The Garret and the Garden | Page 3

gittin'
home again an' takin' care o' the dear babby--a gal, it was, called Susan
arter its mother. It was at that time I was took by the pirates in the
Malay Seas--now fifteen long years gone by."
"W'at! an' you ain't bin 'ome or seed yer babby for fifteen years?"
exclaimed Tommy Splint.
"Not for fifteen long year," replied his friend. "You see, Tommy, the
pirates made a slave o' me, an' took me up country into the interior of
one o' their biggest islands, where I hadn't a chance of escapin'. But I
did manage to escape at last, through God's blessin', an' got to
Hong-Kong in a small coaster; found a ship--the Seacow-about startin'
for England short-handed, an' got a berth on board of her. On the
voyage the second mate was washed overboard in a gale, so, as I was a
handy chap, the cap'en he promoted me, an' now I'm huntin' about for
my dear little one all over London. But it's a big place is London."
"Yes; an' I suspect that you'll find your little un raither a big un too by

this time."
"No doubt," returned the seaman with an absent air; then, looking with
sudden earnestness into his little companion's face, he added, "Well,
Tommy Splint, as I said just now, I've cruised about far an' near after
this old woman as took charge o' my babby without overhaulin' of her,
for she seems to have changed her quarters pretty often; but I keep up
my hopes, for I do feel as if I'd run her down at last--her name was
Lizbeth Morley--"
"Oho!" exclaimed Tommy Splint with a look of sharp intelligence; "so
you think that chimleypot Liz may be your Lizbeth and our Susy your
babby!"
"I'm more than half inclined to think that, my boy," returned the sailor,
growing more excited.
"Is the old woman's name Morley?"
"Dun know. Never heard nobody call her nothin' but Liz."
"And how about Susan?"
"That's the babby?" said the boy with a grin.
"Yes--yes," said Sam anxiously.
"Well, that babby's about five fut four now, without 'er boots. You see
'uman creeturs are apt to grow considerable in fifteen years--ain't
they?"
"But is her name Blake?" demanded the seaman. "Not as I knows of.
Susy's wot we all calls 'er--so chimley-pot Liz calls 'er, an' so she calls
'erself, an' there ain't another Susy like her for five miles round. But
come up, Sam, an' I'll introduce ee--they're both over'ead."
So saying the lively urchin grasped his new friend by the hand and led
him by a rickety staircase to the "rookeries" above.

CHAPTER TWO.
FLOWERS IN THE DESERT.
Beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every day
of our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the
fact. And this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.
We do not, however, draw the reader's attention to one of the striking
aspects of the contrast--such as is presented by the hippopotamus and
the gazelle, or the pug with the "bashed" nose and the Italian greyhound.
It is to one of the more delicate phases that we would point--to that
phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the two qualities is seen
progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not only overborne but
overwhelmed by beauty.
For this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that might
compare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fair
earth--on the Riviera, or among the Brazilian wilds, or, for that matter,
in fairyland itself.
It is a garden--a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that is
arranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens the
gardener a genius. Among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis
and wallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are
intertwined, on rustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and
the graceful Virginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of
the miniature garden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but
the bright blue sky is visible, save where one little opening in the
foliage reveals the prospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans
of the deep and small fry of the shallows, of every shape and size,
disport themselves in the blaze of a summer sun.
Beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observer
be extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, and
nearly all around is ugliness supreme! For this is a garden on the roof
of an old house; the grand river is the Thames, alive with the shipping
of its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forest

of rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane and