'^^^^ ■% ' (• i ilTTiE T j^ QW Siiii jiis ^mnl J C IS) [P (fii fs CI i %:^ W i^ m> Sffl) 9 Little Tim in Pi-ison. LONDON : GEOOMBEIDaE ANX> SONS, PATEENOSTEE EOW. jCiitlf €im AND Ills .hhn^ t\)t (D'nliliUr. CHAPTEE I INTRODUCES US TO THE HEEO OF THE GTOEY, I HAVE a simple story to tell you, dear young readers, which I tliink will please you. But I wish it to do more than this : I hope it will make you feel thankful for the blessings you enjoy, — those blessmgs that are too often Uttle thought of by those who possess them, but which are sadly missed when sometimes they are lost. I mean the blessings of comfortable homes, kind parents and friends, plam whole- some food and enough of it, and good instruc- tion. It may be that you have heard of the city of Westmmster, and know that it is close to London ; and that m this city are the Queen's palace, the houses of parliament, and many great and noble buildings besides. You may nave been told, too, that there are many fine streets and squares in Weetminster. And so Ifc IITTLE TIM. 5 there are ; but if tliis be all yon know of tliat city, you liavo yet much to learn ; for in no place m England can greater poverty, wretch- edness, and vice be found. Behind the fine streets, and around the beautiful building?», are lanes and courts, where dwell hundreds of miserable creatures, crowded together in old filthy houses, which look ready to tumble down ; . — and they live there in fearful ignorance, and in the practice of almost every kind of sin, without hope and without shame. One cold, di'eary, gusty, rainy day in March, a great many years ago, — in one of the most TVTetched of those filthy coiu'ts of Westminster, and in one of the dirtiest old houses in that court, was a strange and motley assemblage to be seen. From the cellar up to the thh'd storey of the house, every room was crowded with living creatures. To begm at the cellar, which opened into tlie court by a sort of trap- door and a flight of broken steps, — to begin there, I say, might be seen a group of two or three families of gipsies, with then* poor ill- used and half- starved asses, their ugly and savage dogs, and then* baskets and luggage all scattered about in confusion on the floor. Cliildren were crying, women were scolding, and the men, seated lazily on their du^ty bun- dles, were smoking then' short black pipes, and occasionally, commanding silence by angry and fierce threatenmgs, mixed with aTs-ful oaths. These gipsies had probably just rctm^ned from some country excursion, and were making up, in idleness, 'for the fatigues of the journey, while they were spending then* gains hi uidulg- 6 LITTLE Tlil iiig their appetites : for, miserable as tliey seemed, there was no want of j^rovisions, such as loaves of white bread, rashers of bacon frying on the fire — for tlie cellar had the comfort of a fire-place — and broken jugs of strong beer, which wei'e bemg passed quickly round from men to women, and from ^vomen to cliildi'en, amidst all tlie crying, scolding, and profanity of the horrible plaee. In the higher portion of the house, other scenes of wi^tchedness, wickedness, and pov- erty might have been witnessed. Here was a room in which, stretched on some dirty straw, and covered only with a I'agged quilt, lay a woman in great pain and sickness, apparently near dying, with no one to attend to her wants, but smTOunded by a group of noisy, du-ty children, who disturbed Ihe poor suffering mother with their uproar. In another apart- ment, were half-a-dozen men, drinking, smok- ing, and playing at cards, wliich game presently led to wranglmg, till they all rushed from the house to fight out their quarrel in the court below. Another room, nearly at the top of the house, was closely shut, and barred withinside ; and there, if any one could liave obtained a peep, might probably have been seen a gang of thieves, divichng the fruits of their wickedness, or a gang of coiners, melting base metal, and casting it mto moulds, that it might be passed for real silver money. Above all this din, and confusion, and crime, there was a miserable loft w^hich had only one occupant on the day of which I am writing. The only way to get into this loft was by a A>^D HIS IIIIEND THE COBBLEE* / broken step-ladder, which led to a low door, iust beneath the roof of the house ; hut though there is some danger m chmbing a broken lad- der in the dark— for dark it was— we must ventm-e— in fancy, that is— to ascend it : lor the occupant of that comfortless abode is the hero of my history. Well, here we are, at the top of the ladder, and here is the door :— we can feel the latch : but we hft the latch in vain : the door will nob open. Ah, we have found out the mystery now : just above the latch is a strong nail driven into the door, and the feUow to it is driven into the door-post, and a strong cord is tied tight from one nail to another. Ho, ho . we have a prisoner, then, in this sad hole ot a EvJn so, young friend. WeU, we