The December sun shone clear and cold upon the city. It shone upon rich and poor alike. It shone into the homes of the wealthy on the avenues and in the up-town streets, and into courts and alleys1 hedged in by towering tenements3 down town. It shone upon throngs5 of busy holiday shoppers that went out and in at the big stores, carrying bundles big and small, all alike filled with Christmas cheer and kindly6 messages from Santa Claus.
It shone down so gayly and altogether cheerily there, that wraps and overcoats were unbuttoned for the north wind to toy with. "My, isn't it a nice day?" said one young lady in a fur shoulder cape7 to a friend, pausing to kiss and compare lists of Christmas gifts.
"Most too hot," was the reply, and the friends passed on. There was warmth within and without. Life was very pleasant under the Christmas sun up on the avenue.
Down in Cherry Street the rays of the sun climbed over a row of tall tenements with an effort that seemed to exhaust all the life that was in them, and fell into a dirty block, half choked with trucks,
[124]
with ash barrels and rubbish of all sorts, among which the dust was whirled in clouds upon fitful, shivering blasts that searched every nook and cranny of the big barracks. They fell upon a little girl, barefooted and in rags, who struggled out of an alley2 with a broken pitcher8 in her grimy fist, against the wind that set down the narrow slit9 like the draught10 through a big factory chimney. Just at the mouth of the alley it took her with a sudden whirl, a cyclone11 of dust and drifting ashes, tossed her fairly off her feet, tore from her grip the threadbare shawl she clutched at her throat, and set her down at the saloon door breathless and half smothered12. She had just time to dodge13 through the storm-doors before another whirlwind swept whistling down the street.
"My, but isn't it cold?" she said, as she shook the dust out of her shawl and set the pitcher down on the bar. "Gimme a pint," laying down a few pennies that had been wrapped in a corner of the shawl, "and mamma says make it good and full."
"All'us the way with youse kids—want a barrel when yees pays fer a pint," growled15 the bartender. "There, run along, and don't ye hang around that stove no more. We ain't a steam-heatin' the block fer nothin'."
The little girl clutched her shawl and the pitcher, and slipped out into the street where the wind lay in ambush16 and promptly17 bore down on her in pillars
[125]
of whirling dust as soon as she appeared. But the sun that pitied her bare feet and little frozen hands played a trick on old Boreas—it showed her a way between the pillars, and only just her skirt was caught by one and whirled over her head as she dodged18 into her alley. It peeped after her halfway19 down its dark depths, where it seemed colder even than in the bleak20 street, but there it had to leave her.
It did not see her dive through the doorless opening into a hall where no sun-ray had ever entered. It could not have found its way in there had it tried. But up the narrow, squeaking21 stairs the girl with the pitcher was climbing. Up one flight of stairs, over a knot of children, half babies, pitching pennies on the landing, over wash-tubs and bedsteads that encumbered22 the next—house-cleaning going on in that "flat"; that is to say, the surplus of bugs23 was being turned out with petroleum24 and a feather—up still another, past a half-open door through which came the noise of brawling25 and curses. She dodged and quickened her step a little until she stood panting before a door on the fourth landing that opened readily as she pushed it with her bare foot.
A room almost devoid26 of stick or rag one might dignify27 with the name of furniture. Two chairs, one with a broken back, the other on three legs, beside a rickety table that stood upright only by
[126]
leaning against the wall. On the unwashed floor a heap of straw covered with dirty bedtick for a bed; a foul28-smelling slop-pail in the middle of the room; a crazy stove, and back of it a door or gap opening upon darkness. There was something in there, but what it was could only be surmised29 from a heavy snore that rose and fell regularly. It was the bedroom of the apartment, windowless, airless, and sunless, but rented at a price a millionaire would denounce as robbery.
"That you, Liza?" said a voice that discovered a woman bending over the stove. "Run 'n' get the childer. Dinner's ready."
