THE CRIPPLE.
A crowd! a crowd! a crowd! Well, what of that? You must have come from the country, or you would not stop to look at a crowd in New York. Nothing short of an earthquake ever astonishes a New Yorker. Ah, but this is a very serious matter; a little girl has been run over by the street-cars, and lies there on the pavement, maimed, bleeding, and senseless. Well, she should have been more careful; well, she should not have been playing in the street; well, she should have been at home with her mother. Suppose she had no home which deserved the name? Suppose she had no mother? What is a mother? You throw your little arms around the neck of that sweet gentle woman near you, who has loved you, cared for you, watched over you, ever since you can remember; and that is your answer. Well, then, by that touching reply, I tell you, that the poor little crippled Lucy, though she has a mother, is motherless. Ah, I see by the tear in your eye that you have rightlyread my riddle. You look pityingly in my face, and say, Oh what will become of her? What will she do now that she is hurt so badly, perhaps dying, if her own mother does not love her? You remember when you had the measles, how you were moved into your mamma’s room, and had a nice soft bed to lie on, with snowy pillows and quilt, and how gently your mother glided about you, now stooping to kiss your hot forehead, now bathing your feverish hands, or moistening with cool drink your parched lips; how she was never tired waiting on you, though her face was so very pale; how she brought you every little toy you fancied you wanted, although she knew that the moment you had it you would want it taken away again; you remember, when she brought you your medicine, that she did not deceive you into swallowing it by telling you it was “sweet” or “good;” but that she said it was very disagreeable indeed to take, and that she did not wonder you did not like it, and that she wished she could take it for you; and you remember how pitiful she looked as she said this, and how it gave you courage to drink it down at one swallow, without making a single complaint. And then you remember the good old doctor whom your mother sent for to come and see you; that kind old man, with snow-white hair, and a big old-fashionedwatch-chain and seals that he gave you to play with, and shoes that did not creak a bit; that pleasant old doctor, who was acquainted with you as long back as your mother was, and who knew the history of every tooth in your head. How nice it was to have him walk up to your bed, beside your mother, and say so cheerfully, “Mary, my dear, we will soon have you driving hoop and picking dandelion blossoms in the park;” and then, when he went away, you remember how your mother drew the window-curtain, and, seating herself by the bed, sang very, very low, almost as low as a little humming-bird’s drowsy hum, some pretty little song, to lull you to sleep!
Oh, yes, you have not forgotten it, and you ask me again, What will poor little crippled Lucy do, without all this love and comfort, and without a kind mother?
Now just suppose it to be several weeks from the time when little Lucy was run over. Take hold of my hand and come with me. You see that large house yonder, standing back from the street? You see those bright green grassy banks in front of it, and those fine old trees? Well, that is the Hospital, where people who meet with sad accidents are carried, to be cured by the doctors, who do not make them pay money forit, unless they can afford it. There poor little Lucy has been seven long weeks. Let us go in and see her. Up, up the steep steps; I am glad the house stands back so far from the street, because the noise of the passing carriages will not disturb those sick people. Queen Anne gave them this house. I had as lief kiss the hem of her robe as not, for doing it. Up—up—there you are; now step into the hall; what a nice wide one it is, and how deliciously the cool summer breeze plays through it. Oh how glad I am the sick have such a nice place! “All right!” the porter says, as we show him a paper which one of the doctors has given us, to admit us whenever we please;—“all right!”—yes, all right; right that there should be such a fat, wholesome-looking, smiling, pleasant-voiced head-nurse for the sick to look at and draw strength from: I am very sure that, were I sick, the sight of her roly-poly limbs, and rosy face, would make me better every time her clean gingham dress and snow-white apron swept past.
See what a row of beds are in that long room, and a sick person in each. But we will not stop to look at them now, we have come to see Lucy, poor little crippled Lucy. There she lies in that cot yonder, next the window, with her little snow-flake of a hand lying outside the white coverlid; she raises her pale face from the pillow, and her eyes grow bright, for she knows that I love and pity her; she can’t move much, for (it will make you feel so bad that I can hardly bear to tell you) she has had her leg cut off, where the cars crushed it. She does not complain, as she shews you the bandaged stump that is left, but her sunken eyes, and the little drooping wrists, not much bigger than your papa’s cane, tell what she has suffered. Suppose I should tell you she had had it cut offtwice? Poor, poor Lucy; the doctors cut it off first at the ankle, hoping to save the rest of the leg, but afterward, they found it must be taken off higher up, just above the knee, and the dear patient suffering child went through with the agony all over again. It makes one cry to think of it. But see, Lucy don’t cry, I wish she would; she is so much like an angel that I am afraid we shall lose her, after all, though the doctor says she will “get well, slowly.” She likes the flowers I bring her; she likes the little dainty doll too, with its changes of dresses, and skirts and aprons and bonnets; for she gets tired looking at that long row of beds, with a groaning sick person in each; at that row of windows too, down the long hall; she wearies of moving her little wasted forefinger, round and round the figures on her bed-quilt; she wearies oflooking at her little stump of a limb, and wondering how she shall learn to walk with only one leg, and she wearies lying in one position hour after hour, without turning over. I don’t wonder. I thought as I sat there, how I should like to hang some pictures on those bare walls, for those sick folks to look at and think about, as they lie there; how I should like to give them all a fresh bunch of flowers every day; and how sad it was, when they were sick and nervous and weak, to see a patient in the next bed die, before their eyes, and be carried out. All these thoughts passed through my mind, as I sat fanning little Lucy; and it made me happy to see her turning over the doll’s little gay-colored dresses, and trying them on, one after another, and saying “How pretty!” Lucy wanted a name for the doll I brought her, so I gave it the name of “Fanny.” Lucy did not knowwhyI chose that name, though you and I do. But we must go now, for the pleasant-looking fat nurse has brought Lucy her dinner, and I think that will do her more good than we can; but stop a minute, Lucy, should you like me to bring you a little book, next time I come? (Oh, dear, howcouldI ask the child? see, she hangs her head, she “can’t read,” although she is seven years old). Well, can you sew, Lucy? Yes, she can sew. Oh, that’s nice; thenyou shall have a little thimble, some needles, some spools, a pair of scissors, and some silk to make your doll some dresses, and a box to keep them all in; that’s what you shall have, you poor little patient lamb-like Lucy. You are a living sermon, and if I am not better for seeing you, it will not be because I don’t need improving.