Dickens' Stories About Children Every Child Can Read

  VIII.

  JENNY WREN.

  WALKING into the city one holiday, a great many years ago, a gentlemanran up the steps of a tall house in the neighborhood of St. Mary Axe.The lower windows were those of a counting-house but the blinds, likethose of the entire front of the house, were drawn down.

  The gentleman knocked and rang several times before any one came, but atlast an old man opened the door. "What were you up to that you did nothear me?" said Mr. Fledgeby irritably.

  "I was taking the air at the top of the house, sir," said the old manmeekly, "it being a holiday. What might you please to want, sir?"

  "Humph! Holiday indeed," grumbled his master, who was a toy merchantamongst other things. He then seated himself in the counting-house andgave the old man--a Jew and Riah by name--directions about the dressingof some dolls about which he had come to speak, and, as he rose to go,exclaimed--

  "Seated on the Crystal Carpet Were Two Girls."

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  "By-the-by, how _do_ you take the air? Do you stick your head out of achimney-pot?"

  "No, sir, I have made a little garden on the leads."

  "Let's look it at," said Mr. Fledgeby.

  "Sir, I have company there," returned Riah hesitating, "but will youplease come up and see them?"

  Mr. Fledgeby nodded, and, passing his master with a bow, the old man ledthe way up flight after flight of stairs, till they arrived at thehouse-top. Seated on a carpet, and leaning against a chimney-stack, weretwo girls bending over books. Some humble creepers were trained roundthe chimney-pots, and evergreens were placed round the roof, and a fewmore books, a basket of gaily colored scraps, and bits of tinsel, andanother of common print stuff lay near. One of the girls rose on seeingthat Riah had brought a visitor, but the other remarked, "I'm the personof the house down-stairs, but I can't get up, whoever you are, becausemy back is bad and my legs are queer."

  "This is my master," said Riah, speaking to the two girls, "and this,"he added, turning to Mr. Fledgeby, "is Miss Jenny Wren; she lives inthis house, and is a clever little dressmaker for little people. Herfriend Lizzie," continued Riah, introducing the second girl. "They aregood girls, both, and as busy as they are good; in spare moments theycome up here and take to book learning."

  "We are glad to come up here for rest, sir," said Lizzie, with agrateful look at the old Jew. "No one can tell the rest what this placeis to us."

  "Humph!" said Mr. Fledgeby, looking round, "Humph!" He was so muchsurprised that apparently he couldn't get beyond that word, and as hewent down again the old chimney-pots in their black cowls seemed to turnround and look after him as if they were saying "Humph" too.

  Lizzie, the elder of these two girls, was strong and handsome, butlittle Jenny Wren, whom she so loved and protected, was small anddeformed, though she had a beautiful little face, and the longest andloveliest golden hair in the world, which fell about her like a cloak ofshining curls, as though to hide the poor little mis-shapen figure.

  The Jew Riah, as well as Lizzie, was always kind and gentle to JennyWren, who called him her godfather. She had a father, who shared herpoor little rooms, whom she called her child; for he was a bad, drunken,worthless old man, and the poor girl had to care for him, and earnmoney to keep them both. She suffered a great deal, for the poor littlebent back always ached sadly, and was often weary from constant work butit was only on rare occasions, when alone or with her friend Lizzie, whooften brought her work and sat in Jenny's room, that the brave childever complained of her hard lot. Sometimes the two girls Jenny helpingherself along with a crutch, would go and walk about the fashionablestreets, in order to note how the grand folks were dressed. As theywalked along, Jenny would tell her friend of the fancies she had whensitting alone at her work. "I imagine birds till I can hear them sing,"she said one day, "and flowers till I can smell them. And oh! thebeautiful children that come to me in the early mornings! They are quitedifferent to other children, not like me, never cold, or anxious, ortired, or hungry, never any pain; they come in numbers, in long brightslanting rows, all dressed in white, and with shiny heads. 'Who is thisin pain?' they say, and they sweep around and about me, take me up intheir arms, and I feel so light, and all the pain goes. I know when theyare coming a long way off, by hearing them say, 'Who is this in pain?'and I answer, 'Oh my blessed children, it's poor me! have pity on me,and take me up and then the pain will go."

  Lizzie sat stroking and brushing the beautiful hair, whilst the tiredlittle dressmaker leant against her when they were at home again, and asshe kissed her good-night, a miserable old man stumbled into the room."How's my Jenny Wren, best of children?" he mumbled, as he shuffledunsteadily towards her, but Jenny pointed her small finger towards him,exclaiming--"Go along with you, you bad, wicked old child, youtroublesome, wicked old thing, _I_ know where you have been, _I_ knowyour tricks and your manners." The wretched man began to whimper like ascolded child. "Slave, slave, slave, from morning to night," went onJenny, still shaking her finger at him, "and all for this; ain't youashamed of yourself, you disgraceful boy?"

  "Yes; my dear, yes," stammered the tipsy old father, tumbling into acorner. Thus was the poor little dolls' dressmaker dragged down day byday by the very hands that should have cared for and held her up; poor,poor little dolls' dressmaker! One day when Jenny was on her way homewith Riah, who had accompanied her on one of her walks to the West End,they came on a small crowd of people. A tipsy man had been knocked downand badly hurt. "Let us see what it is!" said Jenny, coming swiftlyforward on her crutches. The next moment she exclaimed--"Oh,gentlemen--gentlemen, he is my child, he belongs to me, my poor, bad oldchild!"

  "Your child--belongs to you," repeated the man who was about to lift thehelpless figure on to a stretcher, which had been brought for thepurpose. "Aye, it's old Dolls--tipsy old Dolls," cried someone in thecrowd, for it was by this name that they knew the old man.

  "He's her father, sir," said Riah in a low tone to the doctor who wasnow bending over the stretcher.

  "So much the worse," answered the doctor, "for the man is dead."

  Yes, "Mr. Dolls" was dead, and many were the dresses which the wearyfingers of the sorrowful little worker must make in order to pay for hishumble funeral and buy a black frock for herself. Riah sat by her in herpoor room, saying a word of comfort now and then, and Lizzie came andwent, and did all manner of little things to help her; but often thetears rolled down on to her work. "My poor child," she said to Riah, "mypoor old child, and to think I scolded him so."

  "You were always a good, brave, patient girl," returned Riah, smiling alittle over her quaint fancy about her _child_, "always good andpatient, however tired."

  And so the poor little "person of the house" was left alone but for thefaithful affection of the kind Jew and her friend Lizzie. Her room grewpretty and comfortable, for she was in great request in her"profession," as she called it, and there were now no one to spend andwaste her earnings. But nothing could make her life otherwise than asuffering one till the happy morning when her child-angels visited herfor the last time and carried her away to the land where all such painas hers is healed for evermore.

  "Keep Still, You Little Imp, or I'll Cut Your Throat."

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