The winter sun glancing down the wall of the opposite tenement4, with a hopeless effort to cheer the back yard, might have peeped through the one window of the room in Mrs. McGroarty's "flat," had that window not been coated with the dust of ages, and discovered that dinner party in action. It might have found a score like it in the alley. Four unkempt children, copies each in his or her way of Liza and their mother, Mrs. McGroarty, who "did washing" for a living. A meat bone, a "cut" from the butcher's at four cents a pound, green pickles30, stale bread and beer. Beer for the four, a sup all round, the baby included. Why not? It was the one relish31 the searching ray would have found there. Potatoes were there, too—potatoes and meat! Say not the poor in the tenements are starving. In New
[127]
York only those starve who cannot get work and have not the courage to beg. Fifty thousand always out of a job, say those who pretend to know. A round half-million asking and getting charity in eight years, say the statisticians of the Charity Organization. Any one can go round and see for himself that no one need starve in New York.
From across the yard the sunbeam, as it crept up the wall, fell slantingly through the attic32 window whence issued the sound of hammer-blows. A man with a hard face stood in its light, driving nails into the lid of a soap box that was partly filled with straw. Something else was there; as he shifted the lid that didn't fit, the glimpse of sunshine fell across it; it was a dead child, a little baby in a white slip, bedded in straw in a soap box for a coffin33. The man was hammering down the lid to take it to the Potter's Field. At the bed knelt the mother, dry-eyed, delirious34 from starvation that had killed her child. Five hungry, frightened children cowered35 in the corner, hardly daring to whisper as they looked from the father to the mother in terror.
There was a knock on the door that was drowned once, twice, in the noise of the hammer on the little coffin. Then it was opened gently, and a young woman came in with a basket. A little silver cross shone upon her breast. She went to the poor mother, and, putting her hand soothingly36 on her head, knelt by her with gentle and loving words. The half-crazed
[128]
woman listened with averted37 face, then suddenly burst into tears and hid her throbbing38 head in the other's lap.
The man stopped hammering and stared fixedly39 upon the two; the children gathered around with devouring40 looks as the visitor took from her basket bread, meat, and tea. Just then, with a parting wistful look into the bare attic room, the sun-ray slipped away, lingered for a moment about the coping outside, and fled over the housetops.
As it sped on its winter-day journey, did it shine into any cabin in an Irish bog41 more desolate42 than these Cherry Street "homes"? An army of thousands, whose one bright and wholesome43 memory, only tradition of home, is that poverty-stricken cabin in the desolate bog, are herded44 in such barracks to-day in New York. Potatoes they have; yes, and meat at four cents—even seven. Beer for a relish—never without beer. But home? The home that was home, even in a bog, with the love of it that has made Ireland immortal45 and a tower of strength in the midst of her suffering—what of that? There are no homes in New York's poor tenements.
Down the crooked46 path of the Mulberry Street Bend the sunlight slanted47 into the heart of New York's Italy. It shone upon bandannas48 and yellow neckerchiefs; upon swarthy faces and corduroy breeches; upon black-haired girls—mothers at thir
[129]
teen; upon hosts of bow-legged children rolling in the dirt; upon pedlers' carts and rag-pickers staggering under burdens that threatened to crush them at every step. Shone upon unnumbered Pasquales dwelling49, working, idling, and gambling50 there. Shone upon the filthiest51 and foulest52 of New York's tenements, upon Bandits' Roost, upon Bottle Alley, upon the hidden byways that lead to the tramps' burrows53. Shone upon the scene of annual infant slaughter54. Shone into the foul core of New York's slums that was at last to go to the realm of bad memories because civilized55 man might not look upon it and live without blushing.
It glanced past the rag-shop in the cellar, whence welled up stenches to poison the town, into an apartment three flights up that held two women, one young, the other old and bent56. The young one had a baby at her breast. She was rocking it tenderly in her arms, singing in the soft Italian tongue a lullaby, while the old granny listened eagerly, her elbows on her knees, and a stumpy clay pipe, blackened with age, between her teeth. Her eyes were set on the wall, on which the musty paper hung in tatters, fit frame for the wretched, poverty-stricken room, but they saw neither poverty nor want; her aged57 limbs felt not the cold draught from without, in which they shivered; she looked far over the seas to sunny Italy, whose music was in her ears.
