  IF you’ll sit on my knee As still as a stone, And listen to me While we’re all alone— While the wind whistles cold, And the snow falls so fast, While the young and the old Feel the chill of the blast— I will tell you about A poor little lad Who now, without doubt, Is smiling and glad. (His picture.) Brown and curly his head, Bright blue was his eye, His feet bare and red, His look rather shy; His face, somewhat soiled, Unfamiliar with soap, Was thin, while there curled In his neck, like a rope, Certain locks which had grown, Unhindered by shears That he never had known, You would think, all his years; His shirt was a sight, You may think, to behold, Through which shone the light Unblushingly bold. His trousers, in shreds, His legs dangled round, Long needing the threads Which they never had found; While his cap—what was left Of the original pattern— Of all shape was bereft, And looked like a slattern. Such, such was the creature Who stood in the door; In dress, form and feature— Nothing less, nothing more. May you love this, my lad From the slums of the city; Not think him all bad, But regard him with pity. (The name.) Though nameless he stood Clad in rags in that door, Whether evil or good, He is nameless no more. We’ll call him hereafter, If you make no objection, In tears—or in laughter, On further reflection— Thomas Tinker, all told, But “Tommy” for short, Until he grows old— Perhaps then, when in sport. But I’ll tell you I think, sir, Before saying more, This is not the “Tom Tinker” You’ve heard of before, But another, whose fame Is as worthy of mention As the first of his name Who claimed your attention. (The story.) We will trace him as we may, on his way From that doorstep, where at play on that day; We will see just how he earned That for which his young heart yearned, How from good he firmly turned not astray. Selling papers he began, little man, Then on errands often ran, like a “van”; Then his matches he would sell, Blacking boots the while, as well; And with cheerful voice would tell all his plan. Tried his courage was, I’m told; nor condoled By humanity, which rolled, with its gold, On its laughing, rushing way, Like a crowd of boys at play, Or a flock of sheep astray from the fold. But his heart was brave and true, and he knew That to flinch would never do; so say you? Thus he bravely bore his part With a true and loyal heart, Never doubting from the start; “tried and true.” The days seemed often long; but his song Rang brave and strong; just the song Of the wares he had to sell; Of the news they had to tell— Good and bad alike as well, for the throng. And he worked, and worked away, every day, With his heart as light and gay, as the May; And he did his level best, late and early; Never grumbling, never sad, and never surly; With a smile ’neath his golden head and curly, as at play. So he fought the fiends of hunger and of cold, true as gold; Like a veteran tried and bold, I am told, Was this soldier in life’s battle ’Mid the daily hum and rattle; Driven forth like sheep or cattle, to be sold. Many brave fall by the way, every day; Some survive, their country’s stay; well they may; But of all the rank and file Grandly marching up the aisle Of stern duty, all the while, who can say Which the most deserve the name, writ in fame? Those who fell ’mid shot and flame, on land or main, Or those who in obscurer strife Have given heart, and soul, and life For husband ill, for child, or wife, in duty “tame”? Well, Tommy stood, sturdy and grave—no slave— His soul had what we well might crave; no knave Was he; but faithful in the daily fight, Cheerful, happy, eager, bright— A nineteenth century valiant knight, youthful, brave. Perhaps you’d like to know his foes, who arose To strike him down with deadly blows. Who knows But such as he? Who else can tell The horrid shapes, the cruel spell |
|
