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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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CHAPTER II.

Who shall assuage thy griefs, “thou tempest-toss'd!”
And speak of comfort, “comfortless!” to thee?
EMILY TAYLOR.

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Gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are
roused by each other's merry voices, or by a parent's kiss,
who have kind hands to help them dress, and know that a nice
breakfast awaits them. But she heard harsh voices below; knew,
from the sound, that the men who lived at Nan Grant's (her son
and two or three boarders) had come in to breakfast, and that her
only chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on the
spot when they had finished, to take that portion of what remained
which Nan might chance to throw or shove towards her. So she
crept down stairs, waited a little out of sight until she smelt the
smoke of the men's pipes as they passed through the passage, and,
when they had all gone noisily out, she slid into the room, looking
about her with a glance made up of fear and defiance. She met
but a rough greeting from Nan, who told her she had better drop
that ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she wanted it, but
take care and keep out of her way, and not come near the fire,
plaguing round where she was at work, or she'd get another
dressing, worse than she had last night.

Gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so there was no
disappointment to bear; but, glad enough of the miserable food
left for her on the table, swallowed it eagerly, and, waiting no
second bidding to keep herself out of the way, took her little old
hood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to her
mother, and which had long been the child's best protection from
the cold, and, though her hands and feet were chilled by the sharp
air of the morning, ran out of the house.

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Back of the building where Nan Grant lived, was a large wood
and coal yard; and beyond that a wharf, and the thick muddy
water of a dock. Gerty might have found playmates enough in
the neighborhood of this place. She sometimes did mingle with
the troops of boys and girls, equally ragged with herself, who
played about in the yard; but not often,—there was a league
against her among the children of the place. Poor, ragged and
miserably cared for, as most of them were, they all knew that
Gerty was still more neglected and abused. They had often seen
her beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child, told
that she belonged to nobody, and had no business in any one's
house. Children as they were, they felt their advantage, and
scorned the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have been the
case if Gerty had ever mingled freely with them, and tried to be
on friendly terms. But, while her mother lived there with her,
though it was but a short time, she did her best to keep her little
girl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of avoidance,
but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her from
joining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left her
to do as she liked. As it was, she seldom had any intercourse
with them. Nor did they venture to abuse her, otherwise than in
words; for, singly, they dared not cope with her;—spirited, sudden
and violent, she had made herself feared, as well as disliked.
Once a band of them had united in a plan to tease and vex her;
but, Nan Grant coming up at the moment when one of the girls
was throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from Gerty's feet,
into the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping, and put them
all to flight. Gerty had not had a pair of shoes since; but Nan
Grant, for once, had done her good service, and the children now
left her in peace.

It was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when Gerty ran away
from the house, to seek shelter in the wood-yard. There was an
immense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out of
sight of any of the houses. Of different lenghts and unevenly
placed, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps,
by means of which it was easy to climb up. Near the top was a
little sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forming

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a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, and
from that looking out upon the water.

This was Gerty's haven of rest, her sanctum, and the only place
from which she never was driven away. Here, through the long
summer days, the little, lonesome child sat, brooding over her griefs,
her wrongs and her ugliness; sometimes weeping for hours. Now
and then, when the course of her life had been smooth for a few
days (that is, when she had been so fortunate as to offend no one,
and had escaped whipping, or being shut up in the dark), she
would get a little more cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors
belonging to a schooner hard by, as they labored on board their
vessel, or occasionally rowed to and fro in a little boat. The warm
subshine was so pleasant, and the men's voices at their work so
lively, that the poor little thing would for a time forget her woes.

But summer had gone; the schooner, and the sailors, who had
been such pleasant company, had gone too. The weather was now
cold, and for a few days it had been so stormy, that Gerty had
been obliged to stay in the house. Now, however, she made the
best of her way to her little hiding-place; and, to her joy, the sunshine
had reached the spot before her, dried up the boards, so that
they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright and
pleasant, that Gerty forgot Nan grant, forgot how cold she had
been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. Her thoughts
rambled about some time; but, at last, settled down upon the kind
look and voice of the old lamplighter; and then, for the first time
since the promise was made, it came into her mind, that he had
engaged to bring her something the next time he came. She could
not believe he would remember it; but still, he might, he seemed
to be so good-natured, and sorry for her fall.

What could he mean to bring? Would it be something to eat?
O, if it were only some shoes! But he wouldn't think of that.
Perhaps he did not notice but she had some.

At any rate, Gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to be
back before it was time to light the lamp, so that nothing should
prevent her seeing him.

The day seemed unusually long, but darkness came at last; and

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with it came True—or rather Trueman—Flint, for that was the
lamplighter's name.

Gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude Nan
Grant's observation.