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"O dolce Napoli," she mumbled58 between her toothless jaws59, "O suol beato——"
The song ended in a burst of passionate60 grief. The old granny and the baby woke up at once. They were not in sunny Italy; not under southern, cloudless skies. They were in "The Bend," in Mulberry Street, and the wintry wind rattled61 the door as if it would say, in the language of their new home, the land of the free: "Less music! More work! Root, hog62, or die!"
Around the corner the sunbeam danced with the wind into Mott Street, lifted the blouse of a Chinaman and made it play tag with his pigtail. It used him so roughly that he was glad to skip from it down a cellar-way that gave out fumes63 of opium64 strong enough to scare even the north wind from its purpose. The soles of his felt shoes showed as he disappeared down the ladder that passed for cellar steps. Down there, where daylight never came, a group of yellow, almond-eyed men were bending over a table playing fan-tan. Their very souls were in the game, every faculty65 of the mind bent on the issue and the stake. The one blouse that was indifferent to what went on was stretched on a mat in a corner. One end of a clumsy pipe was in his mouth, the other held over a little spirit-lamp on the divan66 on which he lay. Something fluttered in the flame with a pungent67, unpleasant smell. The smoker68 took a long draught, inhaling69
[131]
the white smoke, then sank back on his couch in senseless content.
Upstairs tiptoed the noiseless felt shoes, bent on some house errand, to the "household" floors above, where young white girls from the tenements of The Bend and the East Side live in slavery worse, if not more galling70, than any of the galley71 with ball and chain—the slavery of the pipe. Four, eight, sixteen, twenty-odd such "homes" in this tenement, disgracing the very name of home and family, for marriage and troth are not in the bargain.
In one room, between the half-drawn curtains of which the sunbeam works its way in, three girls are lying on as many bunks73, smoking all. They are very young, "under age," though each and every one would glibly74 swear in court to the satisfaction of the police that she is sixteen, and therefore free to make her own bad choice. Of these, one was brought up among the rugged75 hills of Maine; the other two are from the tenement crowds, hardly missed there. But their companion? She is twirling the sticky brown pill over the lamp, preparing to fill the bowl of her pipe with it. As she does so, the sunbeam dances across the bed, kisses the red spot on her cheek that betrays the secret her tyrant76 long has known,—though to her it is hidden yet,—that the pipe has claimed its victim and soon will pass it on to the Potter's Field.
"Nell," says one of her chums in the other bunk72,
[132]
something stirred within her by the flash, "Nell, did you hear from the old farm to home since you come here?"
Nell turns half around, with the toasting-stick in her hand, an ugly look on her wasted features, a vile77 oath on her lips.
"To hell with the old farm," she says, and putting the pipe to her mouth inhales78 it all, every bit, in one long breath, then falls back on her pillow in drunken stupor79.
That is what the sun of a winter day saw and heard in Mott Street.
It shone down so gayly and altogether cheerily there, that wraps and overcoats were unbuttoned for the north wind to toy with. "My, isn't it a nice day?" said one young lady in a fur shoulder cape7 to a friend, pausing to kiss and compare lists of Christmas gifts.
"Most too hot," was the reply, and the friends passed on. There was warmth within and without. Life was very pleasant under the Christmas sun up on the avenue.
Down in Cherry Street the rays of the sun climbed over a row of tall tenements with an effort that seemed to exhaust all the life that was in them, and fell into a dirty block, half choked with trucks,
[124]
with ash barrels and rubbish of all sorts, among which the dust was whirled in clouds upon fitful, shivering blasts that searched every nook and cranny of the big barracks. They fell upon a little girl, barefooted and in rags, who struggled out of an alley2 with a broken pitcher8 in her grimy fist, against the wind that set down the narrow slit9 like the draught10 through a big factory chimney. Just at the mouth of the alley it took her with a sudden whirl, a cyclone11 of dust and drifting ashes, tossed her fairly off her feet, tore from her grip the threadbare shawl she clutched at her throat, and set her down at the saloon door breathless and half smothered12. She had just time to dodge13 through the storm-doors before another whirlwind swept whistling down the street.
"My, but isn't it cold?" she said, as she shook the dust out of her shawl and set the pitcher down on the bar. "Gimme a pint," laying down a few pennies that had been wrapped in a corner of the shawl, "and mamma says make it good and full."
