The city of Scranton lies in the centre of the Lackawanna coal-field, in the State of Pennsylvania. Year by year the suburbs of the city creep up the sides of the surrounding hills, like the waters of a rising lake.

Standing at any point on this shore line of human habitations, you can look out across the wide landscape and count a score of coal-breakers within the limits of your first glance. These breakers are huge, dark buildings that remind you of castles of the olden time. They are many-winged and many-windowed, and their shaft-towers rise high up toward the clouds and the stars. About the feet of those in the valley the waves of the out-reaching city beat and break, and out on the hill-sides they stand like mighty fortresses built to guard the lives and fortunes of the multitudes who toil beneath them. But they are not long-lived. Like human beings, they rise, they flourish, they die and are forgotten. Not one in hundreds of the people who walk the streets of Scranton to-day, or who dig the coal from its surrounding hills, can tell you where Burnham Breaker stood a quarter of a century ago. Yet there are men still living, and boys who have grown to manhood, scores of them, who toiled for years in the black dust breathed out from its throats of iron, and listened to the thunder of its grinding jaws from dawn to dark of many and many a day.

These will surely tell you where the breaker stood. They are proud to have labored there in other years. They will speak to you of that time with pleasant memories. It was thought to be a stroke of fortune to obtain work at Burnham Breaker. It was just beyond the suburbs of the city as they then were, and near to the homes of all the workmen. The vein of coal at this point was of more than ordinary thickness, and of excellent quality, and these were matters of much moment to the miners who worked there. Then, the wages were always paid according to the highest rate, promptly and in full.

But there was something more, and more important than all this, to be considered. Robert Burnham, the chief power in the company, and the manager of its interests, was a man whose energetic business qualities and methods did not interfere with his concern for the welfare of his employees. He was not only just, but liberal and kind. He held not only the confidence but the good-will, even the affection, of those who labored under him. There were never any strikes at the Burnham mines. The men would have considered it high treason in any one to advocate a strike against the interests of Robert Burnham.

Yet it was no place for idling. There were, no laggards there. Men had to work, and work hard too, for the wages that bought their daily bread. Even the boys in the screen-room were held as closely to their tasks as care and vigilance could hold them. Theirs were no light tasks, either. They sat all day on their little benches, high up in the great black building, with their eyes fixed always on the shallow streams of broken coal passing down the iron-sheathed chutes, and falling out of sight below them; and it was their duty to pick the particles of slate and stone from out these moving masses, bending constantly above them as they worked. It was not the physical exertion that made their task a hard one; there was not much straining of the joints or muscles, not even in the constant bending of the body to that one position.

Neither was it that their tender hands were often cut and bruised by the sharp pieces of the coal or the heavy ones of slate. But it was hard because they were boys; young boys, with bounding pulses, chafing at restraint, full to the brim with life and spirit, longing for the fresh air, the bright sunlight, the fields, the woods, the waters, the birds, the flowers, all things beautiful and wonderful that nature spreads upon the earth to make of it a paradise for boys. To think of all these things, to catch brief glimpses of the happiness of children who were not born to toil, and then to sit, from dawn to mid-day and from mid-day till the sun went down, and listen to the ceaseless thunder of moving wheels and the constant sliding of the streams of coal across their iron beds,—it was this that wearied them.

To know that in the woods the brooks were singing over pebbly bottoms, that in the fields the air was filled with the fragrance of blossoming flowers, that everywhere the free wind rioted at will, and then to sit in such a prison-house as this all day, and breathe an atmosphere so thick with dust that even the bits of blue sky framed in by the open windows in the summer time were like strips of some dark thunder-cloud,—it was this, this dull monotony of dizzy sight and doleful sound and changeless post of duty, that made their task a hard one.

There came a certain summer day at Burnham Breaker when the labor and confinement fell with double weight upon the slate-pickers in the screen-room. It was circus day. The dead-walls and bill-boards of the city had been gorgeous for weeks and weeks with pictures heralding the wonders of the coming show. By the turnpike road, not forty rods from where the breaker stood, there was a wide barn the whole side of which had been covered with brightly colored prints of beasts and birds, of long processions, of men turning marvellous somersaults, of ladies riding, poised on one foot, on the backs of flying horses, of a hundred other things to charm the eyes and rouse anticipation in the breasts of boys.

