“I’ll Never Steal Again—Even If Father Kills Me For It”
A friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity, went into the room of a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself up through the hole and found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a small, round window in the place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old.
“Boy, what are you doing there?”
“Hush! Don’t tell anybody—please, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Don’t tell anybody, sir; I’m hiding.”
“What are you hiding from?”
“Don’t tell anybody, if you please, sir.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Mother is dead.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Hush! Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him! But look here!” He turned himself on his face and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw the boy’s flesh was bruised and the skin broken.
“Why, boy, who beat you like that?”
“Father did, sir.”
“What did your father beat you like that for?”
“Father got drunk sir, and beat me ’cause I wouldn’t steal.”
“Did you ever steal?”
“Yes, sir, I was a street thief once.”
“And why don’t you steal any more?”
“Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of God and of Heaven and of Jesus, and they taught me, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ and I’ll never steal again, even if Father kills me for it. But, please sir, don’t tell him.”
“My boy, you must not stay here; you will die. Now you wait patiently here for a little time; I’m going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this.”
“Thank you sir, but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little hymn?”
Bruised, battered, forlorn; friendless, motherless; hiding away from an infuriated father; yet he had a little hymn to sing.
“Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn.” He raised himself on his elbow and then sang:
“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child,
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to Thee:
“Fain I would to Thee be brought,
Dearest God, forbid it not:
Give me, dearest God, a place,
In the kingdom of Thy grace.
“That’s the little hymn, sir; Goodbye.”
The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours and climbed the ladder. There were the chips and shavings. And there was the little boy. One hand was by his side and the other tucked in his bosom underneath the little ragged shirt—dead.