"All'us the way with youse kids—want a barrel when yees pays fer a pint," growled15 the bartender. "There, run along, and don't ye hang around that stove no more. We ain't a steam-heatin' the block fer nothin'."
The little girl clutched her shawl and the pitcher, and slipped out into the street where the wind lay in ambush16 and promptly17 bore down on her in pillars
[125]
of whirling dust as soon as she appeared. But the sun that pitied her bare feet and little frozen hands played a trick on old Boreas—it showed her a way between the pillars, and only just her skirt was caught by one and whirled over her head as she dodged18 into her alley. It peeped after her halfway19 down its dark depths, where it seemed colder even than in the bleak20 street, but there it had to leave her.
It did not see her dive through the doorless opening into a hall where no sun-ray had ever entered. It could not have found its way in there had it tried. But up the narrow, squeaking21 stairs the girl with the pitcher was climbing. Up one flight of stairs, over a knot of children, half babies, pitching pennies on the landing, over wash-tubs and bedsteads that encumbered22 the next—house-cleaning going on in that "flat"; that is to say, the surplus of bugs23 was being turned out with petroleum24 and a feather—up still another, past a half-open door through which came the noise of brawling25 and curses. She dodged and quickened her step a little until she stood panting before a door on the fourth landing that opened readily as she pushed it with her bare foot.
A room almost devoid26 of stick or rag one might dignify27 with the name of furniture. Two chairs, one with a broken back, the other on three legs, beside a rickety table that stood upright only by
[126]
leaning against the wall. On the unwashed floor a heap of straw covered with dirty bedtick for a bed; a foul28-smelling slop-pail in the middle of the room; a crazy stove, and back of it a door or gap opening upon darkness. There was something in there, but what it was could only be surmised29 from a heavy snore that rose and fell regularly. It was the bedroom of the apartment, windowless, airless, and sunless, but rented at a price a millionaire would denounce as robbery.
"That you, Liza?" said a voice that discovered a woman bending over the stove. "Run 'n' get the childer. Dinner's ready."
The winter sun glancing down the wall of the opposite tenement4, with a hopeless effort to cheer the back yard, might have peeped through the one window of the room in Mrs. McGroarty's "flat," had that window not been coated with the dust of ages, and discovered that dinner party in action. It might have found a score like it in the alley. Four unkempt children, copies each in his or her way of Liza and their mother, Mrs. McGroarty, who "did washing" for a living. A meat bone, a "cut" from the butcher's at four cents a pound, green pickles30, stale bread and beer. Beer for the four, a sup all round, the baby included. Why not? It was the one relish31 the searching ray would have found there. Potatoes were there, too—potatoes and meat! Say not the poor in the tenements are starving. In New
[127]
York only those starve who cannot get work and have not the courage to beg. Fifty thousand always out of a job, say those who pretend to know. A round half-million asking and getting charity in eight years, say the statisticians of the Charity Organization. Any one can go round and see for himself that no one need starve in New York.
From across the yard the sunbeam, as it crept up the wall, fell slantingly through the attic32 window whence issued the sound of hammer-blows. A man with a hard face stood in its light, driving nails into the lid of a soap box that was partly filled with straw. Something else was there; as he shifted the lid that didn't fit, the glimpse of sunshine fell across it; it was a dead child, a little baby in a white slip, bedded in straw in a soap box for a coffin33. The man was hammering down the lid to take it to the Potter's Field. At the bed knelt the mother, dry-eyed, delirious34 from starvation that had killed her child. Five hungry, frightened children cowered35 in the corner, hardly daring to whisper as they looked from the father to the mother in terror.
There was a knock on the door that was drowned once, twice, in the noise of the hammer on the little coffin. Then it was opened gently, and a young woman came in with a basket. A little silver cross shone upon her breast. She went to the poor mother, and, putting her hand soothingly36 on her head, knelt by her with gentle and loving words. The half-crazed
[128]
woman listened with averted37 face, then suddenly burst into tears and hid her throbbing38 head in the other's lap.
The man stopped hammering and stared fixedly39 upon the two; the children gathered around with devouring40 looks as the visitor took from her basket bread, meat, and tea. Just then, with a parting wistful look into the bare attic room, the sun-ray slipped away, lingered for a moment about the coping outside, and fled over the housetops.