Every day, when the whistle blew at noon, the boys ran, shouting, from the breaker, and hurried, with their dinner-pails, to the roadside barn, to eat and gaze alternately, and discuss the pictured wonders.

And now it was all here; beasts, birds, vaulting men, flying women, racing horses and all. They had seen the great white tents gleaming in the sunlight up in the open fields, a mile away, and had heard the distant music of the band and caught glimpses of the long procession as it wound through the city streets below them. This was at the noon hour, while they were waiting for the signal that should call them back into the dust and din of the screen-room, where they might dream, indeed, of circus joys while bending to their tasks, but that was all. There was much wishing and longing. There was some murmuring. There was even a rash suggestion from one boy that they should go, in spite of the breaker and the bosses, and revel for a good half-day in the pleasures of the show. But this treasonable proposition was frowned down without delay. These boys had caught the spirit of loyalty from the men who worked at Burnham Breaker, and not even so great a temptation as this could keep them from the path of duty.

When the bell rang for them to return to work, not one was missing, each bench had its accustomed occupant, and the coal that was poured into the cars at the loading-place was never more free from slate and stone than it was that afternoon.

But it was hot up in the screen-room. The air was close and stifling, and heavy with the choking dust. The noise of the iron-teethed rollers crunching the lumps of coal, and the bang and rattle of ponderous machinery were never before so loud and discordant, and the black streams moving down their narrow channels never passed beneath these dizzy boys in monotony quite so dull and ceaseless as they were passing this day.

Suddenly the machinery stopped. The grinding and the roaring ceased. The frame-work of the giant building was quiet from its trembling. The iron gates that held back the broken coal were quickly shut and the long chutes were empty.

The unexpected stillness was almost startling. The boys looked up in mute astonishment.

Through the dust, in the door-way at the end of the room, they saw the breaker boss and the screen-room boss talking with Robert Burnham. Then Mr. Burnham advanced a step or two and said:—

"Boys, Mr. Curtis tells me you are all here. I am pleased with your loyalty. I had rather have the good-will and confidence of the boys who work for me than to have the money that they earn. Now, I intend that you shall see the circus if you wish to, and you will be provided with the means of admission to it. Mr. Curtis will dismiss you for the rest of the day, and as you pass out you will each receive a silver quarter as a gift for good behavior."

For a minute the boys were silent. It was too sudden a vision of happiness to be realized at once. Then one little fellow stood up on his bench and shouted:—

"Hooray for Mr. Burnham!" The next moment the air was filled with shouts and hurrahs so loud and vigorous that they went echoing through every dust-laden apartment of the huge building from head to loading-place.

Then the boys filed out. One by one they went through the door-way, each, as he passed, receiving from Mr. Burnham's own hand the shining piece of silver that should admit him to the wonders of the "greatest show on earth."

They spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech.

But their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of coming pleasure. And the one who enjoyed it more than all the others was Robert Burnham.

It is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. But it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor logic can ever hope to falsify.

The last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from those who had preceded him. The faces of all of them were black with coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. But this one had just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape.

"Why, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Burnham, "you have cut your hand. Let me see."

"'Taint much, sir," the lad replied; "I often cut 'em a little. You're apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." The man had the little hand in his and bent to examine the wound. "That's quite a cut," he said, "as clean as though it had been made with a knife. Come, let's wash it off and fix it up a little."

He led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail, dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand.

"That shows it's good coal, sir," said the boy, "Poor coal wouldn't make such a clean cut as that. The better the coal the sharper 'tis."

"Thank you," said Mr. Burnham, smiling. "Taking the circumstances into consideration, I regard that as the best compliment for our coal that I have ever received."

The hand had been washed off as well as water without soap could do it.

"I guess that's as clean as it'll come," said the boy. "It's pirty hard work to git 'em real clean. The dirt gits into the corners so, an' into the chaps an' cuts, an' you can't git it all out, not even for Sunday."

The man was looking around for something to bind up the wound with.
"Have you a handkerchief?" he asked.

The boy drew from an inner pocket what had once been a red bandanna handkerchief of the old style, but alas! it was sadly soiled, it was worn beyond repair and crumpled beyond belief.

"'Taint very clean," he said, apologetically. "You can't keep a han'kerchy very clean a-workin' in the breaker, it's so dusty here."

