IT was a bright cool morning that we were riding down Delaware Avenue in a street car which had very few passengers. It gave me a chance to study human nature. I began the study with a very handsomely dressed boy. Jacket and collar and necktie and hair all showed that very careful people had planned for him, and that they had plenty of money to spend on him. They came into the car just after I was seated, the boy and his mother. She was tall and pale, and in deep mourning; I wondered if her husband were dead, and if this boy were the only one she had to think about or care for her. If so she was to be pitied, poor woman! for it soon became evident that the young man thought about and cared for himself. His first exhibition was to fling his heavy overcoat on his mother’s lap as he said: “Here, mamma, hold that, and give me the tickets for the conductor.”

“I haven’t tickets, dear,” she said; “I shall have to buy some.”

“O, well! all right, give me your pocket-book and let me buy them.”

“No, dear, there is a good deal of money in my pocket-book, and some valuable papers.”

“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words.

“Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment later.

“O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on the floor.

“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.”

“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”

He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:

“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”

“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.”

“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.”

“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.”

“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”

He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.

They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.

At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!”

At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.

They took their seats quietly, and made no disturbance of any sort. But there were so few in the car, and we were passing at that time through such a quiet street, that I could hear distinctly the words they spoke to one another.

“Better put on your sack, Janie,” said the boy, with a thoughtful air, looking at the older sister, “the wind blows in pretty strong here.” Janie immediately arose and began tugging at her sack. The boy, with the manners of a gentleman accustomed to the work, took hold of it at the shoulders and skillfully steered the little arms into place, pulling it down behind, and bestowing meanwhile side glances upon the little sister.

“Sit still, Bessie, that’s a good girl. No, don’t stand, dear; mamma wouldn’t like you to stand, the cars shake so.”

Down sat Bessie again, trying to put herself squarely on the seat. Failing in this her protector turned next to her, lifted her plump little form into place, then straightened her hat and returned a confiding smile which she gave him. Meantime the car was filling up, and in a few minutes every seat was taken. There came next a middle-aged woman, black of face, and very shabby as to toilet, with a market basket on her arm. Quick as thought the little gentleman arose, and touching her arm motioned her to his seat. Then Janie reached forward for his overcoat. “Let me hold your overcoat, Charlie,” she said, “because you haven’t any seat.”

“O, no!” said Charlie, smiling back at her, “I can carry it as well as not. Bessie dear, don’t climb up that way, you will fall.”

Down sat Bessie, who had mounted on her fat little knees to look out of the window.

“Now, Janie,” said the little man at last, when they were near the Dean Street crossing, “we are to get out at this corner. I will take Bessie’s hand and go ahead, and you keep close to me. We will stand still on the sidewalk until the car passes, then I will take you both across.”

Away they went, and I watched them making their way carefully across the crowded street, the brother’s arm thrown protectingly around Bessie, and his eyes on the watch for any possible danger to either of his charges. I had made his acquaintance in five minutes, too, and knew more about him than he would have imagined possible.

Myra Spafford.