Nobody's Boy Part 17

"I would have liked to have let you play this morning with Remi and the dogs," she said, "but you cannot play until you know your lessons perfectly." With that she gave the book to Arthur and walked away, leaving him alone.

From where I stood I could hear him crying. How could his mother, who appeared to love him so much, be so severe with the poor little fellow.

A moment later she returned.

"Shall we try again?" she asked gently.

She sat down beside him and, taking the book, she began to read the fable called "The Wolf and the Sheep." She read it through three times, then gave the book back to Arthur and told him to learn it alone. She went inside the boat.

I could see Arthur's lips moving. He certainly was trying very hard.

But soon he took his eyes off the book; his lips stopped moving. His look wandered everywhere, but not back to his book. Suddenly he caught my eye; I made a sign to him to go on with his lesson. He smiled, as though to thank me for reminding him, and again fixed his eyes on his book. But as before, he could not concentrate his thoughts; his eyes began to rove from first one side of the ca.n.a.l to the other. Just then a bird flew over the boat, swiftly as an arrow. Arthur raised his head to follow its flight. When it had pa.s.sed he looked at me.

"I can't learn this," he said, "and yet I want to."

I went over to him.

"It is not very difficult," I said.

"Yes, it is, it's awfully difficult."

"It seems to me quite easy. I was listening while your mother read it, and I almost learned it myself."

He smiled as though he did not believe it.

"Do you want me to say it to you?"

"You can't."

"Shall I try? You take the book."

He took up the book again, and I began to recite the verse. I had it almost perfect.

"What! you know it?"

"Not quite, but next time I could say it without a mistake, I believe."

"How did you learn it?"

"I listened while your mother read it, but I listened attentively without looking about to see what was going on round about me."

He reddened, and turned away his eyes.

"I will try, like you," he said, "but tell me, what did you do to remember the words?"

I did not quite know how to explain, but I tried my best.

"What is the fable about?" I said. "Sheep. Well, first of all, I thought of sheep; the sheep were in a field. I could see them lying down and sleeping in the field; picturing them so, I did not forget."

"Yes, yes," he said, "I can see them, black and white ones! in a green field."

"What looks after the sheep usually?"

"Dogs."

"And?..."

"A shepherd."

"If they thought the sheep were quite safe, what did they do?"

"The dog slept while the shepherd played his flute in the distance with the other shepherds."

Little by little Arthur had the entire fable pictured in his mind's eye.

I explained every detail, as well as I was able. When he was thoroughly interested we went over the lines together and at the end of half an hour he had mastered it.

"Oh, how pleased mamma will be!" he cried.

When his mother came out she seemed displeased that we were together.

She thought that we had been playing, but Arthur did not give her time to say a word.

"I know it!" he cried. "Remi has taught it to me."

Mrs. Milligan looked at me in surprise, but before she could say a word Arthur had commenced to recite the fable. I looked at Mrs. Milligan: her beautiful face broke into a smile; then I thought I saw tears in her eyes, but she bent her head quickly over her son and put her arms about him. I was not sure if she was crying.

"The words mean nothing," said Arthur; "they are stupid, but the things that one sees! Remi made me see the shepherd with his flute, and the fields, and the dogs, and the sheep, then the wolves, and I could even hear the music that the shepherd was playing. Shall I sing the song to you, Mamma?"

And he sang a little sad song in English.

This time Mrs. Milligan did really cry, for when she got up from her seat, I saw that Arthur's cheeks were wet with her tears. Then she came to me and, taking my hand in hers, pressed it gently.

"You are a good boy," she said.

The evening before I had been a little tramp, who had come on the barge with his animals to amuse a sick child, but this lesson drew me apart from the dogs and the monkey. I was, from now, a companion, almost a friend, to the sick boy.

From that day there was a change in Mrs. Milligan's manner toward me, and between Arthur and myself there grew a strong friendship. I never once felt the difference in our positions; this may have been due to Mrs. Milligan's kindness, for she often spoke to me as though I were her child.

When the country was interesting we would go very slowly, but if the landscape was dreary, the horses would trot quickly along the towing path. When the sun went down the barge stopped; when the sun rose the barge started on again.

If the evenings were damp we went into the little cabin and sat round a bright fire, so that the sick boy should not feel chilly, and Mrs.

Milligan would read to us and show us pictures and tell us beautiful stories.

Then, when the evenings were beautiful, I did my part. I would take my harp and when the boat had stopped I would get off and go at a short distance and sit behind a tree. Then, hidden by the branches, I played and sang my best. On calm nights Arthur liked to hear the music without being able to see who played. And when I played his favorite airs he would call out "Encore," and I would play the piece over again.

That was a beautiful life for the country boy, who had sat by Mother Barberin's fireside, and who had tramped the high roads with Signor Vitalis. What a difference between the dish of boiled potatoes that my poor foster mother had given me and the delicious tarts, jellies, and creams that Mrs. Milligan's cook made! What a contrast between the long tramps in the mud, the pouring rain, the scorching sun, trudging behind Vitalis, ... and this ride on the beautiful barge!

The pastry was delicious, and yes, it was fine, oh, so fine not to be hungry, nor tired, nor too hot, nor too cold, but in justice to myself, I must say that it was the kindness and love of this lady and this little boy that I felt the most. Twice I had been torn from those I loved, ... first from dear Mother Barberin, and then from Vitalis. I was left with only the dogs and the monkey, hungry and footsore, and then a beautiful lady, with a child of about my own age, had taken me in and treated me as though I were a brother.

Often, as I looked at Arthur strapped to his bench, pale and drawn, I envied him, I, so full of health and strength, envied the little sick boy. It was not the luxuries that surrounded him that I envied, not the boat. It was his mother. Oh, how I wanted a mother of my own! She kissed him, and he was able to put his arms around her whenever he wished,--this lady whose hand I scarcely dared touch when she held it out to me. And I thought sadly that I should never have a mother who would kiss me and whom I could kiss. Perhaps one day I should see Mother Barberin again, and that would make me very happy, but I could not call her mother now, for she was not my mother....

I was alone.... I should always be alone.... n.o.body's boy.