A Years Supply
He was one of the city’s wealthiest men, but he made no ostentatious display of his wealth. A little, thin, poorly clad girl stood looking in the window of the restaurant at the good things to eat. The man approached and touched her on the shoulder.
“What is your name, little girl?” he asked.
“Susie Tompkins, sir,” she answered, looking up at him with great, haunting, blue eyes.
There was something in her pleading, innocent voice that stirred a strange feeling in the millionaire’s heart. Still it may have been indigestion.
“Have you a father?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir, mother has only me to support.”
“Is your mother very poor?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Susan, sir. Just like mine.”
“Tell me, child,” said the wealthy man, clutching her arm in an agony of suspense. “Has your mother a wart on her nose, and does her breath smell of onions?”
“Yes, sir.”
The millionaire covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then said in a trembling voice:
“Little one, your mother and I once knew each other. You have her voice, her hair, and her eyes. If it had not been for a misunderstanding—perhaps—but that is all past now.”
The man unbuttoned his overcoat and took from his vest pocket a package.
“Take this,” he said. “I have more than I want. It will last you and your mother a year.”
The little girl took the package and ran home in glee.
“Oh, see, mama!” she cried. “A gentleman gave me this. He said it would last us a whole year.”
The pale woman unrolled the package with trembling hands.
It was a nice new calendar.
No gift his genius might have had
Of titles high, in church and state,
Could charm him as the one he bore,
Of children’s poet-laureate.
He smilingly pressed aside his bays
And laurel garlands that he won,
And bowed his head for baby hands
To place a daisy wreath upon.
He found his kingdom in the ways,
Of little ones he loved so well,
For them he tuned his lyre and sang.
Sweet simple songs of magic spell.
Ah! greater feat to storm the gates
Of children’s pure and cleanly hearts,
Than to subdue a warring world
By stratagems and doubtful arts.
A tribute paid by chanting choirs
And pealing organs rises high;
But soft and clear, somewhere he hears
Through all, a child’s low lullaby.