The Youth's Companion/July 19, 1860/A Little Hero

A Little Hero.

You, of course, dear reader, know where London is, and that it is a great, rich city. But you cannot imagine how large it really is, nor dream how many sad things and glad things and wonderful things happen there every day and every hour. The famous river Thames divides the city; a river so black and muddy and ill-smelling that you would hardly believe, if you were to see it between its rotting wharves, it could ever have flowed through clover meadows, or was once a noisy brook among green hills. On the banks of this deep river are many damp and miserable streets—dark and unwholesome—where some of the worst people who live in London have their wretched homes; and over this deep river is a bridge called London Bridge.

One dark, wild night in February several years ago—when the wind was so biting that people who were well wrapped in cloaks and shawls and furs ran through the slippery streets lest they should freeze, and covered their faces against the sharp sleet that almost blinded them—on such a night as this a poor, hungry, half-clad woman, holding a child in her arms, found her way to London Bridge. Many houseless and homeless wretches go there at night to sleep in the arches, which are a poor protection against the cold without, and in which, by huddling all together, they escape freezing to death.

This poor girl—very young and pretty still—had once done something wrong, for which all doors were closed against her; so, for four miserable years, she had worked very hard whenever she could find work to do, against great hindrances, to keep herself and her little boy. And until this night she had always found some roof, however wretched—some shed or cellar—to hide them from the weather. But now there was no shelter for them but this. So she took her place among the shivering women and children already cowering there, and sat down to watch out that bitter winter’s night.

She wrapped her little Johnny in her thin shawl, and held him close to her heart, just as your mother has held you. But that mother had a terrible fear that yours will never know, for she believed her child was freezing to death in her arms. But he was only fast asleep, and by-and-by all the other persons fell asleep too, all but this worn-out girl. The river flowed by them, dark and cold and silent; but as she watched it, while the night wore on, it seemed to have a voice, and to call to her, ‘Come here, come here—drown yourself, and then hunger, and cold, and thirst, and weariness will never come near you any more.’ She had eaten nothing for two days, and she felt so weak and dizzy that she could not think clearly about anything, but she said to herself, ‘Now, if I was dead, may be some poor mother whose heart was sore for her own child would take my Johnny, and be kind to him. But while I have him, folks say, “Oh, you bad, wicked woman, you deserve all your troubles; don’t come here to beg,” and so the poor child must starve for his mother’s sins. I’ll not be in thy way any longer, my lad.”

Then she said a prayer to God, and told him she was sorry for all her sins, and if what she was going to do were a sin, she prayed to be forgiven for that, too, for she did it for the sake of her child. When she had ended, she kissed the little fellow, and laid him down in another woman’s lap, so softly that neither of them woke, and went with swift steps to the awful brink of the river. There was a heavy splash, and nothing was left on earth of Johnny’s mother.

When morning came, and the storm was past, the outcasts left their hiding-place, and then it was known what had happened in the night. So one kind-hearted woman took the little orphan with her, and said she would find some breakfast for him.—Presently she saw a pleasant-faced grocer standing outside a little corner shop, so she stopped to tell him the child’s story, and beg a piece of bread. The shop-man was a kind man, and not only gave him his breakfast, but took him home and kept him several days. However, the kind grocer had many other little mouths to feed, and trade was not good, so one bright morning he said to Johnny,

“My lad, we’re all poor together, so even you—small as you be—must earn your bit of bread yourself.—I’ve no money to give you, but I’ve four little white mice as can dance, and play tricks, and that made a nice little penny for Joe Smith as died. So take them, and show in them up in the streets yonder, and you’ll get many a penny for bein’ so young and so small, and when you want a friend come back to me.”

Johnny was a clever little fellow, though he was so small, and many a penny, and sometimes a bright silver sixpence, he earned with his cunning mice, which he taught a great many tricks. At night, some poor in body would take him in—or if not, he cuddled down in the warmest area he could find, and went to sleep there. All the money to which he did not need he carried to the good grocer, who never used a penny of it for himself, though, but kept it tied up in an old stocking for the lad. So matters went on for nearly a year, and all this time little Johnny was the gentlest and kindliest of boys, never saying a naughty word or telling a lie, but trying always to do what his dead mother had told him he ought to do.

