Part 2

A newsboy came along and told the apple-woman the tale Janet was unable to tell. She was shocked for the moment, for she had in her rough way liked Roy. But the hard, business part of her nature was uppermost in a little while. Here she was with this child on her hands. When Janet could sell nothing, as was often the case, Roy generally had a few cents to give her, so she had always felt that she was sure of some little pay for the poor shelter she gave the child. But now the case was different, and so she told Janet in no gentle way:

“You must get away from here.”

“Where?” asked Janet in a bewildered tone.

“Oh, I don’t know. Go to some of the s’cieties, or to that Bishop as gave you them old ragged stockings you think so much of.”

“I can’t,” said the girl, despairingly. “I don’t know where to find him.”

“Well,” said the woman, “you can stay here to-night, and I’ll give you a bit to eat in the morning before you go.”

Janet cried all night for her companion, for she knew that in the morning she would not hear his voice calling the papers. Roy was gone from her—had he not said “Good-by” to her? The dog slept beside her on the floor, and tried in every way he knew to comfort her, as he felt her tears fall upon his head. While the old woman slept, he stole to the box and brought Janet an apple in his mouth. Somehow his kindness comforted her; she dried her tears and kissed his shaggy head. For his sake she ate the apple and tried, but in vain, to sleep.

Morning at length dawned, and Janet rose, her plans all made. She did the work for the old woman, ate the dry bread and drank the weak coffee that was given her, and, after tying the dog, went forth again into the cold, hard world. The dog whined so piteously when Janet kissed him, and gave her such a pleading look which she could not misunderstand, that it was impossible to resist it. She left him tied, but in such a way that if he tried he could wriggle himself loose. She bade the old woman good-by, and thanked her for the shelter she had given her.

Roy had told her once that there was a beautiful park somewhere in the city, but it was a great way off. He told her there was lovely green grass in the park, and big, shady trees, and quiet pools of water; that the birds sang there all day long, and beautiful flowers bloomed there until almost winter-time. So the heart of the lonely waif, deserted and cast out by all mankind, turned to this beautiful spot of nature. She gathered her rags about her and started to walk to the park. She was not strong—starvation and exposure do not give strength to children—and when hope dies, the cup of sorrow runs over, and the little strength left is soon exhausted.

So she trudged along, sometimes stopping for a moment to look at what she passed, and often gazing at the food displayed in the shop-windows, for she was very hungry. Something in her wan, white face must have appealed to a man who passed her, for he stopped and gave her a penny. She bought a roll with it, devoured it like an animal, not like a child, and then walked on.

At last a lady passed her and asked her to carry one of the many bundles she was laden with a few blocks for her. Janet rose to oblige her, for she was sitting on the steps of a house to rest. When she had carried the bundle as far as was desired, the woman gave her five cents, and, noticing how utterly miserable the child looked, asked her where she was going.

“To the park,” replied Janet.

“Why, my child,” she said, “that is very far away from here. You had better ride in the cars.”

“But I don’t know how to get the right one,” said Janet.

The woman showed her the car, and with the five cents she rode and rested at the same time.

At last she came to what she knew must be the beautiful park. After she had entered it, she went along in a timid, fearful way till at last she came to a secluded spot. She seated herself on one of the benches, but from time to time she looked over her shoulder to see if the policeman (the greatest terror of the poor) was coming.

She rested a long time under the overhanging branches of a large tree—how long she did not know. After a while she saw throngs of people on the road, driving in gay carriages. She wondered if she could cross over to the water, where Roy had told her there were boats; but she was afraid to move, for fear the police would lay hold of such a ragged-looking thing as she felt herself to be.

On this beautiful October afternoon the grass, lately mowed, looked like an emerald carpet spread down. The sunbeams and the shadows chased each other across it, as the leaves of the trees stirred in the gentle breeze. Now and then some dry, crisp leaves fell around Janet, for there had been a frost already in the early autumn.

Little Janet was very hungry, and the look of starvation in her young eyes was enough to melt a heart of stone. She kept her feet carefully on the path, for fear of touching the grass, for all around she saw the signs, “Keep off the grass,” and she was afraid of trespassing.

At last a thought struck her. She could make herself look a little better! Putting her hand in her bosom, she pulled out the stockings the Bishop had given her. Taking off her ragged, rusty shoes, she carefully drew them on.

They were very different now from what they were when the Bishop took them off the tree and handed them to her. In each one there was a hole in the toe and a hole in the heel, and a number of other smaller holes all the way up, until they all joined at the top to make a ragged edge. It was not easy to get the torn stockings on, but she pulled them up tight, and tied a bit of string around them to keep them in place. Then she pulled them about so as to show the fewest holes, and dexterously drew the old shoes over them. She patted the stockings lovingly, as her thoughts went back to that Christmas and the tree in the church, saying softly to herself: “And the Bishop said to me, ‘God bless you, my child! Remember to keep yourself clean and pure to the end of your life.’ And he looked up at that sugar boy with the shining wings on the top of the tree. Now I wonder who that was, and what he meant when he said, ‘God bless you, my child’? Who is God? ‘Remember to keep yourself clean to the end of your life.’ I’m ragged, but I guess I’m clean. And pure, he said, too. I wonder what ‘pure’ means? I can’t make it all out. I do wish grand people would say words poor, ragged little girls like me could make out; but I suppose the Bishop couldn’t do that. And I’ll never know what he wanted me to do. Well! I’ll try to find them boats Roy told me about.”

She looked carefully around, and, watching her chance when the policeman’s back was turned towards her, she passed behind him across the walk, and then sped away to the water’s edge, still hiding behind trees and bushes.

