WHERE'S THE DIFFERENCE?
BY MRS. M. A. DBM ISON.
A poou man sat at his window—no—I am down the corners of their pretty lips, and the
wrong; it was the window of his hired house.
It was a small mansion, a little tenement painted
white, and surrounded by richer establishments
that seemed to look down with a sort of crim¬
son contempt upon their humble neighbor. The
occupants of those stately homes were very much
annoyed by the simple little house, and the simple
little children that played on its steps, and gener¬
ally kept their curtains down on the side that
looked toward them.
But, as I said before, a poor man sat at one of the windows overlooking the street. He was a thoroughly noble-looking man too, with hand¬ some Roman features, and an eye like a hawk. With the exception of his coarse clothes, he was much more gentlemanly and dignified in appear¬ ance than any merchant in that princely row.
A pile of bricks had been emptied quite near bis doorway; they were for repairs. As this man looked out, he saw two or three children with his own little ones, humming and buzzing about the bricks. Their dainty little hands were eager to fashion houses and bridges, and all sorts of momentary architecture. Suddenly the poor man bethought him of a pastime of his own when he was a child, and his heart having retained the pure and sweet emotions of youth through the cares and hardships of maturer life, he hastily threw on his hat, and going down he taught them a new trick. It was this, to place a row of bricks on end, quite near to each other, forming a long line: by touching the last one an impetus is given to every brick by its next neigh¬ bor, and the row is presently swept down in regular order. The children clapped their hands, and shouted so loudly that some of the rich neighbors, coming to their windows, saw how their little ones wore employed, taking lessons in amusement from a poor and almost unknown man.
“What a fool I” said one, sneeringly, “I should think the man was an overgrown baby. See him laugh! See him play! Shame on him! a man grown; we must call our children in.”
And from all those windows went the laugh and sneer. Men with gold-tasseled caps set on perfumed locks laughed the poor man to scorn; women in beautifully embroidered robes turned children were speedily called in.
Years passed, the poor man had grown rich. Wealth had come to him, not through toil; but it did not corrupt his good heart, his simple tastes. Still he loved children and their sports. He built himself a splendid mansion, however, s and lived in the style his great revenues per- mitted.
Again, as in the days of yore, there was a load of bricks left in the vicinity of his home. Again little children gathered to “ play house/’ and again the man sat watching them at his window. Yes, it was his window now—a window whose glass was costly plate—and he sat there no l longer the tenant of a hired house in coarse clothes, but attired in the richest broadcloth. Again, as he looked at the busy, beautiful group s below, his heart kindled with the memories of old, and he felt himself compelled to go down and teach the juveniles his briok-game. So, in a moment after he stood in their midst, and stooping picked up the bricks, arranging, and then setting them in motion.
How the children laughed, and their bright eyes sparkled! The noise brought the aristocratic neighbors to their windows.
“Well to be sure! There’s Mr. B-, that wealthy gentleman opposite, playing with the children. Isn’t it a pretty sight, dear?”
“Yes, and what a fine-looking man he is, to be sure. What freshness of heart he must have to enjoy their little games with so much zest! I declare it’s quite touching!”
“So it is; they say he is all of two million Hasn’t he a fine figure?”
“Splendid! Do see him clap his hands! I declare it really brings the tears to my eyes.”
“Wipe ’em away—wipe ’em away, Mattie, they’re crocodile tears!” cried a young stripling of seventeen.
His sister, a maiden lady of an unutterable age, looked round indignantly.
“Fact! sis, they’re real crockodile tears, and I’ll prove it. When I was seven years old, that same gentleman came out of a little white house l and taught us children that same trick. And, sis, you and mother both called him an old fool,’ as I distinctly remember; and I, for one,
