"When a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie,—the mitherless bairn!"
 
Suddenly I was awakened by a subdued and apologetic cough. Starting from my nap, I sat bolt upright in astonishment, for quietly ensconced in a small red chair by my table, and sitting still as a mouse, was the weirdest apparition ever seen in human form. A boy, seeming—how many years old shall I say? for in some ways he might have been a century old when he was born—looking, in fact, as if he had never been young, and would never grow older. He had a shrunken, somewhat deformed body, a curious, melancholy face, and such a head of dust-colored hair that he might have been shocked for a door-mat. The sole redeemers of the countenance were two big, pathetic, soft dark eyes, so appealing that one could hardly meet their glance without feeling instinctively in one's pocket for a biscuit or a ten-cent piece. But such a face! He had apparently made an attempt at a toilet without the aid of a mirror, for there was a clean circle like a race-track round his nose, which member reared its crest, untouched and grimy, from the centre, like a sort of judge's stand, while the dusky rim outside represented the space for audience seats.
 
I gazed at this astonishing diagram of a countenance for a minute, spellbound, thinking it resembled nothing so much as a geological map, marked with coal deposits. And as for his clothes, his jacket was ragged and arbitrarily docked at the waist, while one of his trousers-legs was slit up at the side, and flapped hither and thither when he moved, like a lug-sail in a calm.
 
"Well, sir," said I at length, waking up to my duties as hostess, "did you come to see me?"
 
"Yes, I did."
 
"Let me think; I don't seem to remember; I am so sleepy. Are you one of my little friends?"
 
"No, I hain't yit, but I'm goin' to be."
 
"That's good, and we'll begin right now, shall we?"
 
"I knowed yer fur Miss Kate the minute I seen yer."
 
"How was that, eh?"
 
"The boys said as how you was a kind o' pretty lady, with towzly hair in front." (Shades of my cherished curls!)
 
"I'm very much obliged to the boys."
 
"Kin yer take me in?"
 
"What? Here? Into the Kindergarten?"
 
"Yes; I bin waitin' this yer long whiles fur to git in."
 
"Why, my dear little boy," gazing dubiously at his contradictory countenance, "you're too—big, aren't you? We have only tiny little people here, you know; not six years old. You are more, aren't you?"
 
"Well, I'm nine by the book; but I ain't more 'n scerce six along o' my losing them three year."
 
"What do you mean, child? How could you lose three years?" cried I, more and more puzzled by my curious visitor.
 
"I lost 'em on the back stairs, don't yer know. My father he got fightin' mad when he was drunk, and pitched me down two flights of 'em, and my back was most clean broke in two, so I couldn't git out o' bed forever, till just now."
 
"Why, poor child, who took care of you?"
 
"Mother she minded me when she warn't out washin'."
 
"And did she send you here to-day?"
 
"Well! however could she, bein' as how she's dead? I s'posed you knowed that. She died after I got well; she only waited for me to git up, anyhow."
 
O God! these poor mothers! they bite back the cry of their pain, and fight death with love so long as they have a shred of strength for the battle!
 
"What's your name, dear boy?"
 
"Patsy."
 
"Patsy what?"
 
"Patsy nothin'! just only Patsy; that's all of it. The boys calls me 'Humpty Dumpty' and 'Rags,' but that's sassy."
 
"But all little boys have another name, Patsy."
 
"Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it,—it's Dinnis,—but Jim says 't won't wash; 't ain't no 'count, and I wouldn't tell yer nothin' but a sure-pop name, and that's Patsy. Jim says lots of other fellers out to the 'sylum has Dinnis fur names, and they ain't worth shucks, nuther. Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess."
 
"Who is Jim?"
 
"Him and I's brothers, kind o' brothers, not sure 'nuff brothers. Oh, I dunno how it is 'zactly,—Jim'll tell yer. He dunno as I be, yer know, 'n he dunno but I be, 'n he's afeard to leave go o' me for fear I be. See?"
 
"Do you and Jim live together?"
 
"Yes, we live at Mis' Kennett's. Jim swipes the grub; I build the fires'n help cook'n wipe dishes for Jim when I ain't sick, 'n I mind Miss Kennett's babies right along,—she most allers has new ones, 'n she gives me my lunch for doin' it."
 
"Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind?"
 
"O-h, yes; she's orful busy, yer know, 'n won't stand no foolin'."
 
"Is there a Mr. Kennett?"
 
"Sometimes there is, 'n most allers there ain't."
 
My face by this time was an animated interrogation point. My need of explanation must have been hopelessly evident, for he hastened to add footnotes to the original text.
 
"He's allers out o' work, yer know, 'n he don't sleep ter home, 'n if yer want him yer have to hunt him up. He's real busy now, though,—doin' fine."
 
"That's good. What does he do?"
 
"He marches with the workingmen's percessions 'n holds banners."
 
"I see." The Labor Problem and the Chinese Question were the great topics of interest in all grades of California society just then. My mission in life was to keep the children of these marching and banner-holding laborers fro............