d always let him
have his own way. If he cried for anything he always got it, and when
he was angry and struck people, she never punished him for it; so
Pompey grew up a very bad boy, because his mother never taught him to
govern his temper. So one day he got very angry, and did something that
sent him to the State Prison, where I saw him. And he grew sick staying
so long in doors, and now he was in a consumption--all wasted
away--with _such_ hollow cheeks, that it made the tears come to my eyes
to look at him. Oh how glad I was when the keeper told me that _next
Sunday_ his time would be up, so that he could go out if he liked. The
keeper said, "He had better stay there, because they could take good
care of him, and he had no friends." I guess the keeper didn't think
that poor Pompey had rather crawl on his hands and knees out to the
green fields, and die alone, with the sweet, fresh air fanning his poor
temples, than to stay with all the doctors in the world in that tomb of
a prison.

Harry! I wanted so much to go and shake hands with Pompey, and tell him
how happy it made me to know that he was going to get out next Sunday,
and that I hoped the sun would shine just as bright as _ever it could_,
and all the flowers blossom out on purpose for _him_ to see; and then I
hoped that when his heart was so full of gladness he would feel like
_praying_; and then I hoped no cruel, hard-hearted person would point
at him and say, "That is a State Prison boy," and so make his heart all
hard and wicked again, just as he was trying to be good.

* * *

And now, Harry, shake hands with me, and "make up." You know if poor
Pompey hadn't got so angry, he wouldn't have been in prison; and as for
Aunt Fanny, she must learn to be as polite as a French woman, and never
laugh again when you burn your mouth with a "hasty plate of soup."

"LITTLE BENNY."

So the simple head-stone said. Why did my eyes fill? I never saw the
little creature. I never looked in his laughing eye, or heard his merry
shout, or listened for his tripping tread; I never pillowed his little
head, or bore his little form, or smoothed his silky locks, or laved
his dimpled limbs, or fed his cherry lips with dainty bits, or kissed
his rosy cheek as he lay sleeping.

I did not see his eye grow dim; or his little hand droop powerless; or
the dew of agony gather on his pale forehead; I stood not with clasped
hands and su