As it sped on its winter-day journey, did it shine into any cabin in an Irish bog41 more desolate42 than these Cherry Street "homes"? An army of thousands, whose one bright and wholesome43 memory, only tradition of home, is that poverty-stricken cabin in the desolate bog, are herded44 in such barracks to-day in New York. Potatoes they have; yes, and meat at four cents—even seven. Beer for a relish—never without beer. But home? The home that was home, even in a bog, with the love of it that has made Ireland immortal45 and a tower of strength in the midst of her suffering—what of that? There are no homes in New York's poor tenements.
Down the crooked46 path of the Mulberry Street Bend the sunlight slanted47 into the heart of New York's Italy. It shone upon bandannas48 and yellow neckerchiefs; upon swarthy faces and corduroy breeches; upon black-haired girls—mothers at thir
[129]
teen; upon hosts of bow-legged children rolling in the dirt; upon pedlers' carts and rag-pickers staggering under burdens that threatened to crush them at every step. Shone upon unnumbered Pasquales dwelling49, working, idling, and gambling50 there. Shone upon the filthiest51 and foulest52 of New York's tenements, upon Bandits' Roost, upon Bottle Alley, upon the hidden byways that lead to the tramps' burrows53. Shone upon the scene of annual infant slaughter54. Shone into the foul core of New York's slums that was at last to go to the realm of bad memories because civilized55 man might not look upon it and live without blushing.
It glanced past the rag-shop in the cellar, whence welled up stenches to poison the town, into an apartment three flights up that held two women, one young, the other old and bent56. The young one had a baby at her breast. She was rocking it tenderly in her arms, singing in the soft Italian tongue a lullaby, while the old granny listened eagerly, her elbows on her knees, and a stumpy clay pipe, blackened with age, between her teeth. Her eyes were set on the wall, on which the musty paper hung in tatters, fit frame for the wretched, poverty-stricken room, but they saw neither poverty nor want; her aged57 limbs felt not the cold draught from without, in which they shivered; she looked far over the seas to sunny Italy, whose music was in her ears.
[130]
"O dolce Napoli," she mumbled58 between her toothless jaws59, "O suol beato——"
The song ended in a burst of passionate60 grief. The old granny and the baby woke up at once. They were not in sunny Italy; not under southern, cloudless skies. They were in "The Bend," in Mulberry Street, and the wintry wind rattled61 the door as if it would say, in the language of their new home, the land of the free: "Less music! More work! Root, hog62, or die!"
Around the corner the sunbeam danced with the wind into Mott Street, lifted the blouse of a Chinaman and made it play tag with his pigtail. It used him so roughly that he was glad to skip from it down a cellar-way that gave out fumes63 of opium64 strong enough to scare even the north wind from its purpose. The soles of his felt shoes showed as he disappeared down the ladder that passed for cellar steps. Down there, where daylight never came, a group of yellow, almond-eyed men were bending over a table playing fan-tan. Their very souls were in the game, every faculty65 of the mind bent on the issue and the stake. The one blouse that was indifferent to what went on was stretched on a mat in a corner. One end of a clumsy pipe was in his mouth, the other held over a little spirit-lamp on the divan66 on which he lay. Something fluttered in the flame with a pungent67, unpleasant smell. The smoker68 took a long draught, inhaling69
[131]
the white smoke, then sank back on his couch in senseless content.
Upstairs tiptoed the noiseless felt shoes, bent on some house errand, to the "household" floors above, where young white girls from the tenements of The Bend and the East Side live in slavery worse, if not more galling70, than any of the galley71 with ball and chain—the slavery of the pipe. Four, eight, sixteen, twenty-odd such "homes" in this tenement, disgracing the very name of home and family, for marriage and troth are not in the bargain.
In one room, between the half-drawn curtains of which the sunbeam works its way in, three girls are lying on as many bunks73, smoking all. They are very young, "under age," though each and every one would glibly74 swear in court to the satisfaction of the police that she is sixteen, and therefore free to make her own bad choice. Of these, one was brought up among the rugged75 hills of Maine; the other two are from the tenement crowds, hardly missed there. But their companion? She is twirling the sticky brown pill over the lamp, preparing to fill the bowl of her pipe with it. As she does so, the sunbeam dances across the bed, kisses the red spot on her cheek that betrays the secret her tyrant76 long has known,—though to her it is hidden yet,—that the pipe has claimed its victim and soon will pass it on to the Potter's Field.
