[Illustration] PANSY’S SUNDAY BOOK BY FAMOUS AMERICAN WRITERS [Illustration] _FULLY ILLUSTRATED_ BOSTON LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1888, 1893, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY. COPYRIGHT, 1895, by LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY. _All rights reserved._ J. J. Arakelyan, Printer, Boston. [Illustration: IN LATE NOVEMBER.] A STORY TO REMEMBER, IN NOVEMBER. 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.