THE DYING NEWSBOY
In a dark alley in the great city of New York, a small, ragged boy might be seen. He appeared to be about twelve years old, and had a careworn expression on his countenance. The cold air seemed to have no pity as it pierced through his ragged clothes, and made the flesh beneath blue and almost frozen.
This poor boy had once a happy home. His parents died a year before, and left him without money or friends. He was compelled to face the cold, cruel world with but a few cents in his pocket. He tried to earn his living by selling newspapers and other such things. This day everything seemed to go against him, and in despair he threw himself down in the dark alley, with his papers by his side.
A few boys gathered around the poor lad, and one asked in a kind way (for a street Arab): “Say, Johnny, why don’t you go to the lodges?” (The lodge was a place where almost all the boys staid at night, costing but a few cents.) But the poor little lad could only murmur that he could not stir, and called the boys about him, saying: “I am dying now, because I feel so odd; and I can hardly see you. Gather around me closer, boys.
I cannot talk so loud. I can kinder see the angels holding out their hands for me to come to that beautiful place they call heaven. Good-bye, boys. I am to meet father and mother.” And, with these last words on his lips, the poor boy died.
Next morning the passers-by saw a sight that would soften the most hardened heart. There, lying on the cold stone, with his head against the hard wall, and his eyes staring upward, was the poor little frozen form of the newsboy. He was taken to the church near by, and was interred by kind hands. And those who performed this act will never forget the poor forsaken lad. — Golden Dawn.
Milo 