Little Pollie | Page 4

reply.
And then the two friends went on up Drury Lane, not speaking much;
but as they were parting Lizzie stooped down, and kissing the child
lovingly, said softly--
"Good-bye, and thank you, little Pollie."
"Would you like a bunch of violets?" she asked. "I can divide the other
between mother and Mrs Flanagan."
The poor seamstress was unable to speak from emotion, but held out
her hand with trembling eagerness for the flowers.
How glad was the child in being able to give a pleasure to her lonely
neighbour. She felt more joy in seeing Lizzie Stevens' glad smile than
even in the magnificent sum of money wrapped in her handkerchief; for
she experienced "it is more blessed to give than to receive;" and after
seeing her friend disappear through the dingy doorway which led to the
garret called her "home," she turned with a light heart into the entry
which led to her own place, eager to see mother and tell her all; but in
doing so almost fell over a little cripple boy who sat crouched on the
door-steps.
"O Jimmy! did I hurt you?" she asked in alarm.
"No. Everybody knocks me about; I'se used to it," was his answer.
"Poor Jimmy!" said the little girl. "Where's your mother?"
"Down there, drunk again," he replied, pointing his thin finger in the
direction of what in other houses would be the kitchen, but which was
his "home," if it could be dignified by so sacred a name.
Pollie looked sorrowfully on the poor boy, whose thin, wizened face,
with large, hungry eyes, was placed on a shrunk and distorted body.
His mother was the pest of the court, always drunk, and in her drunken
fury beating her wretched offspring. Half-starved and half-clothed, he

passed his time on the door-step, gazing vacantly at the passers-by,
uncared for, unloved amidst the many.
"Poor Jimmy!" repeated the little girl. "Would you like some of my
sweet violets?"
The boy, unused to even a breath of kindness, gazed some few seconds
at her with his eager eyes.
"You be Pollie Turner, bain't yer, what lives upstairs with yer mother?"
he asked at last.
"Yes," she replied, and repeated her question, as she took some of the
flowers from her last bunch. "Would you like these?"
He held out his claw-like hand--so dirty that Pollie almost shrank from
touching it as she gave him the violets. He took them without a word of
thanks, but as she was moving away he called out--
"I say, did yer make these?"
"No, Jimmy," she replied, as she came back to him; "God made them."
"God!" he repeated, "Who's He; Him's mighty clever to fix up these
little bits of things, bain't He?"
The little girl was for a moment shocked, then she felt a tender pity for
the poor boy.
"O Jimmy, don't you know who God is?" she gently asked.
He shook his head; so she went on--
"God is our Father in heaven," and she pointed upwards. "He made
these sweet flowers, and us also, and He sent His dear Son to die for us,
so that all our sins should be taken away. And when Jesus (that is the
name of God's dear Son) was here on earth, He gave sight to the blind,
healed the sick, and was for ever doing good; but now He is in heaven,
and still He loves us, oh, so dearly, and wishes us all to come to Him."

"Does He want me?" asked the outcast doubtfully; "He don't know
me."
"Oh yes, He knows you, Jimmy, and loves you too; once Jesus blessed
little children like you and me, and said, 'Suffer little children to come
unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"
"The kingdom of heaven!" repeated poor benighted Jimmy musingly--it
was the first time he had ever heard those blessed words--"where be
that, Polly?"
"It is where God lives, and where we shall go when we die if we
believe in the Saviour and love and pray to God."
"How do you pray?" he asked, fixing his keen eyes upon her, as though
hungering for the bread of life.
But before she could reply, a loud, harsh voice was heard uttering
frightful oaths, and a lumbering tread came stumbling up the cellar
stairs. The poor boy knew full well who was coming, and with a
terrified look started up and hobbled off, supported by his clumsy
crutches, round the corner of the house, whilst Pollie, who went in
terror of the drunken woman, ran hastily up the dirty staircase, which
served for all the inmates of the crowded house.
CHAPTER III.
HOW POLLY SPENT HER MONEY.
The first two or three flights of stairs were thickly strewn