A few kind words unsealed the fountain of his
childish confidences. There were four children younger than he; the mother
took in washing, and the father, who was a cripple from rheumatism, made
these baskets, which he carried about to sell.
"Where do you sell the most?"
"Round the depots. That's the best place."
"But the baskets are rather clumsy to carry. Almost everybody has his
hands full, when he sets out on a journey."
"Yis'm; but mostly they doesn't take the baskets. But they gives me a
little change," said he, with a smile; half roguish, half sad.
I watched him on in his pathetic pilgrimage round that dreary room,
seeking help from that dreary circle of women.
My heart aches to write down here the true record that out of those scores
of women only three even smiled or spoke to the little fellow. Only one
gave him money. My own sympathies had been so won by his face and manner
that I found myself growing hot with resentment as I watched woman after
woman wave him off with indifferent or impatient gesture.
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