ter's Picnic to Winnipeg Beach.
That was the day when Ned was in his glory, and bubbled over with
excitement. Helping to carry the big banner, or dodging here and there
through the long procession of children and teachers as it wound its
way along Selkirk and Main to the C.P.R. station, his shrill voice
leading every now and then in the great yell, "Ice-cream, soda-water,
ginger-ale and pop! St. Peters, St. Peters, they're always on the top."
Ah! what a glorious time it was! And then the big train and the long
ride, and the Beach, with its sand and the boating and the swimming;
the sports in the afternoon, from which Ned managed to carry off his
share of the prizes; to say nothing of the sumptuous dinner and supper
for which the teachers had worked and planned for many moons. Ah, it
was grand! And then to reach home again in the gathering twilight, to
scream once more the dear old yell, "Always on the top!" to fall asleep
with the refrain, "Ice-cream, soda-water," ringing in his ears, and
wishing each day were picnic-day--ah, those were the happy, happy spots
in the life of little Irish Ned, the Winnipeg Newsy.

CHAPTER II.

Little Irish Ned was scarcely three months old when his mother died.
His grandmother reared him, and a hard fight she had to do it. All went
well for a time after his mother's death, but when Ned was about five
years old he lost the love and guidance of his father, and his
grandmother was deprived of her only support. Ned's father was employed
as a motorman by the Winnipeg Street Railway Company. He was steady and
prosperous; when suddenly a "strike" was called, and then there were
riotous times in Winnipeg's streets. Matters went from bad to worse,
until at last the Mayor called out the soldiers, and they came with all
the pride and pomp of war and with a great Gatling gun to overawe the
rioters. A hot time was in process on Main Street, three cars had been
smashed to atoms, the police with drawn batons had charged the crowd,
when Ned's father, who had entered a car to get his overcoat, left
there the night before the strike, was arrested as he was leaving the
car. No explanation was asked or taken. A "striking motorman," he was
caught in the act; and accordingly he was sentenced to a long term of
imprisonment in Stony Mountain Penitentiary. Then began the hard
struggle against poverty and disease, the hard struggle in which
thousands have already been worsted, the battle against fearful o