will not disturb the cord that fastens the door ; for our thoughts and fancies can enter where oia- bodies cannot : and so here we are, on tiie broken floor of that dismal prison, ihcre is no window ; but light enough passes through the broken tilmg of the roof, to let us see aU that is to be seen. , And little enough that is. At one end ot the place, just behind a stack of chminevs, which goes through the loft without affording it a fire-place, is a scanty heap of shavings, which, no doubt, is intended for a bea in another place, is an old tin kettle without ban- die or hd, and a broken basket without a bot- tom, a bundle of rags, and a thick, strong walking-stick. This is all. You may look around in vain for any other fumitiu-e. mere is neither chau-, table, nor cupboard. 8 LITTLE TIM There are no walls to tlie room, except at tlie end whore the chimney-stack is : evei^ other side of it is formed of the tliin, broken roof; and the cold wind, and the drifting rain of the miserable March day on which I am supposmg onr visit to be made, enters so freely through the hundreds of cracks and crevices that one had need to have on a tliick great- coat, and to spread open a stout lunbrella, to keep, under such a broken roof, either warm or dry. And on the middle of that floor sits a little parcel of humanity, in the shape of a boy, whose face looks at least twelve or fourteen years old ; but whose size and aj)parent strength would be puny for a child of seven or eight. We shall be about right, probably, if we make a guess between the two accounts, and set him do^^n at ten. Sad and sulky does the boy look, as he sits bare-headed, bare- footed, and half-naked besides, on the damp, rotten floor. His hau' is matted to his head, and grim and dhty are his features ; and yet there is a pleasant twinkle in that bright blue eye of his, and when he opens his lips to mut- ter to himself, those lips seem as though they could smile m the happy sunshine, though they are far enough from smiles now. Ah, young reader, you little know how many bright glances and sunny smiles are quenched by the sorrow and suffering that sm brings. And our little prisoner — there he sits ; — and there he has been sitting for hours and hours : hungry for want of food, and wretched for want of everything that can make young life happy. X-^J) HIS miElTD THE COBBLEE. WeU you have seen, m fancy the prbon Sttti^-SeSl^re-sii, and talk- ing of things long pa^t .^, The ram continued to pom «o^^ , , creasing violence on that ch-eary Ma ch day and the wind rose l^f^^'^Vf j*^ J | the more hour, loosening the rotten tto from the mo ^^ X^ minute, and the cold -- P-^ j-^ still tlie boy moved not tioin i '= ! -^ His only serious employment througtitne k.ng hoxis of that d»y was to feel m the pocK 10 IITTLE TIM ets of the old ragged coat, which was abnost the only garment ho had on, for a few stray crumbs which they might contain, and which, w^hen he had caught with liis benumbed hands, he devouiTd, dirt and all, witli the eagenaess of ravenous hunger. And his only amusement was that of breaking the stem of a dirty tobacco-pipe into an inconceivable num- ber of little bits, which he afterwards tossed up in the an* — and a brisk air too — catching them in his mouth as they fell. The longest day will have an end ; and as a ■wet March day, in London, is not one of the longest in the year, especially in a windowless garret, the boy, after a time, began to believe, irom the darkness that gathered round him, that night was coming on. He was right : it grew darker and darker, as well as wetter and more windy. And then, how eagerly did tlie little fellow — shivering with cold, and trem- bling with fear — listen to every noise he heard below. At last, voices of a man and woman approached the bottom of the broken ladder ; tlien there was a ratthng at the door ; and be- fore it w^as opened, the young prisoner had darted from his uneasy resting place, and was crouching on the heap of shavings behind the chimney stack. A.ND HIS FEIEKD THE COBBIiEB, H { CHAPTER II. SHOWS THAT AS THE GAJIDENEE IS, SO IS THE GAEDEN. Maech lias sunsliine as well as showers, and calm days as weU as windy ones, so much so, you know, reader, that it has got the nickname of * many weathers ;' though, for my part, I think that name is as justly due to any other nionth in the year as poor March. But, however that may be, it was a warm pleasant afternoon, a few days later than the cold wet one of which I told you in the last chapter ; and the sun shone cheerily full on a bright painted board over a Httle shop in that populous liighway of Chelsea, known as the King's road. And on that board was inscribed in y'ellow letters, to resemble gold, '] Joseph Brunton: shoes and boots neatly, expeditiously, and cheaply repaired." In other woi^s, dear reader, you must know that Joseph Brunton was what is generally called a cobbler; and a cheerful, good-humoured, kind, and diligent cobbler he was