“My Lord!” groaned the philosopher; “here’s another conspiracy against my unfortunate pocket-book!  Why don’t your mother take care of you?”

“She did, sir; but she sews for slop-shops, and has worked so much at night that she’s almost blind.”

“Worse and worse! and here’s an outfitting establishment just across the street.  When will I acquire anything like habits of prudence?  Boy,” said he, fiercely, “you are a young vagabond, and deserve to starve.  Your mother should be put in the pillory for ever marrying.  That’s what the world says,—­and what I would think, if I wasn’t a consummate ass.  Were you ever blessed with a view of the most unmitigated simpleton the sun ever shone upon?  Look at me!  Look good:  I am worthy of a close inspection.  Now come along, and see to what extent my folly sometimes carries me.”