A Lover of Children

— Twenty years ago, the writer, with her three-year-old child, was on her way to Washington in midwinter. Instead of reaching that beautiful city early in the morning, as was expected, the train was stalled in the night by a terrible blizzard. After the height of the storm was over, it took hours to dig away the heavy snow that buried not only the rails, but the whole world apparently. Slowly and laboriously the locomotive crept on, and we were still two hundred miles from Washington when the church clock struck eight in a village where we halted. Men jumped up to see if there were time to get a cup of coffee ; nervous and anxious women clamored for tea, and I cried with the rest, “ Oh, if only 1 could get a glass of milk for my little girl ! ” “Impossible,” said the brakeman, who was passing through the car : “ we shan’t be here but a minute.”

Paying no heed to his words, a gentleman of striking appearance, whose fine face and head I had been silently studying, hurriedly left the car and disappeared upon the snowy platform. “ He’ll get left,” sneered the brakeman.

The train moved on, feeling its way through the huge white banks on both sides. The gentleman had evidently been traveling alone, for no one seemed anxious because he did not come back. The cars were hardly in full swing, however, when he jumped aboard, a little out of breath, dusted with snow, but self-possessed and calm, holding carefully a tall glass of milk, which he gave to the wee girl beside me. My stammered thanks for such unexpected kindness from an unknown traveler he brushed away with a wave of his hand. “But the glass?” I insisted, knowing it could not be returned, as we were now thundering onward. “ Is yours, madam,” he replied, settling himself into his seat, paying no more attention to us. But later in the course of the dreary forenoon he motioned to the little lass to come to him, which she willingly did. He lifted her to his side, and with his arm round her she cuddled up against him, and for two hours he whispered stories into her ear, so low that no one else could hear, but the delight of which was reflected in her dancing eyes and smiling lips.

At Baltimore the stranger disappeared, and a gentleman across the passage from us leaned over and said, “ Do you know who has been entertaining your child so charmingly, as indeed only he could ? ” “I have n’t the faintest idea.” “ Professor Francis J. Child.”

So many years have flown since then that the little lass herself writes stories now, — perhaps far-away echoes of those she heard that wintry day when Professor Child made summer in her heart ; but the tall, thick depot tumbler still stands on the high shelf of the cupboard, too sacred for any use, save as a memento of the kindly chivalry of a great man to a little child.