It was the evening before Christmas. Until to-day the winter had been an open one, but about one o’clock in the afternoon the snow began to fall. The flakes came thicker and faster, and it soon became evident that an old-fashioned snowstorm had set in. By seven o’clock the snow lay a foot deep on the level, but in some places considerably deeper, for a brisk wind had piled it up in places.
In a handsome house, some rods back from the village street, lived Dr. Drayton, a physician, whose skill was so well appreciated that he had already, though still in the prime of life, accumulated a handsome competence.
He sat this evening in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers, his wife nearby engaged in some needlework.
“I hope you won’t be called out this evening, Joseph,” said Mrs. Drayton, as a gust of wind tattled the window panes.
“I echo that wish, my dear,” said the doctor, looking up from the last number of the Atlantic Monthly. “I find it much more comfortable here, reading Dr. Holmes’ last article.”
“The snow must be quite deep.”
“It is. I found my ride from the north village this afternoon bleak enough. You know how the wind sweeps across the road near the Pond schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve celebration in the Town Hall this evening, is there not?”
“No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening.”
“That will be better. The weather and walking will both be better. Shall we go, Mary?”
“If you wish it,” she said, hesitatingly.
Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter’s death had created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.
“I think we had better go,” said the doctor; “though God has bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of others.”
“Perhaps you are right, Joseph.”
Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up, kept on with her work.
Just then the bell was heard to ring.
“I hope it is not for you, Joseph,” said his wife, apprehensively.
“I am afraid it is,” said the doctor, with a look of resignation.
“I thought it would be too good luck for me to have the whole evening to myself.”
“I wish you were not a doctor,” said Mrs. Drayton.
“It is rather too late to change my profession, my dear,” said her husband, good-humoredly. “I shall be fifty next birthday. To be sure, Ellen Jones tells me that in her class at the Normal School there is a maiden lady of sixty-two, who has just begun to prepare herself for the profession of a teacher. I am not quite so old as that.”
Here the servant opened the door, ushering in a farm laborer.
“Good-evening, Abner,” said the doctor, recognizing him, as, indeed, he knew every face within half a dozen miles. “Anything amiss at home?”
“Mrs. Felton is took with spasms,” said Abner. “Can you come right over?”
“What have you done for her?”
“Put her feet in warm water, and put her to bed. Can you come right over?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, rising and exchanging his dressing-gown for a coat, and drawing on his boots. “I will go as soon as my horse is ready.”
Orders were sent out to put the horse to the sleigh. This was quickly done, and the doctor, fully accoutered, walked to the door.
“I shall be back as soon as I can, Mary,” he said.
“That won’t be very soon. It is a good two-miles’ ride.”
“I shan’t loiter on the way, you may be sure of that. Abner, I am ready.”
The snow was still falling, but not quite so fast as early in the afternoon. The wind, however, blew quite as hard, and the doctor found all his wrappings needful.
At intervals on the road he came to deep drifts of snow through which the horse had some difficulty in drawing the sleigh, but at length he arrived at the door of his patient. He found that the violence of her attack was over, and, satisfied of this, left a few simple directions, which he considered sufficient. Nature would do the rest.
“Now for home!” he said to himself. “I hope this will be my last professional call this evening. Mary will be impatient for my return.”
He gave the reins to his horse, who appeared to feel that he was bound homeward, and traveled with more alacrity than he had come.
He, too, no doubt shared the doctor’s hope that this was the last service required of him before the morrow.
Doctor Drayton had completed rather more than half his journey, when, looking to the right, his attention was drawn to a small, dark object, nearly covered with snow.
Instinctively he reined up his horse.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “it must be a boy. God grant he is not frozen!”
He leaped from his sleigh, and lifted the insensible body.
“It is an Italian boy, and here is his violin. The poor child may be dead,” he said to himself in a startled tone. “I must carry him home, and see what I can do for him.”
So he took up tenderly our young hero—for our readers will have guessed that it was Phil—and put both him and his violin into the sleigh. Then he drove home with a speed which astonished even his horse, who, though anxious to reach his comfortable stable, would not voluntarily have put forth so great an exertion as was now required of him.