One bright autumn morning Johnny was standing on a door-step showing his precious mice to a group of pretty children, when a pleasant-looking gentleman came out of the house whistling, and was running quickly down the steps, when the little show-boy caught his glance. The man thought he had never seen so bright and sad a little face, so he asked the child many questions, and finding what a lively little waif he was, he asked him to come and live with him.—The stranger’s face was so kind, and his manner so gentle, that Johnny know he should love him, and gladly consented—only begging to take his beloved mice. The gentleman was an American, going to Liverpool that very day to take passage for home in a great ship like those you have seen in the harbor many and many a time. For this kind new friend of Johnny was an invalid, and was advised to make the journey in one of those plunging, rolling, sailing vessels, instead of an easy-going, swift, beautiful steam-ship. Johnny told his new friend, Mr. Allyn all about his old friend the be grocer, in London, and that he did not like to go away without ever telling him how fortunate he was and how happy. So Mr. Allyn wrote a nice letter of farewell, and inclosed some money, and sent it to London. But I am sorry to tell you that the poor man never thought of going to the post-office, because he never received a letter in his life—so he was never the wiser for the information that letter contained, or the richer for the money it held.

One bright autumn morning the ‘Petrel’ set sail, and four more bright autumn mornings made little Johnny feel very well and very happy. He was so glad, you see, to leave dirty London streets behind him, and to breathe that sharp, bright, clear air, and to be dressed so warmly, (for Mr. Allyn had bought in Liverpool everything he could need,) that he sang from morning till night in his weak, sweet voice, and was wonderfully intimate with the captain and all the sailors. For somehow his story had traveled through the ship, and all the men looked with wonder and pity on the little hero who was so young, and so good, and had known so much sorrow.

But on the fifth morning the sky was cold and gray, and the wind wild enough. And toward night a fearful storm came on, which raged all that night, and the next day, and for two days and nights after that. The ship was very strong, and the captain very skillful, and the sailors very brave; but the storm was more powerful than them all, for it broke the poor ship in pieces, and the great waves dashed up all over it, so that everybody on board crowded into the boats, as the only chance of safety. There was not much hope, however, for the waves came so high that they threatened to swallow the little boats, or to break them up, too, as they had broken the ship. In the confusion, little Johnny was separated from his friend, and from that frightful hour for six long years he never saw that kindly face again. Poor boy, that was the greatest grief of his life. That night the wind went down, and the next morning was as sunny and as quiet as if there had never been a storm or a sad, sad wreck.—The captain’s boat, in which Johnny was, had been driven far from the sinking vessel, and when morning came there seemed to be no living thing on the broad, lonely ocean but themselves. Presently, however, a great white ship came into view, and when the shipwrecked sailors made signals of distress, the great white ship came nearer and nearer, and took them all on board. I did not tell you that Johnny had not forgotten his little white mice, but managed through all the terror and darkness to save them. The ship was bound for Australia, no to Australia went our little traveller, makhimself dear to all on board with his merry songs and his gentle ways. But he had two great sorrows which he kept quite to himself, but often cried bitterly about when he was alone at night. The first was that he feared his kind friend, Mr. Allyn had been drowned, and the second that two of his white mice were dead, for they are delicate little creatures, and exposure and hunger killed them. In Australia he remained two years, because his friend, the captain, remained there to dig gold.

Thence he went to China, and then to South America, and then to Africa, and so all over the world. Always brave, cheerful, kind, and good—but of late they noticed on board the ship that he was growing thin and pale, and coughed a dry, sharp cough, and that he used often to lie on the deck of a moonlight night looking up at the stars, as if he were trying to look into heaven. All these years he kept his beloved mice with him, and it was hard to say whether he was most fond of them or they of him. At last, a year ago last March, the ship in which he sailed anchored in our harbor. He was very glad, for he had never forgotten his old friend, the American, and he had a faint hope of hearing something about him in the city where he had lived.

