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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.

Tried his courage was, I’m told; nor condoled

By humanity, which rolled, with its gold,

On its laughing, rushing way,

Like a crowd of boys at play,

Or a flock of sheep astray from the fold.

But his heart was brave and true, and he knew

That to flinch would never do; so say you?

Thus he bravely bore his part

With a true and loyal heart,

Never doubting from the start; “tried and true.”

The days seemed often long; but his song

Rang brave and strong; just the song

Of the wares he had to sell;

Of the news they had to tell—

Good and bad alike as well, for the throng.

And he worked, and worked away, every day,

With his heart as light and gay, as the May;

And he did his level best, late and early;

Never grumbling, never sad, and never surly;

With a smile ’neath his golden head and curly, as at play.

So he fought the fiends of hunger and of cold, true as gold;

Like a veteran tried and bold, I am told,

Was this soldier in life’s battle

’Mid the daily hum and rattle;

Driven forth like sheep or cattle, to be sold.

Many brave fall by the way, every day;

Some survive, their country’s stay; well they may;

But of all the rank and file

Grandly marching up the aisle

Of stern duty, all the while, who can say

Which the most deserve the name, writ in fame?

Those who fell ’mid shot and flame, on land or main,

Or those who in obscurer strife

Have given heart, and soul, and life

For husband ill, for child, or wife, in duty “tame”?

Well, Tommy stood, sturdy and grave—no slave—

His soul had what we well might crave; no knave

Was he; but faithful in the daily fight,

Cheerful, happy, eager, bright—

A nineteenth century valiant knight, youthful, brave.

Perhaps you’d like to know his foes, who arose

To strike him down with deadly blows. Who knows

But such as he? Who else can tell

The horrid shapes, the cruel spell

These demons from the pit of hell disclose?

“Hunger,” you say, “sickness and cold; no fold;

No home that such as he might hold, to mould

And make them good, and true, and wise?”

Ah, yes! and on the streets before his eyes

Were Satan’s minions in disguise; so bold!

These dens of ill, they grow, you know;

We find them everywhere as we go, ready to throw

Their snares with fiendish skill.

Almost ’twould seem, to suit their will,

They’d gorge earth’s prisons to their fill below.

God looked on Tommy in the fight for right,

Saw darkness struggling with the light, so bright—

That light which shone on Eastern plain

Where shepherds heard angelic strain

Such as will surely come again some night.

God knew about the thrall, the small,

Weak hands which yet might fall, the call

Which all too loud might prove to be

For one so young, so little helped as he,

So tempted oft, and yet withal so free to fall.

And so, one cold Thanksgiving Day, so gay

With jingling bells, and sleigh and play,

The father sent a messenger in love,

To take poor Tommy to his home above,

Where, clad in garments whiter than the dove, he’ll stay.

And now no more he’ll walk that street, where sleet

And slush so cruel hurt his feet; repeat

No more his song of paper vending,

Shiver no more while restless horse attending,

But join in song triumphant, never ending and sweet.

But on this day of this November, remember

Tommies there are, with feet as cold and tender, remember,

As his once were, who now on golden strand

Meet rich and poor, of this and every land.

These need your store, your love, your helping hand, remember!

R.