CHAPTER I.

DAVIE'S HISTORY.

IT was a cold uncomfortable evening in January. Certainly the frost of the last few days had broken up, but the raw chilliness that had come with the thaw was far more unpleasant than the sharp biting atmosphere of yesterday. To make it worse, a drizzling rain had set in at dusk, which, if not "soaking" in its effect, caused the passengers to feel damp and cold to their very bones, and made them hurry along on their several ways, regretful that the frost was over, and anxious to get home to a warm fireside as quickly as possible.

But it is an ill-wind that blows nobody any good, and this change in the weather was hailed with delight by one class, if by no other. While the frost had lasted, there had been no sweeping to do, and boys and girls (for to become a crossing-sweeper needs no apprenticeship, and age and size are of little consequence) were thankful enough when the thaw turned the hard frosty roads into streams of mud and gave them plenty of work once more.

Among those who had shouldered their brooms that morning, and had gladly gone forth to their old occupation again, was little Davie Scott. To look at him nobody would have thought he was twelve years old, nevertheless that was Davie's age. Poor little fellow! During the greater part of his life he had lived in a close, stifling street in Westminster, and want of fresh air and insufficiency of food had stunted his growth, and given to his face that old, pinched expression which is too common, alas! among the children of the poorer classes in the great metropolis.

With this, there is generally a look of something else—of slyness, of cunning, and of depravity—which comes from a life already inured to sin and hardened in evil doing. It is pitiful to see it; for, ignorant, untaught, often homeless, half-starved, and for the most part wholly uncared for, what wonder is it that our little street Arabs lead the lives they too often do? But Davie, although he swept a crossing, and, in order to gain a few pence, not unfrequently sang in the streets, was widely removed from this class of children. Poor as he was, in one thing he was rich; he was rich in the love of a good mother. There is no greater blessing than that. Indeed, it is such an influence for good that however adverse the surrounding circumstances, it rarely fails to produce a truthful and upright life in the child.

Mrs. Willis had been twice married. Davie was born during the lifetime of her first husband, who was a sober, industrious man, who thought nothing too good for the wife and little son, whom he loved so dearly, and for whom he worked so hard. Looking back upon past times, Mrs. Willis always regarded those four years of married life as a happy dream from which her husband's sudden death had rudely awakened her.

Davie, of course, had no recollection of his own father, but he had a clear, and by no means an agreeable one, of the man whom Mrs. Scott had accepted for her second husband. Poor woman! She never made a greater mistake than when she took James Willis "for better, for worse." It proved to be all "worse" and no "better." He was a drunkard, and the years that followed were such that Mrs. Willis always shuddered when she thought about them. She soon found that if she would not starve, she herself must earn the money for her own and Davie's support.

Indeed, Davie was a sore point between husband and wife. "He was no child of his, and she might keep him," he used fiercely to tell her. As for the boy himself, he was terribly afraid of his step-father—as he had reason to be—and on those rare occasions when James Willis was in the house, poor Davie would creep out and wander for hours in the streets.

It was while thus aimlessly loitering about one evening that he followed a stream of people into Westminster Abbey. That was the beginning of a new life for the boy. He had always been fond of music, a street-organ afforded him untold delight. And he was never tired of humming over the tunes that were thus taught him, for having heard them once, Davie's ear was sufficiently good to enable him to retain them correctly in his memory. But this music in the Abbey was unlike anything that he had ever listened to before. The voices that, clear, and rich, and sweet, rose high at times above the low tones of the organ, and again were all but drowned in the crash and the thunder that vibrated through the grand old building till the very roof seemed to echo to the sounds, thrilled him with delight and awe. Davie had never dreamt there "could" be anything half so beautiful.

After that, Davie, when driven by fear from home, betook himself to the Abbey; or if it were closed, he would walk about the streets till he found some other place of worship into which he could creep to hear the music. That was the chief attraction for Davie, though he often wondered what the preacher "was talking about." But if he tried to listen, he never understood. He knew, of course, in a vague childish way, that it was "all about God," and there his knowledge stopped. He had learnt so much at the school to which his mother, when she had a few pence to spare, would send him for a week or two. This, however, happened only at long intervals, and, to tell the truth, Davie was not sorry—to go with only half a dinner was a misfortune that did cause him grief, but to keep away from school was a matter of rejoicing. This irregular attendance was by no means conducive to rapid improvement, and consequently poor Davie was always drudging away in the lowest class.

Again, he hated to be obliged to sit still; he was so singularly active and lithe, and so accustomed to run wild in the streets, that this forced inaction was irksome in the extreme. The singing was the one thing that made it endurable, of course he liked that, and then, home he would go to sing to the baby the song he had just learnt—that is, if his step-father were not in. For Davie, his mother said, was "wonderful handy with a baby," and, when nothing else would do it, his voice would soothe its wailing cries and hush it to slumber.

So the years passed on until Davie was eleven. During that time two little children had been laid to rest in the cemetery, and their places taken by two others—twins—a boy and girl, who were named respectively Tom and Polly. They were only a few months old, when one day Mrs. Willis was hastily summoned to the hospital to which her husband had been carried, apparently lifeless. He had met with a fearful accident while under the influence of drink, and though severely injured, would doubtless have recovered, but the habit of years had so weakened and enfeebled his constitution, that it had no strength to bear up against the shock. For a week or two he lingered on, then for the second time, Mrs. Willis found herself a widow.

After his death, Mrs. Willis's life, though even harder than before, was, at any rate, peaceful and quiet. Davie did his utmost to help his mother. What she would have done without him, she did not know; she "would just have had to go to the house," she supposed. He "minded" the twins while she was at her work, he swept a crossing, and he sang in the streets. He did anything, in short, that was likely to bring in a penny. And then they loved each other so! Perhaps that was the greatest comfort of all to her, for, poor woman, she had not a friend in the world, and had it not been for Davie's love, she would indeed have felt lonely. Somehow, it gave her heart to struggle on.

Yet it grieved her that he was obliged to work so hard for her, and that she should never again be able to send him to school. He was a very intelligent boy, and she felt sure that if he had proper training, he would be able to earn his living in a very different way from that of sweeping a crossing. She taught him as much as she could, to be honest and truthful, and gentle in his speech and manner—"just as his father used to be," she would say to herself with a sigh—but more she could not teach him. "She" thought it was very little, but in reality it was a great deal; of a still higher and holier life she could tell him nothing, for she did not know herself.

So mother and son struggled on together until a year had passed since James Willis's death. During the summer months they had the greatest difficulty to make both ends meet, but now, in the depth of winter, it was terribly difficult to find the wherewithal to live. For days and days they were obliged to go with little food and less fire. Piece by piece the furniture had been taken to the pawnshop, and on that morning when Davie had gone to his crossing, with broom in hand, matters were so bad that it seemed impossible they could be worse. And that brings us back to the beginning of the story. But the history of that particular day, or rather evening, shall have a chapter to itself.

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