When she got to the water, she was struck dumb with the beautiful scenes around her. On the top of the bank, on the drive, walked another policeman. She skipped behind a tree at the edge of the water. Then she saw ducks, swans, and geese, swimming right up to the land. She saw troops of children of all ages, children of the rich, beautiful, with plump cheeks and curly hair, and such lovely clothes. She saw little tots, with bonnets almost as large as themselves. They were joyous and happy, laughing and talking as they fed the feathered tribe. To Janet’s horror, these favored children pulled grass by the handfuls, and fed the waterfowl, while the policemen talked to the nurses on the drive. Little Janet always had before her eyes the sign, “Keep off the grass.”

A pretty child dropped a biscuit on the ground. Janet’s hungry eyes were fixed upon it, but she dared not touch it, for fear of the dreaded policeman. The lovely child looked up and caught the glance; and, like children in their fraternal, natural way, she said, “Do you want it, little girl?” Janet nodded, and the child picked it up and gave it to her, to feed the swans with.

Just then the nurse looked up from her novel and saw the child talking and handing something to this ragged little creature. She screamed, with horror in her voice, “Susie! Come here this instant! What are you doing with that ragged vagrant?” And to Janet: “Be off with you! I’ll tell the policeman to take you away. Such vagabonds as you are not allowed in the park!”

Janet moved off with a full heart, wondering why she had not good clothes and pretty curls like those children, and why the nurses and every one drove her away from them. She was too weary and bewildered to think any more. She was near the boat-house, so, sitting down on the steps, she ate her biscuit, and dipped up water in her hand and drank it to quench her thirst. At the top of the bank she saw more policemen, but they were interested in more important things; so she passed on by the edge of the water until she came to a hill densely covered with trees and bushes. She turned away from the drive and climbed the hill.

When she got to the top, she sat down on the ground and took off her stockings because the twigs caught in the holes and tripped her. She took one off slowly, and dropped it on the walk in a little heap, and then its mate in another little heap.

She was so exhausted that she crawled under a bush whose branches bent over and touched the ground. There, completely hidden, she felt safe. No people passing, no policemen, no one to call her ragged. This seemed a forsaken and lonely spot, apparently not worth guarding. So she soon fell asleep and forgot all her woes.

She slept for hours, and woke with a chill, wondering where she could be. It was some time before she could remember and tell how she got there. Then memory asserted itself, and all her misery rushed back upon her.

She sat up and crept out of her hiding-place, feeling that she was alone in the world. No father, mother, sisters, or brothers, no Roy, no one in the wide, wide world.

Not only no one to love her, but no one even to know that she existed. Alone—all alone!

The throngs of people had left the park and gone to their homes, to eat, drink, and be merry. Little children were tucked snugly in their beds, and all the great city was at its ease. Janet was alone in the silence of the night. No sound was heard in the darkness. The night was cloudy, and she was cold, hungry, and miserable.

Her brain was weak from starvation, and she said in a whisper: “Yes, Bishop, I’ve kept myself clean and pure. Your stockings are here, Bishop. There’s a hole in the toe, a hole in the heel, and holes all between the toe and the heel—but I’ve got them yet.”

She put on the old shoes, and seemed to be looking for something. Her braided hair had come loose, and fell like a veil about her. Her eyes were raised to the sky. The clouds parted and a bright star appeared.

She cried out with delight: “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you a long time. I was afraid you had forgotten me. You need not blink at me and twinkle so. I see you! I know you! I promised to see you to-night, so I’ve come on this hill to be near you. You know what I want. Don’t go away and leave me! It’s so dark, it frightens me. I’m coming to you! You are the only friend I have.

I’m coming! Pretty star, stay! I’m coming! Don’t, oh don’t go away. Don’t leave me alone, little star! For I am down here, and you are so far.”

Other children had been put to bed hours before, and told that angels would guard their beds through the night. The little ones thought they came down on ladders, from some place they were taught to call heaven. Janet knew nothing of warm beds, good food, or fine clothes—of heaven, or of angels that came down on ladders.

There was a rustling of the dried leaves on the bank, near the water. Janet held her breath in fear, but the sound died away. Then she continued to whisper to the star, “You have talked to me so many nights, blinking at me through the window. I’m coming!”

The child of ignorance, poverty, and despair stood on a stone to be nearer the star. The wind had risen, and wrapped the girl’s black hair around her like a mantle. Her arms were stretched out to the star, and her eyes were fixed with unutterable love on the shining orb. And who shall say that there were no angels, waiting for her to ascend on high?

Silently the child stood there, with clasped hands and wide, staring eyes, until the star went out, as she thought. Then she looked down into the water, and saw the star there, for the clouds had parted once more, and it seemed nearer to her than it did up above.

* * * * *

As the clouds rolled away, the silence of the night was broken by crackling twigs and loosened stones rolling down the steep side of the hill. A splash in the water, which seemed to smile, as it rippled in circle after circle, until it again settled into stillness; and the star shone brilliantly as ever, but told nothing of what it had seen.

* * * * *

Standing on the avenue after midnight was a watchful policeman. Out of the park came a mongrel dog, which ran up to him and with a piteous whine put his paws upon him and looked up into his face.

The policeman was a kindly man, and, taking some food from his pocket, he offered it to the dog, talking to him and patting him. But the dog refused all kindness for himself. That was not what he wanted. It seemed as if tears were almost in his eyes, and he spoke as plainly as a dog could speak, looking from the policeman over to the great lonely park. The officer more than half understood him, but he was not allowed to leave his beat. The dog continued his pleading until he saw that it was of no avail. He ran back into the park and up the hill to the top, where on the walk he sniffed around the Bishop’s stockings that lay where Janet had dropped them. Then, with a piteous cry, he sprang down the steep side of the hill, and the water once more seemed to smile as it gently rippled to the bank.

Transcriber’s note:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in hyphenation have been retained as they were in the original publication.