Julius, The Street Boy. Alger Horatio Jr.

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      “I have an invitation from the citizens of Brookville, in Wisconsin, to make my headquarters there. I am told that boys and girls are in demand in that town and vicinity, and that I shall probably be able to find homes for all my party in that neighborhood.”

      “I think you can. I know Brookville very well. I have a nephew living there. He is a prosperous farmer. By the way, I shouldn’t be surprised if he would like a boy. Suppose I give you a note to my young friend here to deliver to him.”

      “I should be glad to have you do so.”

      “If Ephraim takes him into his family, he will have an excellent home.”

      “That is what we desire for all our party.”

      “Do you generally succeed?”

      “Very generally. We seldom receive complaints from the children we have placed. They are treated kindly almost without exception.”

      “How about the other parties? Do they often prefer complaints of the children?”

      “Sometimes, but not often. Considering the training our children have had in the city streets, they conduct themselves remarkably well in their new homes. Removed from the temptations and privations of the city, their better natures assert themselves, and they behave as well as ordinary children. In fact, I may say that most of the complaints that come to us are of a trivial nature. People forget that our boys are no more perfect than their own, and if now and then they pelt the cows, or leave the turkeys out in the rain, that hardly indicates a depraved heart.”

      Mr. Taylor smiled.

      “I have heard of such things, myself,” he said. “I suspect boys are about the same now that they were fifty years ago.”

      “And will be fifty years hence. Of course, they will always need restraint, and, if they do mischief, they must pay the penalty. Still, if a boy is simply mischievous, I don’t think he can be considered a hopeless case.”

      “I should say not. I used to do some things myself that were not quite exemplary. Of course I was punished and in time I steadied down.”

      “As you seem to take an interest in our mission,” said Mr. O’Connor, “you may feel interested to read a letter1 which I received not long since from one of our boys in Indiana. It is characteristic, and will give a good idea of the improvement which emigration makes in their condition and circumstances.”

      “I should like very much to read it,” said Mr. Taylor.

      This was the letter:

“M–, Ind., Nov. 24, 1859.

      “To My Friend and Benefactor: So I take my pen in hand to let you know how I am, and how I am getting along. As far as I can see, I am well satisfied with my place; but I took a general look around, and, as far as I can see, all the boys left in M– are doing well, especially myself, and I think there is as much fun as in New York, for nuts and apples are all free. I am much obliged to you, Mr. O’Connor, for the paper you sent me. I received it last night, read it last night—something about the Newsboys’ Lodging House.

      “All the newsboys in New York have a bad name; but we should show ourselves, and show them, that we are no fools; that we can become as respectable as any of their countrymen; for some of you poor boys can do something for your country; for Franklin, Webster, Clay, were poor boys once, and even Commodore V. C. Perry or Math. C. Perry. But even George Law, and Vanderbilt, and Astor—some of the richest men of New York—and Math. and V. C. Perry, were nothing but printers, and in the navy on Lake Erie. And look at Winfield Scott. So now, boys, stand up, and let them see that you have got the real stuff in you. Come out here, and make respectable and honorable men, so they can say, there, that boy was once a newsboy.

      “Now, boys, you all know I have tried everything. I have been a newsboy, and when that got slack, you know I have smashed baggage. I have sold nuts, I have peddled. I have worked on the rolling billows up the canal; I was a bootblack; and you know, when I sold papers I was at the top of the profession. I had a good stand of my own, but I found all would not do. I could not get along, but I am now going ahead. I have a first-rate home, ten dollars a month, and my board; and, I tell you, fellows, that is a great deal more than I could scrape up my best times in New York. We are all on an equality, my boys, out here, so long as we keep ourselves respectable.

      “Mr. O’Connor, tell ‘Fatty,’ or F. John Pettibone, to send me a Christmas number of Frank Leslie’s, and Harper’s Weekly, a Weekly News or some other pictorials to read, especially the Newsboys’ Pictorial, if it comes out. No old papers, or else none. If they would get some other boys to get me some books. I want something to read.

      “I hope this letter will find you in good health, as it leaves me, Mr. O’Connor. I expect an answer before two weeks—a letter and a paper. Write to me all about the lodging house. With this I close my letter. With much respect to all.

      “I remain your truly obedient friend,

“J. K.”

      “The writer of this letter is evidently a smart boy,” said Mr. Taylor, as he finished reading it. “I warrant he will make his way in the world.”

      “I expected he would do well, when we sent him out,” said the superintendent. “In New York he was a leader in his set, and very successful in his street trades. But, as you see, he admits that he is doing much better out West.”

      “His Western life will make a man of him. Do you often hear from those you have sent out?”

      “We are in constant correspondence with them. We feel ourselves under an obligation to look after them still, and to show them that we keep up an interest in them.”

      “It must have a good effect upon them.”

      “We find that it does. They are ashamed to misconduct themselves, knowing that it will come to our ears.”

      “Have you sent out many children, in this way?”

      “Thousands of our children are located in different parts of the great West. With few exceptions, they are doing well, and bid fair to become—some have already become—respected and useful members of society.”

      “What would have been their fate, had they remained in the city?”

      “Many would be vagrants, many, doubtless, tenants of prison cells; very few would have turned out well.”

      “It is a great work,” said Mr. Taylor warmly. “I hope you will be encouraged to persevere. I feel like helping you. Accept this contribution to the funds of your society,” and he drew two fifty-dollar bills from his pocketbook and handed to the superintendent.

      “Thank you, sir,” said Mr. O’Connor, “I am sure you will not regret your gift. Every addition to our means enables us to extend our operations. This gift, for instance, will enable us to bring out six children to the West and place them in good homes.”

      “Will it, indeed!” said Mr. Taylor, gratified. “That assurance alone abundantly repays me. But I must write the note of introduction which I promised to my young friend.”

      CHAPTER VII.

      BROOKVILLE

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