"Nell," says one of her chums in the other bunk72,
[132]
something stirred within her by the flash, "Nell, did you hear from the old farm to home since you come here?"
Nell turns half around, with the toasting-stick in her hand, an ugly look on her wasted features, a vile77 oath on her lips.
"To hell with the old farm," she says, and putting the pipe to her mouth inhales78 it all, every bit, in one long breath, then falls back on her pillow in drunken stupor79.
That is what the sun of a winter day saw and heard in Mott Street.
It had travelled far toward the west, searching many dark corners and vainly seeking entry to others; had glided80 with equal impartiality81 the spires82 of five hundred churches and the tin cornices of thirty thousand tenements, with their million tenants83 and more; had smiled courage and cheer to patient mothers trying to make the most of life in the teeming85 crowds, that had too little sunshine by far; hope to toiling86 fathers striving early and late for bread to fill the many mouths clamoring to be fed.
The brief December day was far spent. Now its rays fell across the North River and lighted up the windows of the tenements in Hell's Kitchen and Poverty Gap. In the Gap especially they made a brave show; the windows of the crazy old frame-house
[133]
under the big tree that sat back from the street looked as if they were made of beaten gold. But the glory did not cross the threshold. Within it was dark and dreary87 and cold. The room at the foot of the rickety, patched stairs was empty. The last tenant84 was beaten to death by her husband in his drunken fury. The sun's rays shunned88 the spot ever after, though it was long since it could have made out the red daub from the mould on the rotten floor.
Upstairs, in the cold attic, where the wind wailed89 mournfully through every open crack, a little girl sat sobbing90 as if her heart would break. She hugged an old doll to her breast. The paint was gone from its face; the yellow hair was in a tangle92; its clothes hung in rags. But she only hugged it closer. It was her doll. They had been friends so long, shared hunger and hardship together, and now——
Her tears fell faster. One drop trembled upon the wan14 cheek of the doll. The last sunbeam shot athwart it and made it glisten93 like a priceless jewel. Its glory grew and filled the room. Gone were the black walls, the darkness, and the cold. There was warmth and light and joy. Merry voices and glad faces were all about. A flock of children danced with gleeful shouts about a great Christmas tree in the middle of the floor. Upon its branches hung drums and trumpets94 and toys, and countless95 candles gleamed like beautiful stars. Farthest up, at the
[134]
very top, her doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if appealing to be taken down and hugged. She knew it, knew the mission-school that had seen her first and only real Christmas, knew the gentle face of her teacher, and the writing on the wall she had taught her to spell out: "In His name." His name, who, she had said, was all little children's friend. Was He also her dolly's friend, and would He know it among the strange people?
The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and food and warmth, or she must go to the great hospital where papa had gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture, every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to the pawnbroker96. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring to pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.
The little girl smothered a last sob91 and rose quickly. She wrapped the doll in a threadbare shawl as well as she could, tiptoed to the door, and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother within. Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest she wake her.
[135]
Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a turn round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing the track of her bare feet in the snow as she went, to a door that rang a noisy bell as she opened it and went in. A musty smell filled the close room. Packages, great and small, lay piled high on shelves behind the worn counter. A slovenly97 woman was haggling98 with the pawnbroker about the money for a skirt she had brought to pledge.
"Not a cent more than a quarter," he said, contemptuously, tossing the garment aside. "It's half worn out it is, dragging it back and forth99 over the counter these six months. Take it or leave it. Hallo! What have we here? Little Finnegan, eh? Your mother not dead yet? It's in the poor-house ye will be if she lasts much longer. What the——"
He had taken the package from the trembling child's hand—the precious doll—and unrolled the shawl. A moment he stood staring in dumb amazement100 at its contents. Then he caught it up and flung it with an angry oath upon the floor, where it was shivered against the coal-box.
"Get out o' here, ye Finnegan brat," he shouted; "I'll tache ye to come a-guyin' o' me. I'll——"
The door closed with a bang upon the frightened child, alone in the cold night. The sun saw not its home-coming. It had hidden behind the night clouds, weary of the sight of man and his cruelty.
[136]
Evening had worn into night. The busy city slept. Down by the wharves101, now deserted102, a poor boy sat on the bulwark103, hungry, foot-sore, and shivering with cold. He sat thinking of friends and home, thousands of miles away over the sea, whom he had left six months before to go among strangers. He had been alone ever since, but never more so than that night. His money gone, no work to be found, he had slept in the streets for nights. That day he had eaten nothing; he would rather die than beg, and one of the two he must do soon.
There was the dark river rushing at his feet; the swirl104 of the unseen waters whispered to him of rest and peace he had not known since—it was so cold—and who was there to care, he thought bitterly. No one would ever know. He moved a little nearer the edge, and listened more intently.
A low whine105 fell on his ear, and a cold, wet face was pressed against his. A little crippled dog that had been crouching106 silently beside him nestled in his lap. He had picked it up in the street, as forlorn and friendless as himself, and it had stayed by him. Its touch recalled him to himself. He got up hastily, and, taking the dog in his arms, went to the police station near by, and asked for shelter. It was the first time he had accepted even such charity, and as he lay down on his rough plank107 he hugged a little gold locket he wore around his neck, the last link with better days, and thought with a
[137]
hard sob of home. In the middle of the night he awoke with a start. The locket was gone. One of the tramps who slept with him had stolen it. With bitter tears he went up and complained to the Sergeant108 at the desk, and the Sergeant ordered him to be kicked out into the street as a liar109, if not a thief. How should a tramp boy have come honestly by a gold locket? The doorman put him out as he was bidden, and when the little dog showed its teeth, a policeman seized it and clubbed it to death on the step.
The brief December day was far spent. Now its rays fell across the North River and lighted up the windows of the tenements in Hell's Kitchen and Poverty Gap. In the Gap especially they made a brave show; the windows of the crazy old frame-house
[133]
under the big tree that sat back from the street looked as if they were made of beaten gold. But the glory did not cross the threshold. Within it was dark and dreary87 and cold. The room at the foot of the rickety, patched stairs was empty. The last tenant84 was beaten to death by her husband in his drunken fury. The sun's rays shunned88 the spot ever after, though it was long since it could have made out the red daub from the mould on the rotten floor.
Upstairs, in the cold attic, where the wind wailed89 mournfully through every open crack, a little girl sat sobbing90 as if her heart would break. She hugged an old doll to her breast. The paint was gone from its face; the yellow hair was in a tangle92; its clothes hung in rags. But she only hugged it closer. It was her doll. They had been friends so long, shared hunger and hardship together, and now——
Her tears fell faster. One drop trembled upon the wan14 cheek of the doll. The last sunbeam shot athwart it and made it glisten93 like a priceless jewel. Its glory grew and filled the room. Gone were the black walls, the darkness, and the cold. There was warmth and light and joy. Merry voices and glad faces were all about. A flock of children danced with gleeful shouts about a great Christmas tree in the middle of the floor. Upon its branches hung drums and trumpets94 and toys, and countless95 candles gleamed like beautiful stars. Farthest up, at the
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very top, her doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if appealing to be taken down and hugged. She knew it, knew the mission-school that had seen her first and only real Christmas, knew the gentle face of her teacher, and the writing on the wall she had taught her to spell out: "In His name." His name, who, she had said, was all little children's friend. Was He also her dolly's friend, and would He know it among the strange people?
The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and food and warmth, or she must go to the great hospital where papa had gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture, every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to the pawnbroker96. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring to pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.
The little girl smothered a last sob91 and rose quickly. She wrapped the doll in a threadbare shawl as well as she could, tiptoed to the door, and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother within. Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest she wake her.
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Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a turn round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing the track of her bare feet in the snow as she went, to a door that rang a noisy bell as she opened it and went in. A musty smell filled the close room. Packages, great and small, lay piled high on shelves behind the worn counter. A slovenly97 woman was haggling98 with the pawnbroker about the money for a skirt she had brought to pledge.
