Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science, Volume 26 December, 1880. by Various None (smart ebook reader .txt) 📕

Unto Each Had Given His Due.

 

  To All Who Watch And All Who Wait

  The King Will Come,  Or Soon Or Late.

  Choose Well: Thy Secret Wish Is Known,

  And Thou Shalt Surely Have Thine Own--

  A Golden Cup Thy Poor Wealth'S Sign,

  Or On Thy Lips Love'S Seal Divine.

 

    Emily A. Braddock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baubie Wishart.

 

 

 

 

"I Have Taken You At Your Word,  You See,  Miss Mackenzie. You Told Me Not

To Give Alms In The Street,  And To Bring The Begging Children To You. So

Here Is One Now."

 

Thus Introduced,  The Begging Child Was Pushed Forward Into The Room By

The Speaker,  A Lady Who Was Holding Her By One Shoulder.

 

She Was A Stunted,  Slim Creature,  That Might Have Been Any Age From Nine

To Fourteen,  Barefooted And Bareheaded,  And Wearing A Rob Roy Tartan

Frock. She Entered In a Sidelong Way That Was At Once Timid And

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Confidently Independent,  And Stared All Round Her With A Pair Of Large

Brown Eyes. She Did Not Seem To Be In The Least Frightened,  And When

Released By Her Guardian Stood At Ease Comfortably On One Foot,  Tucking

The Other Away Out Of Sight Among The Not Too Voluminous Folds Of Her

Frock.

 

It Was Close On Twelve O'Clock Of A March Day In The Poor Sewing-Women'S

Workroom In drummond Street. The Average Number Of Women Of The Usual

Sort Were Collected Together--A Depressed And Silent Gathering. It

Seemed As If The Bitter East Wind Had Dulled And Chilled Them Into A

Grayer Monotony Of Look Than Usual,  So That They Might Be In Harmony

With The General Aspect Which Things Without Had Assumed At Its Grim

Bidding. A Score Or So Of Wan Faces Looked Up For A Minute,  But The

Child,  After All,  Had Nothing In Her Appearance That Was Calculated To

Repay Attention,  And The Lady Was Known To Them All. So "White Seam"

Reasserted Its Old Authority Without Much Delay.

 

Miss Mackenzie Laid Down The Scissors Which She Had Been Using On A Bit

Of Coarse Cotton,  And Advanced In Reply To The Address Of The Newcomer.

"How Do You Do? And Where Did You Pick Up This Creature?" She Asked,

Looking Curiously At The Importation.

 

"Near George Iv. Bridge,  On This Side Of It,  And I Just Took Hold Of Her

And Brought Her Off To You At Once. I Don'T Believe"--This Was Said

_Sotto Voce_--"That She Has A Particle Of Clothing On Her But That

Frock."

 

"Very Likely.--What Is Your Name,  My Child?"

 

"Baubie Wishart,  Mem." She Spoke In an Apologetic Tone,  Glancing Down At

Her Feet,  The One Off Duty Being Lowered For The Purpose Of Inspection,

Which Over,  She Hoisted The Foot Again Immediately Into The Recesses Of

The Rob Roy Tartan.

 

"Have You A Father And Mother?"

 

"Yes,  Mem."

 

"What Does Your Father Do?"

 

Baubie Wishart Glanced Down Again In Thought For An Instant,  Then Raised

Her Eyes For The First Time Directly To Her Questioner'S Face: "He Used

To Be A Christy Man,  But He Canna Be That Any Longer,  Sae He Goes Wi'

Boords."

 

"Why Cannot He Be A Christy Man Any Longer?"

 

Down Came The Foot Once More,  And This Time Took Up Its Position

Permanently Beside The Other: "Because Mother Drinks Awfu',  An' Pawned

The Banjo For Drink." This Family History Was Related In The Most

Matter-Of-Fact,  Natural Way.

 

"And Does Your Father Drink Too?" Asked Miss Mackenzie After A Short

Pause.

 

Baubie Wishart'S Eyes Wandered All Round The Room,  And With One Toe She

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Swept Up A Little Mass Of Dust Before She Answered In a Voice Every Tone

Of Which Spoke Unwilling Truthfulness,  "Just Whiles--Saturday Nichts."

 

"Is _He_ Kind To You?"

 

"Ay," Looking Up Quickly,  "Excep' Just Whiles When He'S Fou--Saturday

Nichts,  Ye Ken--And Then He Beats Me; But He'S Rale Kind When He'S

Sober."

 

"Were You Ever At School?"

 

"No,  Mem," With A Shake Of The Head That Seemed To Convey That She Had

Something Else,  And Probably Better,  To Do.

 

"Did You Ever Hear Of God?" Asked The Lady Who Had Brought Her.

 

"Ay,  Mem," Answered Baubie Quite Readily: "It'S A Kind Of A Bad Word I

Hear In The Streets."

 

"How Old Are You?" Asked Both Ladies Simultaneously.

 

"Thirteen Past," Replied Baubie,  With A Promptness That Made Her

Listeners Smile,  Suggesting As It Did The Thought That The Question Had

Been Put To Her Before,  And That Baubie Knew Well The Import Of Her

Answer.

 

She Grew More Communicative Now. She Could Not Read,  But,  All The Same,

She Knew Two Songs Which She Sang In The Streets--"Before The Battle"

And "After The Battle;" And,  Carried Away By The Thought Of Her Own

Powers,  She Actually Began To Give Proof Of Her Assertion By Reciting

One Of Them There And Then. This,  However,  Was Stopped At Once. "Can

Knit Too," She Added Then.

 

"Who Taught You To Knit?"

 

"Don' Know. Wis At A Sunday-Schuil Too."

