THE HESPERIAN
prize Story.
LITTLE TOM.
JThls story was awarded llrsi prize In llio
Hksi'euian compction.
IjE SAT on the green lawn, pulling oir
J 1 the heads of yellow marigolds. His
soft, yellow hair shone in the slanting
sunlight like an uncertain aureole. Under
one tiny gilt shoe lay his little white cap,
squeezed into the grass. Scattering the mari
gold leaves all over himself, until tho sun
beams seemed tangled in all the folds of his
tumbled apron, he looked like a bright blos
som. He held up a great, fluffy, yellow head,
and looked at it, and laughed. Then, sud
denly, he pushed it into his mouth as well
as so big a flower could go into so small a
mouth. The feathery pollen brushed his
tiny nose with powdery dust, and made him
sneeze. He looked at the flower in astonish
ment. He put it into his mouth again. But
he did not calculate the angle of torsion ex
actly, and this time his dimpled fist came
first, striking his lips against two sharp little
teeth.
This was different. It was not so nice.
He puckered up the little, smarting lips, and
shut his blue eyes tight- But he did not
cry. He thought better of it. He rolled
himself over on the grass, and pulled up the
soft blades with both hands. Then he sat
up, very still. A bird had just begun to
sing in the one lone maple on the lawn.
Where did that pretty thing come from? nc
looked all around on the grass on the bits
ot marigold leaves. He did not look up to
the maple tree, because, 4o be sure, he did
not know there was a maple tree there. He
looked at a bit of glass, sparkling in the sun.
Ah ! that was it. He laughed softly, and
crept over the green turf to the shining
tiling. He picked it up, and all the bright
ness of the sinking sun flashed out between
his tiny, dirty lingers. He laughed again,
and tried his two white teeth on the sharp
edge. This time there was a cry indeed.
The glittering glass fell into the little white
apron, and a tiny red stream trickled after it.
He did not scream, lie did not even kick
his gilt shoes off upon the marigold leaves.
He sat still, only crying softly with an un
imperative, plaintive little moan. The sun
sank lower and lower. It shone jn his small
dusty face, powdered with yellow marigold
dust and streaked with little white lines
where the tears had run down and made his
lace collar hang limp and uneven.
'Why Tommy, pet! Bless his dear little
heart Look at the blood Mercy ! He's
cut himself. Mother's blessed boy Tom
my ! ' Tommy was asleep. His mother
gathered him up and shook the glass and the
yellow, withered leaves into the grass. She
picked up the crushed cap, and carried the
sleeping baby into the house.
Tt was a poor, small house. A bed with
red valances stood in the parlor. A sick
woman lay there, tossing with fever.
"Don't go, Mrs. Liner," she moaned,
"don't leave me." Mrs. Liner had laid
little Tom on the foot of the bed, while she
tied on her bonnet and took her shawl.
44 1 must go home and get supper ready,
Mrs. Conley, or Mr. Liner will not like it."
She smoothed out the pillow, pulled the
sheets straight, and placed a pitcher and
glass on a chair close to the bedside. Then
she took up Kttle Tom, and walked out
across the grassy lawn, down the narrow
walk, past many blocks of small cottages
and poor houses. In that little green house
an old man lay dead. Mrs. Liner hurried
by. She had kept warm flannels at his foot.
But he was old. Here was the flat where
the twins were recovering from the measles.
Mrs. Liner saw their heads at the window,
She went on to a new store building and
walked slowly up a long flight of stairs.
In the hall, she stopped. A clock was
striking one, two, three, four, live,
six.
She placed Tom on a bed and walked into
the kitchen. A fire burned furiously in the
range, and a tall man with shaggy hair bent
L
-A-
wm
