Chapter 3

Around the corner, and far up the street from where Tip Lewis lived, there stood a large white house; not another house in the village was so beautiful as this. Many a time had Tip walked slowly by the place, and cast the most admiring glances on the broad green lawns and bubbling fountain, of which he caught glimpses from the road. Often he had stood outside, at the great gate, and fairly longed for a nearer view of that same fountain; for the truth was, though he was such a rough, mischief-making—yes, a wicked boy, down in his heart he had a great love for beautiful things.

On this Fourth of July morning, Tip was up and abroad very early. He held a horse, which had been so frightened by firecrackers that it wouldn’t stand still a minute, and the owner of it gave him ten cents, with which he immediately bought firecrackers for himself, and frightened the very next horse he saw. When the great cannon on the hill was fired, he got in the way, just as much as he knew how, which was a great deal; he contrived to be around when the largest bell was rung, and add his voice to the uproar among the boys who were gathered around the church doors; indeed, wherever there was commotion or confusion, Tip managed very soon to be, and to do his part towards making the most of it.

About ten o’clock he had lived out the most of his pleasures, having been on hand since a little after three. He had no more money to spend, saw no chance of getting any more. He had had no breakfast, and was very much in doubt as to whether he would get any, if he took the trouble to go home. He had some way lost track of all his companions. And, altogether, he was beginning to feel as if the Fourth of July were a humbug. He felt ill-used, and angry; it seemed to him that he was being cheated out of a good time that he expected to have. He sat down on the edge of an old sugar barrel and thought about it a while; then finally, with his hands in his pockets, and whistling “Yankee Doodle” in honor of the day, he sauntered along the street in search of something to take up his time.

Hurrying towards him, with hands not in his pockets, but full of packages, came Mr. Minturn, the owner of the grand white house on the hill.

To Tip’s surprise, the gentleman halted suddenly before him, and, eyeing him closely, asked, “Whose boy are you?”

“John Lewis’s.”

“Where do you live?”

“T’other side of the pond, by the mill.”

“Oh, your father is the carpenter, I suppose—I know him. What’s your name?”

“Tip.”

“Tip! What kind of a name is that? Is it all the one you own?”

“Well,” said Tip, “I suppose my name was Edward when I was a little shaver. But nobody knows it now; I don’t myself.”

“Well, Tip, then, I’ll call you that, for I want you to know yourself tonight. What are you going to do?”

“When? Tonight? Oh, hang around, I s’pose—have some fun, if I can find any.”

“Fun. Is that what you’re after? You come up to my house tonight at dark, and see if you can find it there. We are going to have fireworks, and songs, and all the fun we can.”

Tip was not by any means a bashful boy, and it took a great deal to astonish him; but this sudden invitation almost took his breath away. The idea that Mr. Minturn had actually invited him, Tip Lewis, to come to the white house!—to come near to that wonderful fountain, near enough perhaps to feel the dash of its spray! He could have danced for joy; yet, when Mr. Minturn said, “Well, will you come?” for the first time in his life he was known to stammer and hesitate.

“I—I don’t—know. I haven’t got any clothes.”

“Clothes!” repeated Mr. Minturn; “what do you call those things which you have on?”

“I call ’em rags, sir,” answered Tip, his embarrassment gone, and the mischief twinkling back into his face again.

Mr. Minturn laughed, and looked down on the torn jacket and pants.

“Not a bad name,” he said at last. “But you’ve got water at your house, haven’t you?”

“Lots of it.”

“Then put your head into a tub of it, and bring a clean face up to my house tonight, and we’ll try and find that fun you’re looking for.”

And Mr. Minturn, who had spent a great deal of time for him, was passing on. “See here!” he called, after he had moved forward a few steps; “if you see any boy raggeder than you are yourself, bring him along—bring every boy and girl you meet who haven’t anywhere else to go.”

“Ho!” said Tip, as soon as the gentleman was at safe distance; “if this isn’t rich, then I don’t know—fireworks in that great yard, pretty near the fountain, maybe, and lots of fun. We can take anybody we like. I know what I’ll do. I’ll hunt up Bob Turner; his jacket has got a sight more holes in it than mine has. Oh, ho! ain’t it grand, though?” And Tip clapped his hands and whistled, and at last, finding that didn’t express his feeling, said, “Hurrah!” in a good strong tone.

Yes, hurrah! Tip is right; it is glorious to think that one man out of his abundance is going to open his heart, and gather in God’s poor, and, for one evening at least, make them happy. God bless Mr. Minturn!

Never had the good man’s grounds entertained such a group as, from all quarters of the large town, gathered before it was quite dark.

Ragged boys and girls! If those were what be wanted, he had them, sure enough, of almost every age and size. There were some not so ragged—some in dainty white dresses and shining jackets; but they went down and mingled with the others—brothers and sisters for that night at least—and were all, oh, so happy!

How they did dance and laugh and scream around that fountain, and snap torpedoes and firecrackers, and shout with wild delight when the rockets shot up into the sky, or the burning wheels span round and round, scattering showers of real fire right in among the crowds of children!

Well, the evening hasted away; the very last rocket took its bright, rushing way up into the blue sky; and Mr. Minturn gathered his company around the piazza with the words, “Now, children, Mr. Holbrook has a few words to say to you, and after that, as soon as we have sung a hymn, it will be time to go home.”

Mr. Holbrook was the minister; many of the children knew him well, and most of them were ready to hear what he had to say, because they knew, by experience, that he was old enough and wise enough not to make a long, dry speech after nine o’clock on the Fourth of July.

Only Tip, as he turned longingly away from the last dying spark of the rocket, muttered, “Bother the preaching!”

Mr. Holbrook came forward to the steps, as the boys and girls gathered around him.

“Children,” said he, “we have had a good time, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir!” came in a loud chorus from many voices.

“Yes; I thought you acted as though you felt pretty happy. Now this has been a busy day, and we are all tired, so I’m not going to keep you here to make a speech to you; I just want to tell you, in as few words as I can, what I have been thinking about since I stood here tonight. I have watched you as you frolicked around that fountain—so many young, bright faces, all looking so happy—and I said to myself, When the time comes for us to gather around that fountain of living water which is before the throne of God, I wonder if one of these boys and girls will be missing—one of them? Oh, children, I pray God that you may all be there, every one.”

Just a little speech it was—so little that the youngest there might almost remember the whole of it—yet it meant so much.

Tip Lewis had wedged his way in among the boys until he stood very near the minister, and his face wore a sober, thoughtful look. It was only two days since his long talk with himself at the pond. Fourth of July, with all the merrymaking and mischief that it brought to him, had nearly driven sober thoughts from his mind, but the minister’s solemn words brought back the memory of his half-formed resolves, and again he said to himself he believed he would reform; this time he added that if he knew about how to do it, he would begin right away. He felt it more than ever when the sweet voices of many children floated out on the evening air, as they sang—

“I have read of a world of beauty,
Where there is no gloomy night,
Where love is the mainspring of duty,
And God is the fountain of light.

I have read of the flowing river
That bursts from beneath the throne,
And beautiful flowers that ever
Are found on its banks alone.

I long, I long,
I long to be there!”

If somebody had only known Tip’s thoughts as he stood there listening to the beautiful Sunday school hymn! If somebody had only bent down to him, and whispered a few words, just to set his poor wandering feet into the narrow way, how blessed it would have been: but nobody did.

Ah, never mind! God knew, and took care of him.