True was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry.
He had only time to speak a few words in his rough way to Gerty;
but they were words coming straight from as good and honest a
heart as ever throbbed. He put his great, smutty hand on her
head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt,
and said “It was a plaguy shame she should have been whipped
too, and all for a spill o' milk, that was a misfortin', and no
crime.”

“But here,” added he, diving into one of his huge pockets,
“here's the critter I promised you. Take good care on't; don't'
buse it; and, I'm guessin', if it's like the mother that I've got
at home, 't won't be a little ye'll be likin' it, 'fore you're done.
Good-by, my little gal;” and he shouldered his ladder and went off,
leaving in Gerty's hands a little gray-and-white kitten.

Gerty was so taken by surprise, on finding in her arms a live
kitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, that
she stood for a minute irresolute what to do with it. There were
a great many cats, of all sizes and colors, inhabitants of the neighboring
houses and yard; frightened-looking creatures, which, like
Gerty herself, crept or scampered about, and often hid themselves
among the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubts
about their having a right to be anywhere. Gerty had often felt
a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one,
carry it home and tame it; for she knew that food and shelter
were most grudgingly accorded to herself, and would not certainly
be extended to her pets. Her first thought, therefore, was to throw
the kitten down and let it run away.

But, while she was hesitating, the little animal pleaded for itself
in a way she could not resist. Frightened by its long imprisonment
and journey in True Flint's pocket, it crept from Gerty's
arms up to her neck, clung there tight, and, with its low, feeble
cries, seemed to ask her to take care of it. Its eloquence prevailed
over all fear of Nan Grant's anger. She hugged pussy to

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her bosom, and made a childish resolve to love it, feed it, and,
above all, keep it out of Nan's sight.

How much she came in time to love that kitten, no words can
tell. Her little, fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto
only expressed itself in angry passion, sullen obstinacy, and even
hatred. But there were in her soul fountains of warm affection
yet unstirred, a depth of tenderness never yet called out, and a
warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an object to
expend themselves upon.

So she poured out such wealth of love on the little creature that
clung to her for its support as only such a desolate little heart
has to spare. She loved the kitten all the more for the care she
was obliged to take of it, and the trouble and anxiety it gave her.
She kept it, as much as possible, out among the boards, in her own
favorite haunt. She found an old hat, in which she placed her own
hood, to make a bed for pussy. She carried it a part of her own
scanty meals; she braved for it what she would not have done
for herself; for she almost every day abstracted from the kettle,
when she was returning with the milk for Nan Grant, enough for
pussy's supper; running the risk of being discovered and punished,
the only risk or harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought of,
in connection with the theft and deception; for her ideas of abstract
right and wrong were utterly undeveloped. So she would play
with her kitten for hours among the boards, talk to it, and tell it
how much she loved it. But, when the days were very cold, she
was often puzzled to know how to keep herself warm out of doors,
and the risk of bringing the kitten into the house was great. She
would then hide it in her bosom, and run with it into the little
garret-room where she slept; and, taking care to keep the door
shut, usually eluded Nan's eyes and ears. Once or twice, when
she had been off her guard, her little playful pet had escaped from
her, and scampered through the lower room and passage. Once
Nan drove it out with a broom; but in that thickly-peopled region,
as we have said, cats and kittens were not so uncommon as to excite
inquiry.

It may seem strange that Gerty had leisure to spend all her
time at play. Most children living among the poorer class of

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people learn to be useful even while they are very young. Numbers
of little creatures, only a few years old, may be seen in our
streets, about the yards and doors of houses, bending under the
weight of a large bundle of sticks, a basket of shavings, or, more
frequently yet, a stout baby, nearly all the care of which devolves
upon them. We have often pitied such little drudges, and
thought their lot a hard one. But, after all, it was not the worst
thing in the world; they were far better off than Gerty, who
had nothing to do at all, and had never known the satisfaction
of helping anybody. Nan Grant had no babies; and, being a
very active woman, with but a poor opinion of children's services,
at the best, she never tried to find employment for Gerty, much
better satisfied if she would only keep out of her sight; so
that, except her daily errand for the milk, Gerty was always
idle,—a fruitful source of unhappiness and discontent, if she had
suffered from no other.

Nan was a Scotchwoman, no longer young, and with a temper
which, never good, became worse and worse as she grew older.
She had seen life's roughest side, had always been a hard-working
woman, and had the reputation of being very smart and a driver.
Her husband was a carpenter by trade; but she made his home
so uncomfortable, that for years he had followed the sea. She
took in washing, and had a few boarders; by means of which she
earned what might have been an ample support for herself, had it
not been for her son, an unruly, disorderly young man, spoilt in
early life by his mother's uneven temper and management, and
who, though a skilful workman when he chose to be industrious,
always squandered his own and a large part of his mother's earnings.
Nan, as we have said, had reasons of her own for keeping
Gerty, though they were not so strong as to prevent her often
having half a mind to rid herself of the encumbrance.

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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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