Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

of something I saw last Sunday in Upper-street, Islington. The people were coming out of church. A couple-evidently man and wife-were walking before me, talking on religious matters-or, rather, he was talking, and she was listening. I passed them just as he was saying, 'If I haven't got the grace of God in my heart, I'd like to know who has got it?' and at the same moment as forlorn-looking a woman as ever I set eyes on, intercepted him, and curtseyed, and held out her hand imploringly. He pushed her aside surlily and with a sour look on his face; and walked along talking of the grace of God. The woman may have been an impostor-in other words, a professional beggar; but I should be sorry to call that Grace-of-God man my friend. No, sir, I don't think that it is a good thing to crush a kindly impulse, or that we should treat our best feelings and emotions as so many figures in a sum. It is not the giver who makes beggars. The fault is in the system, which opens no road for them at the proper time of their lives.

      Mr. Merrywhistle [sadly]. But tell me: do you see no remedy for these ills?

      Robert Truefit. The remedy is simple. Commence at the right end. Train up a child in the way it should go, and when it is old it will not depart from it. And by the same rule, Train up a child in the way it shouldn't go, and when it is old it will not depart from it. It is almost time for me and Jimmy to be off. Jimmy wants to open his shop, and I want to get home to my wife; but I'll just try to explain what I mean. Two poor boys, one six and one nine years of age, lost their mother; a few weeks afterwards they were caught taking some potatoes from a garden. The presumption is, that they were hungry. The potatoes were valued at one penny. The boys were sent to prison for fourteen days, and the State thus commenced their education. I will conclude with a personal experience. I had occasion to go to Liverpool some little time ago, and on the day that I was to return to London I saw a girl standing against a wall, crying bitterly. She was a pretty girl, of about sixteen years of age. I went and spoke to her, and soon saw that the poor girl was utterly bewildered. It appeared that she had landed that morning in Liverpool, having been brought by her sister from Ireland, and that her sister had deserted her. A more simple, artless girl I never met, and she hadn't a penny in her pocket, nor a friend in the Liverpool wilderness. I thought to myself. This girl will come to harm. Hungry, friendless, pretty- I went to a policeman, and told him the story. The policeman scratched his head. 'Is she a bad girl?' he asked. I was shocked at the question, and said no, I was sure she was not; that she was a simple good girl, almost a child-and was as complete an outcast as if she were among savages. The policeman shrugged his shoulders, and said civilly enough that he couldn't do anything. 'What did you mean by asking if she was a bad girl?' I asked. 'Well, you see,' he answered, 'if she was a bad girl, and wanted to be took care of, I could take her somewhere.' 'Where she would be taken care of?' I asked. 'Yes,' he answered. 'And have food given to her? 'Yes.' 'But a good girl,' I said, 'homeless, friendless, and hungry-''Can't interfere with them,' said the policeman. 'She'll have to qualify herself for a refuge, then,' I could not help saying bitterly, as I turned away, leaving the poor girl in her distress; for I could do nothing, and had only enough money to take me third-class to London. There, sir! You can draw your own moral from these things. Many a working man is drawing conclusions from suchlike circumstances, and the feeling that statesmen are ignoring the most important problems of the day is gaining strength rapidly. For my own part, I honestly confess that, without one tinge of socialism or even republicanism in my veins, I am not satisfied with things as they are.

      With these words, spoken very earnestly, Robert Truefit, accompanied by Jimmy Virtue, took his departure. But Jimmy Virtue found time to whisper in Mr. Merrywhistle's ear,

      'Didn't I tell you Bob 'ud talk to you? It ain't dear at sixpence an hour, is it?

      Mr. Merrywhistle said no; it was not at all dear, and he hoped soon to see them again.

      'All right,' said Jimmy Virtue, with a last flash from his fierce eye; 'when you like;' and so departed.