But poor Johnny had grown so very thin, white, and weak, that it was thought best to send him to the hospital, where he would be nursed, and brought back to health if possible. So he was laid on a clean little white bed, in a pleasant room, where were other sick people, but none so small as he. He begged hard to be allowed to keep his mice with him, but the nurse said they were dirty little creatures, and could not remain. Poor Johnny thought his heart would break, but he did not complain. He only turned his face to the wall, and cried bitterly, but very softly, lest the nurse should hear him, and think him ungrateful for all the real kindness she had shown him. But she did hear, and her heart reproached her, for she said to herself:

“Poor lamb; he’s dying as fast as he can, and what’s a bit more trouble to me for a few days.”

So she softly brought the cage back, and opened it at the bedside, and out ran the two little mice, and pattered over the white bed-quilt with their tiny, pink feet, and in a moment Johnny felt a soft touch on his neck which he well knew. He turned over quickly. Yes, there were his two darlings after all. He cried for joy now, and kissed the nurse’s great red hands. Then the doctor came in, and asked who was that extraordinary little patient? So Johnny told him all his story, which was a happy thing, because that very Mr. Allyn was the good physician’s beat friend. And the doctor in his turn told Johnny how he had heard of him before through Mr. Allyn—who had been strangely saved and brought home years ago—and how glad that gentleman would be to know of his little friend’s safety, and to see him again, as he should do that very day. The little follow was dying, he said. Naturally delicate, hardships and exposure had nearly killed him, and he had only a few days to live. So Mr. Allyn drove straight down to the hospital. The child knew him at once, though they had been so long lost to each other. He was so glad to see his friend and told him all that had happened since the shipwreck—so simply and so patiently, that Mr. Allyn cried, and all who were there cried, except Johnny, who was quite too happy. It was a very sad story of want and sickness and loneliness and frequent ill treatment, but he said as little as he could of that, and spoke most of the beautiful countries he had seen, and the great kindness often shown him. He had thought lately, he said, that he was going to die, and he wanted so much to come to America, because he thought he might see his friend again, who he could never really believe was drowned. He wanted to tell him how really grateful he was, and to beg him to take care of his poor little mice, which would miss him so much. He had asked God to let them be taken care of in some way, but if they must starve, then to please to let them come to heaven, and be his little angel mice. The doctor would not allow him to talk any more, because he coughed so much, so he lay very still, with Mr. Allyn’s hand in his, and in the twilight he fell asleep.

His friend went every day to see him, and carried ham flowers, which he loved very much, and read to him; and told him beautiful stories.

At length, one Sunday, Dr. Gray told us that Johnny was dying. He lay in the bed with his wrapper turned back from his throat that he might breaths more easily, and on his breast were curled up his little mice, scarcely whiter than he. His eyes brightened when he saw his kind friend, but his voice was very low. Mr. Allyn took him in his arms, and he lay there nearly an hour very quietly. Then he said, “I wanted to die when it was sunshine, but God knows best. How good he was to give me you.—Your face is better than even sunshine and flowers. Good-bye, Mr. Allyn. Good-bye, dear, precious little mice. God is going to let you be my little angel mice.”

Mr. Allyn laid him back upon the pillow, and we saw that he was dead. We almost thought we saw a beautiful white angel, that had been our Johnny, float through the open window, and soar up to heaven. Then we tried to entice away the little mice—but they would not come, and Mr. Allyn took them in his hands, as gently as he could, and put them in their cage. They would eat nothing, however, and the next day they me died too. So, when we laid little Johnny in his coffin, we placed the pretty creatures on his breast, where they had rested so often and so fondly, and filled his thin white hands with fragrant violets; and then we left the dear companions, with many tears that were not sorrowful, but tender, in lovely Greenwood, and came home reconciled because we knew how much our little pet had gained when God took him. And, now I think of the little fellow, and am very grateful that I knew him—because he taught me how good, and gentle, and full of hope it is possible to be when our trials seem very great.