"Oh! it's good enough," replied the man, noticing the boy's embarrassment, and trying to reassure him, "it's plenty good enough, but it's red you see, and red won't do. Here, I have a white one. This is just the thing," he added, tearing his own handkerchief into strips and binding them carefully about the wounded hand. "There!" giving the bandage a final adjustment; "that will be better for it. Now, then, you're off to the circus; good-by."

The lad took a step or two forward, hesitated a moment, and then turned back. The breaker boss and the screen-room boss were already gone and he was alone with Mr. Burnham.

"Would it make any dif'rence to you," he asked, holding up the silver coin, "if I spent this money for sumpthin' else, an' didn't go to the circus with it?"

"Why, no!" said the man, wonderingly, "I suppose not; but I thought you boys would rather spend your money at the circus than to spend it in almost any other way."

"Oh! I'd like to go well enough. I al'ays did like a circus, an' I wanted to go to this one, 'cause it's a big one; but they's sumpthin' else I want worse'n that, an' I'm a-tryin' to save up a little money for it."

Robert Burnham's curiosity was aroused. Here was a boy who was willing to forego the pleasures of the circus that he might gratify some greater desire; a strong and noble one, the man felt sure, to call for such a sacrifice. Visions of a worn-out mother, an invalid sister, a mortgaged home, passed through his mind as he said: "And what is it you are saving your money for, my boy, if I am at liberty to ask?"

"To'stablish my'dentity, sir."

"To do what?"

"To'stablish my'dentity; that's what Uncle Billy calls it."

"Why, what's the matter with your identity?"

"I ain't got any; I'm a stranger; I don't know who my 'lations are."

"Don't know—who—your relations are! Why, what's your name?"

"Ralph, that's all; I ain't got any other name. They call me Ralph Buckley sometimes, 'cause I live with Uncle Billy; but he ain't my uncle, you know,—I only call him Uncle Billy 'cause I live with him, an'—an' he's good to me, that's all."

At the name "Ralph," coming so suddenly from the lad's lips, the man had started, turned pale, and then his face flushed deeply. He drew the boy down tenderly on the bench beside him, and said:—

"Tell me about yourself, Ralph; where do you say you live?"

"With Uncle Billy,—Bachelor Billy they call him; him that dumps at the head, pushes the cars out from the carriage an' dumps 'em; don't you know Billy Buckley?"

The man nodded assent and the boy went on:—

"He's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has; you don't know how good he's been to me; but he ain't my uncle, he ain't no 'lation to me; I ain't got no 'lations 'at I know of; I wish't I had."

The lad looked wistfully out through the open window to the far line of hills with their summits veiled in a delicate mist of blue.

"But where did Billy get you?" asked Mr. Burnham.

"He foun' me; he foun' me on the road, an' he took me in an' took care o' me, and he didn't know me at all; that's where he's so good. I was sick, an' he hired Widow Maloney to tend me while he was a-workin', and when I got well he got me this place a-pickin' slate in the breaker."

"But, Ralph, where had you come from when Billy found you?"

"Well, now, I'll tell you all I know about it. The first thing 'at I 'member is 'at I was a-livin' with Gran'pa Simon in Philadelphy. He wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused me so. I don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an' when I wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't give me nothin' to eat; an' I'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' I wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. Well, you see, I couldn't stan' it, an' one day I run away. I wouldn't 'a' run away if I could 'a' stood it, but I couldn't stan' it no longer. Gran'pa Simon wasn't there when I run away. He used to go off an' leave me with Ole Sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very well, an' she couldn't follow me. I slep' with Buck the bootblack that night, an' nex' mornin', early, I started out in the country. I was 'fraid they'd find me if I stayed aroun' the city. It was pirty near afternoon 'fore I got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she give me sumpthin' to eat. I wanted to git away from the city fur's I could, an' day-times I walked fast, an' nights I slep' under the big trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things to eat. An' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon he give me a ride, an' then I went everywhere with the circus, an' I worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; I worked real hard too, a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an' they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an' they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!" And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance.

The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest.

"Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or birthplace?"

"No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money enough."

"How much money have you now?"

"About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day."

"And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?"

"Hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. The lawyer he keeps half the money, an' gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he finds out all about you. Uncle Billy says that's the way. He says if you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything."

"And suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?"