I must explain that Phil had for the last ten days been traveling about the country, getting on comfortably while the ground was bare of snow. To-day, however, had proved very uncomfortable. In the city the snow would have been cleared off, and would not have interfered so much with traveling.
He had bought some supper at a grocery store, and, after spending an hour there, had set out again on his wanderings. He found the walking so bad that he made up his mind to apply for a lodging at a house not far back; but a fierce dog, by his barking, had deterred him from the application. The road was lonely, and he had seen no other house since. Finally, exhausted by the effort of dragging himself through the deep snow, and, stiff with cold, he sank down by the side of the road, and would doubtless have frozen had not the doctor made his appearance opportunely.
Mrs. Drayton was alarmed when her husband entered the sitting-room, bearing Phil’s insensible form.
She jumped to her feet in alarm.
“Who is it, Joseph?” she asked.
“A poor Italian boy, whom I found by the side of the road.”
“Is he dead?” asked the doctor’s wife, quickly.
“I think not. I will restore him if there is any life left in him.”
It was fortunate for Phil that he had been discovered by a skillful physician, who knew the most effectual means of bringing him to. The flame of life was burning low, and a little longer exposure would have closed the earthly career of our young hero. But he was spared, as we hope, for a happy and useful career.
By the application of powerful restoratives Phil was at length brought round. His chilled limbs grew warm, and his heart began to beat more steadily and strongly. A bed was brought down to the sitting-room, and he was placed in it.
“Where am I?” he asked faintly, when he opened his eyes.
“You are with friends, my boy. Don’t ask questions now. In the morning, you may ask as many as you like.”
Phil closed his eyes languidly, and soon fell into a sound sleep.
Nature was doing her work well and rapidly.
In the morning Phil woke up almost wholly restored.
As he opened his eyes, he met the kind glances of the doctor and his wife.
“How do you feel this morning?” asked the doctor.
“I feel well,” said Phil, looking around him with curiosity.
“Do you think you could eat some breakfast?” asked Dr. Drayton, with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” said Phil.
“Then, my lad, I think I can promise you some as soon as you are dressed. But I see from your looks you want to know where you are and how you came here. Don’t you remember the snow-storm yesterday?”
Phil shuddered. He remembered it only too well.
“I found you lying by the side of the road about half-past eight in the evening. I suppose you don’t remember my picking you up?”
“No, sir.”
“You were insensible. I was afraid at first you were frozen. But I brought you home, and, thanks to Providence, you are all right again.”
“Where is my fiddle?” asked Phil, anxiously.
“It is safe. There it is on the piano.”
Phil was relieved to see that his faithful companion was safe. He looked upon it as his stock in trade, for without it he would not have known how to make his livelihood.
He dressed quickly, and was soon seated at the doctor’s well-spread table. He soon showed that, in spite of his exposure and narrow escape from death, he had a hearty appetite. Mrs. Drayton saw him eat with true motherly pleasure, and her natural love of children drew her toward our young hero, and would have done so even had he been less attractive.
“Joseph,” she said, addressing her husband, “I want to speak to you a moment.”
He followed her out of the room.
“Well, my dear?” he said.
“I want to ask a favor.”
“It is granted in advance.”
“Perhaps you will not say so when you know what it is.”
“I can guess it. You want to keep this boy.”
“Are you willing?”
“I would have proposed it, if you had not. He is without friends and poor. We have enough and to spare. We will adopt him in place of our lost Walter.”
“Thank you, Joseph. It will make me happy. Whatever I do for him, I will do for my lost darling.”
They went back into the room. They found Phil with his cap on and his fiddle under his arm.
“Where are you going, Philip?” asked the doctor.
“I am going into the street. I thank you for your kindness.”
“Would you not rather stay with us?”
Phil looked up, uncertain of his meaning.
“We had a boy once, but he is dead. Will you stay with us and be our boy?”
Phil looked in the kind faces of the doctor and his wife, and his face lighted up with joy at the unexpected prospect of such a home, with people who would be kind to him.
