Incidents Of A City Ramble

A few weeks since I visited Chicagj) on worldly business. In rny rambles through the city, and while passing a grocery, my ear caught the following worde-'-'" Ouly a cent, sir." This arre.sted my attention, and 1 turned suddenly arouud, and looking in, beheld a small boy, whose patcbed garments bespoke bis poverty, pleadiug with the proprietor of the Btore to throw oif one cent fiom the price of a loaf of bread - stating as a reason that it was all the mon ey his mother had, that she was sick, and that tbe doctor said she would not live long. The grooer evidently considered this a pretence, for he turned a deaf ear to the pleading boy. I scanned the little fellow with mueh interest. Ho had a well-formed head, a large blue eyo, and a good intellect. I had heard of such beggar children, but had never beforo seen one asking bread for a siok mother. This was a new thing in Tny life, and I determined to learn wfcetfaer it was Angel or Mammon that plead For bread. " My little boy," said I, " where does your mother live ï" " A long way down the street." " Will you go and show me, if I will carry her t-ouio bread ?" " Yes, sir." I took several loaves of bread, and some other thiDgs ljudgea benenciaiior a sick person, aud, in company with the beggar-boy, started to find bis sick mother. After traveling a mile or more, the boy enterad a small brown house, sa3'ing as he did so ; " his is wliere my motiier and sister live, sir ; walk in." ïbe apartment was small, but very neat. It was evi lont at a gíance 1 hut the shadows of death wet e fust gathering arouud the inmates of that little house. The little boy ran to the bed, which was in ono corner of the room, ïxclaitnirrg : " Ma ! ma ! here is a good man come with me, and has brought you some btea-d aud other things." I eotered uto conversation "with the sister, who was about thirteen years old, and who waa etitohing her young life away to earn bread for her siok mother, sclf, aDd little brother. She told me the sad story of their preseut dependeuce, which I nced uot here repeat. Her mother was fast eoing with consumption ; the doctor eaid she could not live long ; and so I thought, when I had seen and conversed with her. They had evidently seen better days. Before the mother'a siokness, Bhe had supported her fainily by the use of the neodlo. But for tisreo months she had beeu uqable to work, and the wholo burden of support had fallen upon a little girl of but thirteen years ; and that, too, while. the sorrows of death compassed her abowt. Tho mother cared little about deatb ; but the thought of leaving her cbüdrou cast a gloom over her spirits. I talked with her for more than an hour, revealiüg to her, as beet I could, the glories of the " Summer Land'; how she would be permitted to watcli over her children and direct their youthful steps while struggling with poverty aud eorrow in tho iuture. These thiugs were new to her; and though she did Dot fully be.lieve, she seemed to derive much comtort from the bare possibility that these things rnight bs so. A knock at the door put an end to our couversation. A large muscular man was admitted. Directiüg hia coo versaticn to the girl, he asked : " Have you got that money yet ?" She replied that she had not. She had not buen able to sell her needie work; and if she had, it would not be sufficient to pay the rent - in faot, it was more thau she could do to get food lor her dying mother, het littlu brother, and hereelf. " Therv," said he, " you must leave. I cannot give away my rente; they are cheap, and I must have thetn," " Friend," said I, " how much does this sick, dying womnn owe you ?" " Six dollars for last quartor, and I mu;t have next quartcr in advauce, for she never will live to pay it ; and it'e very cheap, sir, very cheap for thesi; times - not half the vahie, s'r." " I don't doubt but it'e cheap, friend ; but you sec this woinan is surrounded with poverty and eickness; and death stands but a little way oft', and will soon leave these fatherlese children also rnothlees. Now frieud let us be generoua while we can. I ani a stranger bere; I called to look at grim poverty linking hands with sickness and death. Remember, ' Blesed is the man who feels j tnothore woee.' Teil me, friend, what will you take if I will pay the two quarters ?" " Five dollars for last quarter and five for this." I paid his priee, thinking aftor all that ho might bo a genorous maa ; for, as he said, it was a vory cheap rent. He thanked tne and took his leavo. In a few minutes he returued, saying : " Stranger, I don't know, ainco yoii are so gonerous as to pay this rent, but I ought to tako a little less." And he handed me two dollars, for whicli I thanked him, and he again took liis leave. Well, thought I, there is goodness in that uian's heart, after all. After a visit of nearly two hours, I left this house of eorrow, huvhig first left my good wishes, and a prayer in the form of the national currency. And I received ' the blessings of rnother and children, whieh will remain long after money shall have perished. May that kind mother, when she shall pass from her earthly house to the oue not made with hands, be permitted to walch over her two fatherless and motherless children through the uncertain future that