too, withal. But eobbhng was not the only trade carried on in Josepii Brunton's shop. He added green-grocery to his ways and means of getting an honest living but this was his wife's part of the basmess for while the industrious tradesman was thuinp thumping away on his lapstone ; or stitching with aU his might, with his coat off, and xiib 12 LITTLE TIM arms partly bare, in one corner of the little. ^Iiop, just imder the window, Martha Brunton was always at hand, to answer the shop bell and ready to sell a pound of potatos or a bun' die ot turnips, or anything else her stock afford ed, to her customers. And what with shoo mending and green-grocery, it was believed that Joseph Erunton and his wife were ffcttinc. on m the world. ^ ^ Joseph was by no means an old man, and you are not to fancy him with a dirty paper cap on his head, a gray beard of three or four clays growth on liis chin, and a pair of hu^e spectacles mounted on his nose. Nor was his wife any other than a neat— very neat, sharp and active little woman of thh-ty years or thereabout. Her cap, see her when you woidd looked as though it had just been taken out of a bandbox, to be put upon her head, and under It were no disagreeable looking curl papers to be seen, even at the e^u-hcst dawn of day but smooth, glossy brown hair, nicely jDarted over a lorehead, clear and white as cheerfulness and soap, water, and towel, could make it. Her other garments were all of a piece with her head-dress,— so clean and tidy,— down to her very shoe -sole ; and as she tripped in and out ot her little parlour behind the shop, and across and across the shop floor, and out upon the broad pavement, where she kept, both for show and convenience, much of her stock in trade you might think of the fancy of some poet,—' "Her little feet peeped in aiul out, L±e niice beneath her petticoat." AND HIS FRIEND THE COBBLEE. 13 One little failing Martha Brunton had. Her temper was apt to be rather quick, like all her other movements ; and she was perhaps a little too fond of having her own way. But then, Joseph, her husband, was so very willing, iu creneral, that she should have her own way, that this was not of so much consequence as it might otherwise have been. And Joseph Brunton, — I have said what he was not in age and appearance ; now for what he Avas. lie w^as, then, a pleasant, curly-haired, rather stout and tall middle-aged man, about ten years older than his little wife. His ap- parel Avas always scrupulously clean, although he was a cobbler. His shht sleeves, so much as you could see of them, — for when he was at work, he always tucked them up, — were white almost as di-iven snow ; and his good leather apron kept all the rest of his dress fi^om being soiled. To see him on Sundays, or on any day of the week besides, when not at his work, you woidd not guess at his trade, except by looking at his hands, which he could not quite keep clear from tlie stains of leather and wax. In his earlier life, Joseph had been brought up in a family of Friends— Quakers, as some call the good people who prefer rather to call themselves Friends— and although he was not exactly one of that society, he had been so ac- customed to their habits and manners, that his general way of talking seemed rather peculiar to those who were not used to it. This will soon appear. And now I have done all that is needful m the way of description, — ex- cept that I should say, Joseph Brunton'§ house was as much a picture of neatness as ^^ LITTLE TIM himself and liis wife and Ms little shop, and the sign board over it, on which we left tho sun cheerfully shining, a page or two back. One thing more though :— there were no dnldren m the liouse to disturb its neatness. One little boy, this pleasant couple had had • but he had been taken from them by death some years before, when only two or three years old. Perhaps it was partly to amuse himseJf as he sat at work, and to take off his thoughts from dwelling too much on the loss he had sustained, or it might be to attract customers to his green-grocery stores, that Joseph Brunton kept, in a pretty cage, just behind where he sat, a superb goldfinch, wliich made the shop ring with one contmual melody ot sweet sounds from morning to night. Yery fond I assure you, was Joseph Brunton of his goldhnch ; and so was Martha. WeU it was on the afternoon of that sunny day m March ; and Joseph Brunton eat in his snug corner, with the window open before Inm, on the siU of which was lying a pah of boots, which having just been ''neatly, expe> ditiously, and cheaply repau-ed," according to the announcement of his sign board, he had placed there to be out of his way, or for some other reason. Kow and then, as an acquaint- ance passed by, he just lifted his head and opened his mouth to say with a cheerful smde How dost thee do ?' but these pleasant ^reet' mgs limdered no time. I cannot say as much for poor dicky, the goklfinch ; who, just as the last gleam of sun- shine was gently glidmg off the sign-board, pleased to p^yye notice to liis master, by two or AND HIS miEND THE COBBLER. 15 tliree well understood chirps, that a little fresh food would be agreeable, or that, at any rate, a little kindly notice was expected for his last fine song. «Poor little dicky,' said Joseph Brunton, putting down his awl, which he was at that moment sharpening, and rising from his^seat, « it would be ungrateful to neglect thee ;' and saying this, he turned round, and taking a root of fresh groundsel, he employed himself in twisting its stalks among the wires of the little cage. It was but a minute, — nay, not more than half a minute, he was sure,— that Mr. Brunton was thus occupied; but, whether longer or shorter, his quick eye, ere he settled himself tx> work again, perceived that the boots had unac- countably disappeared from the window sill. For a moment, the honest shoe-mender felt mightily puzzled. The boots were there,— no question of that— when goldy piped for food : and now, the boots were not there, — no ques- tion of that either. A sudden thought came into the mind of Joseph Brunton.— ' They have been stolen ;— that poor little wretch of a beggar boy that— yes, yes, I perceive,*— and in an instant, with greater quickness than usual, Mr. Brunton was out of his shop-door, and looking sharply up and down the pavement. He did not stand there long. Thirty yards or more from the shop door, he saw, shufflmg away as fast as his legs could move, a httle bare-headed and bare-footed fellow, wrapped up, 80 to speak, in an old ragged coat which had once done service to a man, and which 16 LITTLE TIM now draggled at least half of its skirts in tlie dust and dirt beliind the puny wearer. I^ another moment, Mr. Brunton was in full chase of the delinquent, as he beheved the beggar boy to be. Quickly the boy ran as he found himself pursued ; but more quickly did the pursuer follow. Do^ii a narrow lane I .-. 'iiinmi "-^i'- dailed the boy ; down the narrow lane also darted the man, and in two minutes, the power- fid grasp of the worthy shoe-mender had secured the culprit. Yes, he was the culprit ; there could be no denying it : for in one of the capacious pockets of the old coat, tho newly-mended boots were found concealed. * Thee must come back with me : 'said Mr. '^ninton AKD HIS PRIEND THE COBBLER. 17 « I slian't,' sliovited tlie boy : and then as lie found his struggles were useless, he changed liis tone— 'Please let me go, sir: I won't do 50 any more.' ^ ' Thee must come with me, I say, returned Joseph Brunton ; and thus saying, he led the boy towards the shop. i Now, sit thee down, my boy,' said the kmd- hearted man, in a serious, but encouragmg tone ; * sit thee down, I say ; I must have a little'talk with thee.' The boy obeyed ; but he looked at the door- way as if projecting a speedy escape as soon as iDOssible. ivir. Brunton observed this, and calmly shut and fastened the door. ' Thee must sit still,' he said. _ .-, < -v- The bov looked at him uneasdy.— ' 1 on are going to 'beat me,' he said; 'but you had better not, I tell you.' * And why had I better not ?' said J oseph with a smile : ' or why should I beat thee, poor boy ? What good would that do ?— None to me, i know ; and none to thee^ I tlimk. No, no, I shall not beat thee.' The boy brightened up, and there was a pleasant twinkle m his blue eye that caught Joseph Brunton's attention. He looked more closely at the Httle prisoner, and, m spite of dirt and rags, and in spite too of matted hair, and cheeks pinched in, perhaps with hunger, there were marks of openness and even beauty in the face of the little tliief. ' Alas !' muttered Joseph to himself ; ' if this poor boy had had good parents and good instruction and a happy home, how different would he seem. Manj a 18 LITTLE TIM proud motlier would be glad to have a son witli Bucli a face, to pet, and perhaps to ruin by hidiil- gence, as this poor boy is likely to be ruined by penury and ill-teaching.'—' Boy,'lie said aloud; holding in his hand tlie rescued boots ; ' dost thee know what I could do with thee, for stealing tliese boots ?' ' You did not see me,' said the boy. 'Nay ; but I found them on thee; and I could sendtliee to prison for thy misdeed. Dost hear?' The boy heard but he did not answer. 'What is thy name, boy P' continued Mr. Erunton. ' It's no odds ' said the boy, who had been taught not to commit himself unnecessarily by giving up his name. ' Well, my child ;' said the kind-hearted man ; ' it is, as you say, of little consequence. A suppose you will not tell me where you live ?' * Oh, any where,' the boy answered. And have you parents ?' The boy shook his head. ' And dost thee not know it is very wicked to steal ?' ' They make me,' said the boy. ' They ?— who ?' ' Uncle Tom and Mammy.* * But they dare not make thee do wrong, Burely?' continued Joseph Brunton. 'Thee tnust not steal.' 'I must,' replied the boy stoutly. 'They Bhut me up three days last week, with nothing to eat, because I did not take anything to them at night, and they beat me wicked — look here:' — and the little boy stripped up his sleeve, and showed that his arm was blackened and bruised with heavy blows. jjfD HIS PBXENU THE COBBLER. 19 • •Poor boy-poor boy! what can I do with .JrJd SoBcpb. ' It were best, sm-ely for .r o,-„1 for me to talfc thee at once betoie *^''' Itrate But I have not the heart to t r^B £;.' he' muttered to himself 'if tt to prison, he would mix -th oider^ofe; li,- and learn more wickedness. -• i>oy, Jrcontled aloud ;' hast thee ever heard of fi.o o-reat Clod who made thee r^ , ,, , ^'^"Cle Tom says God very often; he boy rpnlied • ' and so does every body I ever sec. ''^Buf asked Joseph, ' dost thee know what ttot word means?' Dost thee know whose name it is ?' , , . , . The bov shook his iieaci. ^HastThee heard of J-- Clnns^of hea- ven-of hell? but I iteed not ask «^ec 1 sec Ihou dost not understaad me. Canst the. ""'no' said the boy-' but please do let mc go Sir,' he cried. ' t shall cateh it eruel agam "' AnVl^rtTthinehome?' again asked the shoe-mender. , , .1 i „_ ' Oh anywheres,' repeated the boy. _ < Bo;,' slid Joseph Brunton, changing ]u= tone! InA his subject, 'canst thee eat-ai. '"'TC please Sir, yes,' exelaimed the boy eagerl/ 'I hav'nt had anything to eat since ~'do not ask thee when thcc didst eat last,' Baid Mr. Brunton. ^If -^"^VSS Iv ve a I fear, as well *s steal ; ^^^ f.^l^Sw meal now at aaiy rate.— Martha, he called. 20 LITTLE TIM And Martha came from tlie little parlour behind the shop, — wondering, perhaps, when she saw the ragged bo j, what sort of a customer she was wanted for. ' Martha,' continued Joseph ; * this poor boy — have we a plate of broken food to give in charity ? — I do verily believe he is greatly pinched with hunger.' Martha looked doubtfully at the little object before her ; but as she looked her scruples disappeared. * Poor child,' she said ; ' he does look hungry, — and pretty too,' she added to herself, — ' if it were not for the dirt.' In a minute or two, a plate of meat and bread and cold potatos was put into the boy's hand. He devoured the food ravenously. ' Poor boy, thee wast hungry,' said the com- passionate cobbler, when the meal was over. ' It is sad to see thee, and such as thee, going the broad road to ruin and perdition : but what can such as I do ?' and Joseph shook his head despondingly. 'Well, my boy, I cannot do more for thee. Thou hast bad teachers I fear, and wilt soon come to a shameful end. But boy, thee must not steal. It will bring thee to sliame :— now listen: if thee will promise not to take what is not tlihie, thou mayst come : — but why ask thee for a promise which I fear thou wouidst break. Without a pro- mise, thee mayst come again to-morrow, and the next day, and the next, if thee likes, and I will give thee a dinner. Dost understand ?' *Ye3 sir. Thank ye sir/ said the boy heartily. * And now, thee mayst go : but Btay, thee wilt tell me thy name now ?' AND HIS PEIEND THE COBBLEE. 21 The boy pondered, as though calcvja ting the danger of such unwonted confidence. At length he said—' T hev call me Tim. My name is Timothy Smith;— thank'ee sir. I'll come to-morrow :' and in another minute the shop was left to Joseph, Martha, and the goldfinch, the unconscious cause of this unusual scene. 'You might have been satisfied, I think,' said Martha, when they were thus left, * with giving one dinner, without promising more. ]3ut poor boy, he was hungry ; and we shall not miss a few scraps any how. But how did you get acquainted with him Joseph ?' Mr. Brunton smiled :— ' He tried to rob me first of all, Martha.' 'What.?' * He ran away with these boots, my dear.' * I wish I had known that just now,' replied Mrs. Brunton, rather sharply; ' I woidd not have given him a scrap of food — no.' 'J ^liink thee would, Martha. I know thee too well to believe thee unkind and unforgiving.' ' But a thici] Joseph ! He will rob us every day.'^ 'jS'ay, Martha, we will take care that he shall not.' ' I don't like it,' said Martha ; for she would not give up her point ; ' I wonder you should be so silly as to feed a young thief for trying to rob you.' * The bible, Martha, tells you andme to recom- pense no one evil for evil, but contrariwise' 'So it does,' rephed Martha thoughtfully, and there the matter ended for that day. 22 LITTLE TIM CHAPTEE III. GIVES THE PAST, Al^D CONTINUES THE PBE, SENT HISTORY OF TIMOTHY SMITH. The next clay, punctually, but \ iinidly, did the little culprit — bareheaded, barefooted, and bio-- ooated, as before, present himself to the kind- hearted Joseph Erunton ; and day after day for many days in succession, was he to be seen seated on a basket turned bottom upwards opposite t]\e industrious mender of shoes, de- vouring, rather than eating, his plateful of bits and scraps. And it was curious to remark how soon, and yet how graduaily, the lionest man and the roguish child began to understand each other, and to slide into each other's confi- dence. On the first day, little passed between them worth noting ; but before a week was over, tlie little fellow had found time to linger over his meal, and to hold something like con- fidential intercourse wdth his friend — the first, tlie very first real and true one he had ever known. During these conversations, Martha Brun- ton rarely appeared in the little shop. For one thing, her customers were generally either morning or evening ones, and as Thnothy's usual dinner hour was three or four o'clock in the afternoon, she had seldom any occasion to break in upon the conference. But another reason was that she did not altogether approve of Joseph's extreme regard and kindnes? for this dirty little thief — good-looking though she m AND HIS miEND THE COBELEE. 23 iiH|!illl!l!!|llili!|lilll[j allowed him to be. He had taken this affair in hand without much consii^Hng her opinion, and she know it would not end well ;— ' no, that it would not, she knew.' And though, day after day, she laid by the plate of broken food, it was with a shako of her tidy and comely little head, which plainly said— more than she cared to express in words. But, for once, Joseph chose to have his own way ; and when that was the case with hci' generally obedient husband, Martha knew i% was useless to resi^-. ' Timothy,' said Mr. Erunton to his little pensioner, one day, about a week after their first acquaintance ; ' thine is a good and happ> name. I wish thee wert like another Timothr of whom I have read, and that *hou divlst 24, riTTLE TIM kno>v the Holy Scriptures in this thy youf]. Eut, alas ! thou hast no kind and tender mother and grandmother to teacli tliem to thee, 03 he had.' ' Granny's dead ;— she died last hoppina .' said the boy ; and Mr. Brunton thought lie saw a tear or two in his bridit eyes as he Rni^i it. But they did not falL ^ *Then thee hadst a friend in thy grand- mother,' inquired Joseph: * come now, tell me aU about it,' he continued, in a soothing tone. ^ It was not a long stoiy that Timothy had o tell ; nor was it a very happy one. I shall not attempt to give it in his own words ; but here it is in mine,— as much of it, at least, as tloseph Brunton could gather from him. As long ago as Timothy's memory could take hun back on the stream of hfe, his resting place at night used to be under cover of an old blanket tent, beneath the hedges of Kent and Sussex ; and his home by day, a donkey cart, which contained, besides himself, all tb worldly goods of his ' granny and mammy,* mcludnig a collection of rags, rabbit skins and hare skins, and old metal, which they tra- velled the country to gather, either honestly or dishonestly, and which, as often as they could, they disposed of in pedlaiy shops, in exchange for money or goods. This was the pleasantest part of Timothy's life ; for though lie then suffered mucli neglect and some cruelty, his * granny ' was generally kind to bun ; and so was his * mammy ' when in a good temper ; but at other times she used to beat aim without me rev. AND HIS raiEND THE COBBLEE. He knew nothing about a father : — perhaps lie had one, he did not know ; and at that tiine he knew nothing about uncle Tom. His hfe continued with httle change, except that of scene and seasons, until httle Timothy could run by the side of the donkey, mstead of continually riding in the cart. Then he ^vas taught to beg, to he, and to steal, and was often beaten for want of success. At times he used to accompany his granny and mammy to country fairs, where they made a stall with their tent blanket and donkey cart, and sold a few toys, while he— poor httle wretch— was sent into the crowd, in his rags and dirt, to be'^orto pick up dishonestly anythmg that came in his way. At one of these places, uncle Tom made his appearance, and Timothy was told he was his father's brother. This was ' the summer before last,' Tim said ; and since then he had traveUed the country with them, or else lived in a mud hut by the road- side, which they hired for a single winter, be- cause * granny was getting old and lame'; and also because the poor donkey feU down one dav and broke its leg, and was killed by uncle Tom. In this miserable place they hved a sad life ; for Uncle Tom used to beat his mammy and his granny evciT day, and hunself too ; but they bore through all this bad usage, and the poor boy began to find that the more cruelly micle Tom used his mammy, the more cruelly he hunself was treated by her. At tliis time, they all lived by begging and thiev- mg ; and very sadly the poor boy seemed to have fared. 26 IITTLE TIM Then spring came, the last spring, and sum. mer, and they traveUed the country a^ixin lodging under the old tent by night, and mak! ing and seUmg matches, or begging by dav catching up, as they went along, aU they could hj their hands on, of any sort of property Xhen autumn came ; and they went pickinr^ hops for a farmer in Kent. In the hop gar- den poor granny was taken bad, and died under a hedge ; and then it was that, with his uncle Tom and his mammy, Timothy first came to London, and had lived, ' iust any- wheres, as he expressed himself, and where he had been trained, by constant ill-treatment, to shift for himself in any way he could, and had never escaped punishment if he did not take home money, or money's worth, at night to his mammy and uncle, who shifted likewise for themselves, Timothy would not sav, or did not know how ; and who were, both of them, more often beside themselves with strong drmk, than they were sober. This was Timothy's story of his past life, told indeed, m very different words, but told so as to cause the kind-hearted Joseph Brun- ton many a sigh. He had no reason to doubt that the story was pretty nearly a true and laithful one ; for as I just now said, the honest shoe-mender and the little rogue began to have eonhdence m each other. And if Joseph Brunton was affected by the story of his daily pensioner, so was he shocked by his entire ignorance of all that is most fit- ting for a child to know. Of G od, and heaven, he had never heard but in the languac^e of •;;^^^;;^;f^^ v^^•^<^•^/>^!•v;,v AND HIS PJllEIS'D THE COBBLEK. 27 blasphemy and profanity. Of the Bible lie had never heard. Of what was right or what was wrong he had but a faint idea : — stealing and lying, for instance, he thought, were quite fair and proper when not found out ; and those were the best and cleverest people who could most successfully deceive. As to beg- gmg, that was his business, and his birthright, as it seemed to be that of almost everybody ne knew ; But I will not distress you, rea- der, by speaking any more of this poor boy's ignorance. Only let me say : Be thankful for yom' happier lot, and remember if you do not profit by the instructions you receive, your sin will be greater than that of such poor children as little Timothy, of whom, I fear and know there are hundreds, — ay, thousands, — in Eng- land — happy England. It was but about half an hour each day that Joseph Brunton saw anything of the little ragged fellow ; and it was not much that he attempted to do in the way of teaching him. But now and then he thought he saw an inquiring glance in the boy's bright eye, and a quivering of his lips, when he spoke a few words of good instruction in hig ears, which encouraged him to say, the day after he had Heard the history of the little vagabond's life, — ' Timothy, would thee like to learn to read ?' * I dunno ;' said Timothy ; ' what is it ?' Mr. Brunton took a book from a shelf by nis side, and opening it, explained to the boy that the marks which he saw stood for the words wdn'ch are spoken ; and that by learning to understand those marks, he would be in the 28 LITTLE TIM way to get wisdom, power, and perliaps money, like? Timothy, starting up ; ' I should 'Well then,' replied Mr. Brunton : < to- morrovv I will begin to teach theo. I suppose tliee art going now ?' ^ ^ J,hT-'' '''^^T ""^"''''•'";^> ^-iping his mouth lonier '' ' ' ^ '''"'* """^ **°P ""^ 'And Timothy, where wilt thee go from nence r 'Oh, any^rheres,' said Timothy ; this was His usual answer when pressed by Josenh as to his places of resort. ^ ' And what wilt theo do the rest of this eyening, Timothy ?' 'Oh, nothing,— it does not signify,' said he and darted from the shop. ' 'Poor child,' said Joseph Brunton to ),i, wife who came out of tlie neat little parlour as he boy departed : ' I fear he gets into much how he passes his time. I doubt he continued to steal when he can.' ' To be sure he does,' replied Martha. You Jo'sephT ^ '"^"^ "^"^ '^'' ^°-^^' I '^^^' ' hlw ?.'i'^'' ^"^^ *^°'°K^' ^"^""^nJy ''^t kindly ; how old T,^uld our httle Joseph have been had he lived until this day ?' It was a tender subject. The little woman no need for it. She understood Joseph-quitu. AND HIS FMEXD THE COBBLKR. 29 CHAPTER lY. TIMOTHY GETS INTO TROUBLE ; GETS OUT AGAIN ; AND LEARNS TO UNLEARN WHAT HE HAD LEARNED AMISS. But Martha, at that time, could not,— no that she could not,— she could not if she would, and she would not if she could, approve of her husband's whim, as she called it; and very glad w^as she when the next day came, and the next, and the next besides, and the ragged dh-ty boy failed to make his appearance. Joseph Brunton, on the other hand, was soiTy. He had become used to the boy, there w^as something m liim that he Hked, notwithstanding his repulsive outAvard appear- ance ; he wished, too, to do something, if but a httle, towards rescuing the poor little feUow from ruin, by putting him in the way of learn- ing something better ;— and Joseph had a cer- tain book by liis side, the same that he opened to Timothy, in w^hich he had strong faith, and he had thought, ' If I could but teach hini to read that book—.' In short, he felt strangely uneasy at the boy's unaccountable absence. It was not long unaccountable. Tinkle— tinkle— tink— sounded the little shop bell one morning, in the third week of March ; and in came a customer for a bundle of greens, and a five-minute's chat with her ac- quaintance, Mrs. Brunton. * — And such a to-do we had a few days 30 LITTLE TIM: ago, — and do you "know I had to go to tlie police office, all about a little dirty wrctcli of a boy, who came into my shop, and when vaj oack was turned, ran off with a great piece of cheese that was on the counter.' ' Ah,' said Martha, eagerly, ' what sort of a boy was it ? Do tell me.' ' A little fellow of his age, I should think,' was the reply ; ' but I didn't mind much what sort of one, only I pretty soon handed hiir over to the policeman; and he has got n month of it.' 