 

"Oh,  You Were? And What Did You Learn There?"

 

Baubie Wishart Looked Puzzled,  Consulted Her Toes In Vain,  And Then

Finally Gave It Up.

 

"I Should Like To Do Something For Her," Observed Her First Friend: "It

Is Time This Street-Singing Came To An End."

 

"She Is Intelligent,  Clearly," Said Miss Mackenzie,  Looking Curiously At

The Child,  Whose Appearance And Bearing Rather Puzzled Her. There Was

Not A Particle Of The Professional Street-Singer About Baubie Wishart,

The Child Of That Species Being Generally Clean-Washed,  Or At Least

Soapy,  Of Face,  With Lank,  Smooth-Combed And Greasy Hair; And Usually,

Too,  With A Smug,  Sanctimonious Air Of Meriting A Better Fate. Baubie

Wishart Presented None Of These Characteristics: Her Face Was Simply

Filthy; Her Hair Was A Red-Brown,  Loosened Tangle That Reminded One

Painfully Of Oakum In Its First Stage. And She Looked As If She Deserved

A Whipping,  And Defied It Too. She Was Just A Female Arab--An Arab

_Plus_ An Accomplishment--Bright,  Quick And Inconsequent As A Sparrow,

And Reeking Of The Streets And Gutters,  Which Had Been Her Nursery.

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"Yes," Continued The Good Lady,  "I Must Look After Her."

 

"Poor Little Atom! I Suppose You Will Find Out Where The Parents Live,

And Send The School-Board Officer To Them. That Is The Usual Thing,  Is

It Not? I Must Go,  Miss Mackenzie. Good-Bye For To-Day. And Do Tell Me

What You Settle For Her."

 

Miss Mackenzie Promised,  And Her Friend Took Her Departure.

 

"Go And Sit By The Fire,  Baubie Wishart,  For A Little,  And Then I Shall

Be Ready To Talk To You."

 

Nothing Loath Apparently,  Baubie Established Herself At The End Of The

Fender,  And From That Coign Of Vantage Watched The On-Goings About Her

With The Stoicism Of A Red Indian. She Showed No Symptom Of Wonder At

Anything,  And Listened To The Disquisitions Of Miss Mackenzie And The

Matron As To The Proper Adjustment Of Parts--"Bias," "Straights,"

"Gathers," "Fells," "Gussets" And "Seams," A Whole New Language As It

Unrolled Its Complexities Before Her--With Complacent Indifference.

 

At Last,  All The Web Of Cotton Being Cut Up,  The Time Came To Go. Miss

Mackenzie Buttoned Up Her Sealskin Coat,  And Pulling On A Pair Of Warm

Gloves Beckoned Baubie,  Who Rose With Alacrity: "Where Do Your Father

And Mother Live?"

 

"Kennedy'S Lodgings,  In The Gressmarket,  Mem."

 

"I Know The Place," Observed Miss Mackenzie,  To Whom,  Indeed,  Most Of

These Haunts Were Familiar. "Take Me There Now,  Baubie."

 

They Set Out Together. Baubie Trotted In Front,  Turning Her Head,

Dog-Fashion,  At Every Corner To See If She Were Followed. They Reached

The Grassmarket At Last,  And Close To The Corner Of The West Bow Found

An Entry With The Whitewashed Inscription Above It,  "Kennedy'S

Lodgings." Baubie Glanced Round To See If Her Friend Was Near,  Then

Vanished Upward From Her Sight. Miss Mackenzie Kilted Her Dress And

Began The Ascent Of The Stairs,  The Steps Of Which,  Hollowed Out As They

Were By The Tread Of Centuries Of Human Feet,  Afforded A Not Too Safe

Footing.

 

Arrived At The Third Floor,  She Found Baubie Waiting For Her,

Breathless And Panting.

 

"It'S Here," She Said--"The Big Kitchen,  Mem."

 

A Long,  Narrow Passage Lay Before Them,  Off Which Doors Opened On All

Sides. Precipitating Herself At One Of These Doors,  Baubie Wishart,  Who

Could Barely Reach The Latch,  Pushed It Open,  Giving Egress To A

Confusion Of Noises,  Which Seemed To Float Above A Smell Of Cooking,  In

Which Smell Herrings And Onions Contended For The Mastery.

 

It Was A Very Large Room,  Low-Ceilinged,  But Well Enough Lighted By A

Couple Of Windows,  Which Looked Into A Close Behind. The Walls Had Been

Whitewashed Once Upon A Time,  But The Whitewash Was Almost Lost To View

Under The Decorations With Which It Was Overlaid. These Consisted Of

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Pictures Cut Out Of The Illustrated Weekly Papers Or Milliners' Books.

All Sorts Of Subjects Were Represented: Fashion-Plates Hung Side By Side

With Popular Preachers And Statesmen,  Race-Horses And Roman Catholic

Saints; Red-And White-Draped Madonnas Elbowed The "Full-Dress" Heroines

Of The Penny Weeklies. It Was A Curious Gallery,  And A Good Many Of The

Works Of Art Had The Merit Of Being Antique. Generations Of Flies Had

Emblazoned Their Deeds Of Prowess On The Papers: Streaks Of

Candle-Grease Bore Witness To The Inquiring Turn Of Mind,  Attracted By

The Letter-Press,  Or The Artistic Proclivities Of Kennedy'S Lodgers. It

Was About Two,  The Dinner-Hour Probably,  Which Accounted For The

Presence Of So Many People In The Room. Most,  But Not All,  Seemed To Be

Of The Wandering Class. They Were Variously Employed. Some Were Sitting

On The Truckle-Beds That Ran Round The Walls; One