      THE INTERLUDE

      In times gone by, it used to be the sometime fashion in the theatres to have an interlude between the acts of the melodrama, so that the mind might find some relief from the thrilling horrors which had just been enacted, and might prepare itself for the more profound horrors to come. Usually, there was an interval of time between the acts-in most cases seven years-during which the performers neither changed their linen nor grew any older. This was probably owing to the joyous efforts of those who enacted the interlude, which was invariably composed of songs and dances. Of such material as these shall part of this interlude be composed; striking out the songs, however, and introducing flowers in their stead, as being infinitely more innocent and graceful than the gross and impure lessons taught by the popular songs of the day, which unfortunately flow too readily into such neighbourhoods as that of which Stoney-alley forms a limb. Such teaching, in its own sad time, will bear bitter fruit-nay, it is bearing it even now, and the poisoned branches are bending beneath the weight.

      Blade-o'-Grass was very young; but the few years she had lived contained many imminent crises-any one of which, but for some timely act of human kindness, might have put an end to her existence. But her life had not been all shade, although it may appear to you and me to have been so; there were lights in it, there were times when she enjoyed. You and I stand in the sun, and contemplate with sadness our fellow-creatures struggling and living in the dark. But it is not dark to them, as it is to us; they were born in it, they live in it, they are used to it. Such sunlight as we enjoy, and are, I hope, thankful for, might make them drunk.

      Said Tom Beadle one day to Blade-o'-Grass,

      'I say, Bladergrass, why don't yer do somethin', and make a few coppers?'

      And Blade-o'-Grass very naturally answered,

      'What shall I do, Tom?'

      Tom was prepared with his answer.

      'Lookee 'ere: why don't you be a flower-gal?'

      'O, Tom!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, her face flushing, her heart beating, at the prospect of heaven held out to her. 'A flower-gal, Tom! A flower-gal! O, don't I wish I could be!'

      'You'd 'ave to wash yer face, yer know,' said Tom, regarding the dirty face of Blade-o'-Grass from a business point of view, 'and put a clean frock on.'

      Down to zero went the hopes of Blade-o'-Grass. A clean face she might have compassed. But a clean frock! That meant a new frock, of course. Blade-o'-Grass had never had a new frock in her life. A new frock! She had never had anything new-not even a new bootlace. Despair was in her face. Tom saw it, and said,

      'Don't be down in the mug, Bladergrass. We'll see if it can't be done some'ow.'

      What a hero Tom was in her eyes!

      'O, Tom,' she cried, 'if I could be a flower-gal-if I could! I've seen 'em at the Royal Igschange'-she was pretty well acquainted with that locality by this time-'and don't they look prime!' She twined her fingers together nervously. 'They've all got clean faces and nice dresses. O, 'ow 'appy they must be!'

      'And they make lots o' money,' said Tom.

      'Do they! O, don't I wish I was them!'

      'And they go to theaytres.'

      'Do they! O, don't I wish I could go to the theaytre!'

      'There's Poll Buttons. Why, two year ago, Bladergrass, she was raggeder nor you. And now she comes out-she does come out, I can tell yer! She sells flowers at the Royal Igschange, and she looks as 'appy-as 'appy'-Tom's figures of speech and similes were invariably failures-'as 'appy as can be. Why, I see her the other night at the Standard, and she was in the pit. There was a feller with her a-suckin' a stick. Didn't she look proud! And I 'eerd Bill Britton say as how he saw her at 'Ighbury Barn last Sunday with another feller a-suckin' a stick.'

      'Do all the swells suck sticks, Tom?' asked Blade-o'-Grass innocently.

      'All the real tip-toppers do,' answered Tom.

      'Perhaps there's somethin' nice in the knobs,' suggested Blade-o'-Grass.

      'Perhaps; but I don't think it. You see, it looks swellish, Bladergrass.'

      'If you 'ad a stick, would you suck it, Tom?'

      'I think I should,' replied Tom, after a little consideration; 'and I'd 'ave one with a