"Well, I don't know; I'd give a lot of it to Uncle Billy, I guess, an' some to Widow Maloney, an'—an' I'd go to the circus, an'—but I wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if I could have folks like other boys have. If I could only have a mother, that's what I want worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want nothin' else, not never any more."

The man turned his face away.

"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I would; but I could git along without a father, a real father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want 'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I couldn't wait; jes' as if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't—don't you s'pose the things we can't have is the things we want worst?"

"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my little boy who—who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was Ralph."

For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion.

At last Ralph said, rising:—

"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy."

Mr. Burnham rose in his turn.

"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry. What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you must go. Here, here's a silver dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money, "yes, you must take it; you can pay it back, you know, when—when you come to your own. And wait! I want to help you in that matter of establishing your identity. Come to my office, and we'll talk it over. Let me see; to-day is Tuesday. Friday we shall shut down the screens a half-day for repairs. Come on Friday afternoon."

"Thank you, sir; yes, sir, I will."

"All right; good-by!"

"Good-by, sir!"

When Ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others.

Leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the people as they passed in, stood an old man. He was shabbily dressed, his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on his forehead. He was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough gave conclusive evidence of his disease. But 'he had a pair of sharp gray eyes that looked out from under the brim of his hat, and gave close scrutiny to every one who passed by. The breaker boys, who had gone into the tent in a body some minutes earlier, had attracted his attention and aroused his interest. By and by his eyes rested upon Ralph, who stood back in the line, awaiting the forward movement of the crowd. The old man started perceptibly at sight of the boy, and uttered an ejaculation of surprise, which ended in a cough. He moved forward as if to meet him; then, apparently on second thought, he retreated to his post. But he kept his eyes fixed on the lad, who was coming slowly nearer, and his thin face took on an expression of the deepest satisfaction. He turned partly aside, however, as the boy approached him, and stood with averted countenance until the lad had passed through the gate.

Ralph was just in time. He had no sooner got in and found a seat, with the other breaker boys, away up under the edge of the tent, than the grand procession made its entrance. There were golden chariots, there were ladies in elegant riding habits and men in knightly costumes, there were prancing steeds and gorgeous banners, elephants, camels, monkeys, clowns, a moving mass of dazzling beauty and bright colors that almost made one dizzy to look upon it; and through it all the great band across the arena poured its stirring music in a way to make the pulses leap and the hands and feet keep time to its sounding rhythm.

Then came the athletes and the jugglers, the tight-rope walkers and the trapeze performers, the trained dogs and horses, the clowns and the monkeys, the riding and the races; all of it too wonderful, too mirthful, too complete to be adequately described. At least, this was what the breaker boys thought.

After the performance was ended, they went out to the menagerie tent, in a body, to look at the animals.

One of the boys became separated from the others, and stood watching the antics of the monkeys, and laughing gleefully at each comical trick performed by the grave-faced little creatures. Looking up, he saw an old man standing by him; an old man with sharp gray eyes and dusty clothes, who leaned heavily upon a cane.

"Curious things, these monkeys," said the old man.

"Ain't they, though!" replied the boy. "Luk at that un, now!—don't he beat all? ain't he funny?"

"Very!" responded the old man, gazing across the open space to where
Ralph stood chattering with his companions.

"Sonny," said he, "can you tell me who that boy is, over yonder, with his hand done up in a white cloth?"

"That boy w'ats a-talkin' to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?"

"Yes, the one there by the lion's cage."

"You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?"

"Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?"

"Oh, that's Ralph."

"Ralph who?"

"Ralph nobody. He ain't got no other name. He lives with Bachelor
Billy."

"Is—is Bachelor Billy his father?"

"Naw; he ain't got no father."

"Does he work with you in the mines?"

"In the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. He sets nex' to me."

"How long has he been working there?"

"Oh, I donno; couple o' years, I guess. You want to see 'im? I'll go call 'im."

"No; I don't care to see him. Don't call him; he isn't the boy I'm looking for, any way."

"There! he's a-turnin' this way now. I'll have 'im here in a minute; hey, Ralph! Ralph! here he comes."

But the old man was gone. He had disappeared suddenly and mysteriously. A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. He was smiling, and muttering to himself. "Found him at last!" he exclaimed, in a whisper, "found him at last! It'll be all right now; only be cautious, Simon! be cautious!"