"Not a cent more than a quarter," he said, contemptuously, tossing the garment aside. "It's half worn out it is, dragging it back and forth99 over the counter these six months. Take it or leave it. Hallo! What have we here? Little Finnegan, eh? Your mother not dead yet? It's in the poor-house ye will be if she lasts much longer. What the——"
He had taken the package from the trembling child's hand—the precious doll—and unrolled the shawl. A moment he stood staring in dumb amazement100 at its contents. Then he caught it up and flung it with an angry oath upon the floor, where it was shivered against the coal-box.
"Get out o' here, ye Finnegan brat," he shouted; "I'll tache ye to come a-guyin' o' me. I'll——"
The door closed with a bang upon the frightened child, alone in the cold night. The sun saw not its home-coming. It had hidden behind the night clouds, weary of the sight of man and his cruelty.
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Evening had worn into night. The busy city slept. Down by the wharves101, now deserted102, a poor boy sat on the bulwark103, hungry, foot-sore, and shivering with cold. He sat thinking of friends and home, thousands of miles away over the sea, whom he had left six months before to go among strangers. He had been alone ever since, but never more so than that night. His money gone, no work to be found, he had slept in the streets for nights. That day he had eaten nothing; he would rather die than beg, and one of the two he must do soon.
There was the dark river rushing at his feet; the swirl104 of the unseen waters whispered to him of rest and peace he had not known since—it was so cold—and who was there to care, he thought bitterly. No one would ever know. He moved a little nearer the edge, and listened more intently.
A low whine105 fell on his ear, and a cold, wet face was pressed against his. A little crippled dog that had been crouching106 silently beside him nestled in his lap. He had picked it up in the street, as forlorn and friendless as himself, and it had stayed by him. Its touch recalled him to himself. He got up hastily, and, taking the dog in his arms, went to the police station near by, and asked for shelter. It was the first time he had accepted even such charity, and as he lay down on his rough plank107 he hugged a little gold locket he wore around his neck, the last link with better days, and thought with a
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hard sob of home. In the middle of the night he awoke with a start. The locket was gone. One of the tramps who slept with him had stolen it. With bitter tears he went up and complained to the Sergeant108 at the desk, and the Sergeant ordered him to be kicked out into the street as a liar109, if not a thief. How should a tramp boy have come honestly by a gold locket? The doorman put him out as he was bidden, and when the little dog showed its teeth, a policeman seized it and clubbed it to death on the step.
Far from the slumbering110 city the rising moon shines over a wide expanse of glistening111 water. It silvers the snow upon a barren heath between two shores, and shortens with each passing minute the shadows of countless headstones that bear no names, only numbers. The breakers that beat against the bluff112 wake not those who sleep there. In the deep trenches113 they lie, shoulder to shoulder, an army of brothers, homeless in life, but here at rest and at peace. A great cross stands upon the lonely shore. The moon sheds its rays upon it in silent benediction114 and floods the garden of the unknown, unmourned dead with its soft light. Out on the Sound the fishermen see it flashing white against the starlit sky, and bare their heads reverently115 as their boats speed by, borne upon the wings of the west wind.
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1
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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10
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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11
cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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12
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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13
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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14
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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15
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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16
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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17
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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18
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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19
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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20
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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21
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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22
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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24
petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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25
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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26
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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27
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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28
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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29
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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30
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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31
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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32
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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33
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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34
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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35
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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36
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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37
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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38
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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39
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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40
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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41
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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42
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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43
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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44
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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45
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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46
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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47
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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48
bandannas
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| n.印花大手帕( bandanna的名词复数 ) | |
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49
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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50
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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51
filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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52
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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53
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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54
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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55
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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56
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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57
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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58
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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60
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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61
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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62
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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63
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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64
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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65
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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66
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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67
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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68
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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69
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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70
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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71
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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72
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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73
bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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74
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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75
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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76
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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77
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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78
inhales
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| v.吸入( inhale的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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80
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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81
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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82
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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83
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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84
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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85
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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86
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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87
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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88
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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91
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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92
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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93
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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94
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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95
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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96
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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97
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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98
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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101
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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102
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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103
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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104
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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105
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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106
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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107
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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108
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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109
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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110
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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111
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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112
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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113
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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114
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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115
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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