'But how was he drest,' inquired Mrs. Brunton, ' I want to know. I tancy 1 have seen something of the young urchin.' ' Why, as to di-ess ; he had not much to boast of, besides an old ragged coat that had been a man's once — ' I need not record any more of this conversation. * There, Joseph, did you hear ?' said Mar- tha, when her customer was gone. 'Thcre'd an end '^f your fancy, I should think.' 'Yes, Martha, I hear. Doubtless, it » little Timothy. I grieve for tlie poor boy,* ' Well, it is a bad thing for him, to be sure,"* replied Martha, softening a little : ' but it is no use grieving, Joseph. You had better for- get the boy. it is all done with now, at any rate.' But Joseph Brunton could not forget the boy so easily. Thump, thump, tliump, went his hammer on the bit of sole leather he waa fashioning and hardening, — thump, thump, thump, he went again ; but it would not do. He could not thump ]30or Timothy out of his mind. Long he pondered : at length, whec AND HIS l?EIE^^) the cobbler. 31 l^Q could bear liis thoughts no longer, lie washed his hands, pulled do^vn his shht sleeves, took off his apron, put on his coat and liat, and walked out of the little shop, leUing Martha he had business abroad. And so he had ; and day after day, for a ^liole month, chd Joseph Erunton, at a cer- tain hour of the day, and for a certain time, find business to do abroad. And whatever that business was, he ever put, before he went, a certain book into his pocket, — that book in which he had such strong faith; and daily when he returned, did he wear a cheerful as- pect, and had a kind word for liis pretty gold- fincb, whicli acknowledged his attention with a happy chu-p and a thankful song. And Martha knew well enough the business that called hun abroad during that month, for Joseph Brunton did not approve of secrets between man and wife. I fear she did not at first like his daily absences, but she was a kind Uttle body after all, though too hasty— rather too hasty. . The days were lengthenmg, Sprmg had come, and April showers were soon to shew their good effects in May flowers. Tlie month of little Timothy's imprisonment had all but passed avv^ay. ^ ' He comes out to-morrow, Martha, said Joseph, as he sat at tea with his little wife. ' Yes,' replied Martha,— that was all. ' Thee woidd not know him now, Martha ; he is quite another being,— so neat and clean, thanks to thy kindness, Martha, for the nic^ shirt thee made him, and to the prison disci- 32 LITTLE TIM pline, which, if it be not all we could wii^b, is better than I thought.' Marti la felt pleased. ' And so grateful, Martha ; so much hn- proved ; and so rapidly has he made progress. He wall soon be able to read. Thee will be pleased to see him, I am sure.' Martha was softened out-right. She had felt for little Tunothy more than she cared to express ; and she had yielded to her husband's wish, and made up a httle bundle of clothing for the destitute boy ; and she now felt how much more blessed it is to give than to receive. 'And Martha,' continued the benevolent cobbler : * thee canst not know% unless thee were to see, how loth he is to go back to his wicked relations, and to his sinful practices. Martha, he wishes to be honest now he knows what honesty really is.' ' But he must go to them, I suppose,' re- pUed Mrs. Brunton ; ' it is a sad pity, thougb.' ' I have thought about it,' said Mr. Brun- ton, hesitatingly. 'I have, to-day, thougbt much about it, and have fancied if we were but to save the poor cliild from ruin, how happy we should be.' -a„d how Paas, so that olde\ thieve, '.r^n,"'^^ ^'"'"^ *« to steal no inore/and Sd'" ^"°°"'y' ^«^"' an oath, and constant rl, «^^:f''"-ers to fear I say, such thinfrc u, fi,„„ nor natural • buf- f i ^^ "'"«' "ot likely :vow listen ' ^^"'•^' ''^'' t™o for aU that^ eertaJrbootfSf h* t7^^ ^'•"»^- '-^ a side, and in \vlS; h, I.o^^* constantly by his ";i«k you, n,y temi? ^'■^"' ^''^"'' «"d I - >at that book^as Tlr/:';' "'" ^"^^'^ aU mystery by savin „ ,-f ., "'^ once avoid from -this book t^ "f f ^f « "^^ 33ib]e. It was ' ^ that had, with God^' iT'"'^ ^''"^ I'^'^rned >ng, made Mm what he\ '''??« °" '^' t^ach- «ame book, he belted Z Tf ' «"^ ""« even his li tie roeue nf ^' "''^^ *^ ">ake " different though he '^i*! T^^^^^y.-^videly of Scripturei'