“I will stay,” he said. “You are very kind to me.”
So our little hero had drifted into a snug harbor. His toils and privations were over. And for the doctor and his wife it was a glad day also. On Christmas Day four years before they had lost a child. On this Christmas, God had sent them another to fill the void in their hearts.
It was a strange thing for the homeless fiddler to find himself the object of affectionate care and solicitude—to feel, when he woke up in the morning, no anxiety about the day’s success. He could not have found a better home. Naturally attractive, and without serious faults, Phil soon won his way to the hearts of the good doctor and his wife. The house seemed brighter for his presence, and the void in the heart of the bereaved mother was partially filled. Her lost Walter would have been of the same age as Phil, had he lived. For his sake she determined to treat the boy, who seemed cast by Providence upon her protection, as a son.
To begin with, Phil was carried to the village tailor, where an ample wardrobe was ordered for him. His old clothes were not cast aside, but kept in remembrance of his appearance at the time he came to them. It was a novel sensation for Phil, when, in his new suit, with a satchel of books in his hand, he set out for the town school. It is needless to say that his education was very defective, but he was far from deficient in natural ability, and the progress he made was so rapid that in a year he was on equal footing with the average of boys at his age. He was able at that time to speak English as fluently as his companions, and, but for his dark eyes, and clear brown complexion, he might have been mistaken for an American boy.
His popularity with his schoolfellows was instant and decided. His good humor and lively disposition might readily account for that, even if his position as the adopted son of a prominent citizen had no effect. But it was understood that the doctor, who had no near relatives, intended to treat Phil in all respects as a son, even to leaving him his heir.
It may be asked whether the padrone gave up all efforts to recover the young fiddler. He was too vindictive for this. Boys had run away from him before, but none had subjected him to such ignominious failure in the effort for their recovery. It would have fared ill with our young hero if he had fallen again into the hands of his unscrupulous enemy. But the padrone was not destined to recover him. Day after day Pietro explored the neighboring towns, but all to no purpose. He only visited the principal towns, while Phil was in a small town, not likely to attract the attention of his pursuers.
A week after his signal failure in Newark, the padrone inserted an advertisement in the New York Herald, offering a reward of twenty-five dollars for the recovery of Phil. But our hero was at that time wandering about the country, and the advertisement did not fall under the eyes of those with whom he came in contact. At length the padrone was compelled to own himself baffled and give up the search. He was not without hopes, however, that sometime Phil would turn up. He did hear of him again through Pietro, but not in a way to bring him any nearer his recovery.
This is the way it happened:
One Saturday morning in March, about three months after Phil had found a home, the doctor said to him: “Phil, I am going to New York this morning on a little business; would you like to come with me?”
Phil’s eyes brightened. Though he was happy in his village home, he had longed at times to find himself in the city streets with which his old vagabond life had rendered him so familiar.
“I should like it very much,” he answered, eagerly.
“Then run upstairs and get ready. I shall start in fifteen minutes.”
Phil started, and then turned back.
“I might meet Pietro, or the padrone,” he said, hesitating.
“No matter if you do, I shall be with you. If they attempt to recover you, I will summon the police.”
The doctor spoke so confidently that Phil dismissed his momentary fear. Two hours later they set foot in New York.
“Now, Phil,” said the doctor, “my business will not take long. After that, if there are any friends you would like to see, I will go with you and find them.”
“I should like to see Paul Hoffman,” said Phil. “I owe him two dollars and a half for the fiddle.”
“He shall be paid,” said the doctor. “He shall lose nothing by trusting you.”
An hour afterward, while walking with the doctor in a side street, Phil’s attention was attracted by the notes of a hand-organ. Turning in the direction from which they came, he met the glance of his old enemy, Pietro.
“It is Pietro,” he said, quickly, touching the arm of his companion.
Pietro had not been certain till then that it was Phil. It looked like him, to be sure, but his new clothing and general appearance made such a difference between him and the Phil of former days that he would have supposed it only an accidental resemblance. But Phil’s evident recognition of him convinced him of his identity. He instantly ceased playing, and, with eager exultation, advanced to capture him. Phil would have been alarmed but for his confidence in the doctor’s protection.
“I have got you at last, scelerato,” said Pietro, roughly, grasping Phil by the shoulder with a hostile glance.
The doctor instantly seized him by the collar, and hurled him back.
“What do you mean by assaulting my son?” he demanded, coolly.
Pietro was rather astonished at this unexpected attack.
“He is my brother,” he said. “He must go back with me.”
“He is not your brother. If you touch him again, I will hand you to the police.”
“He ran away from my uncle,” said Pietro.
“Your uncle should have treated him better.”
“He stole a fiddle,” said Pietro, doggedly.
“He had paid for it over and over again,” said the doctor. “Phil, come along. We have no further business with this young man.”
They walked on, but Pietro followed at a little distance. Seeing this, Dr. Drayton turned back.
“Young man,” he said, “do you see that policeman across the street?”
“Si, signore,” answered Pietro.
“Then I advise you to go in a different direction, or I shall request him to follow you.”
Pietro’s sallow face was pale with rage. He felt angry enough to tear Phil to pieces, but his rage was unavailing. He had a wholesome fear of the police, and the doctor’s threat was effectual. He turned away, though with reluctance, and Phil breathed more freely. Pietro communicated his information to the padrone, and the latter, finding that Phil had found a powerful protector, saw that it would be dangerous for him to carry the matter any further, and sensibly resolved to give up the chase.
Of the padrone I have only further to say that some months later he got into trouble. In a low drinking saloon an altercation arose between him and another ruffian one evening, when the padrone, in his rage, drew a knife, and stabbed his adversary. He was arrested and is now serving out his sentence in Sing Sing.
Pietro, by arrangement with him, took his place, stipulating to pay him a certain annual sum. But he has taken advantage of his uncle’s incarceration to defraud him, and after the first payment neglected to make any returns. It may readily be imagined that this imbitters the padrone’s imprisonment. Knowing what I do of his fierce temper, I should not be surprised to hear of a murderous encounter between him and his nephew after his release from imprisonment, unless, as is probable, just before the release, Pietro should flee the country with the ill-gotten gains he may have acquired during his term of office. Meanwhile the boys are treated with scarcely less rigor by him than by his uncle, and toil early and late, suffering hardships and privations, that Pietro may grow rich.
Paul Hoffman had often thought of Phil, and how he had fared. He was indeed surprised and pleased when the young fiddler walked up and called him by name.
“Phil,” he exclaimed, grasping his hand heartily, “I am very glad to see you. Have you made a fortune?”
“He has found a father,” said Dr. Drayton, speaking for Phil, “who wants to thank you for your past kindness to his son.”
“It was nothing,” said Paul, modestly.
“It was a great deal to Phil, for, except your family, he had no friends.”
To this Paul made a suitable reply, and gave Phil and his new father an earnest invitation to dine with him. This the doctor declined, but agreed to call at the rooms of Mrs. Hoffman, if Paul would agree to come and pass the next Sunday with Phil as his visitor. Paul accepted the invitation with pleasure, and it is needless to say that he received a hearty welcome and agreed, in the approaching summer, to make another visit.
And now we bid farewell to Phil, the young, street musician. If his life henceforth shall be less crowded with adventures, and so less interesting, it is because he has been fortunate in securing a good home. Some years hence the Doctor promises to give himself a vacation, and take Phil with him to Europe, where he will seek out his Italian home, and the mother with whom he has already opened communication by letter. So we leave Phil in good hands, and with the prospect of a prosperous career. But there are hundreds of young street musicians who have not met with his good fortune, but are compelled, by hard necessity, to submit to the same privations and hardships from which he is happily relieved. May a brighter day dawn for them also!
I hope my readers feel an interest in Paul Hoffman, the young street merchant, who proved so efficient a friend to our young hero. His earlier adventures are chronicled in “Paul, the Peddler.” His later history will be chronicled in the next volume of this series, which will be entitled “Slow and Sure; or From the Sidewalk to the Shop.”
THE END
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg