VICTORIA PEPPER’S GRIEVANCE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2746, 26 February 1910, Page 2 (Supplement)

VICTORIA PEPPER’S GRIEVANCE.

She was standing quite still, beside my desk, although the arithmetic lesson had begun some time ago. But my class of Standard 11. children was large and exacting, and it was not until I had finished dictating tho morning’s set of sums in a voice of scholastic sonorousness, tlmt I became aware of her presence. “Have you taken down all your sums?” I enquired, before setting down to mv dcs'k-work.

“Yes, teacher,” came the shrill composite answer. And then I caught sight of Victoria Pepper with her slightly squinting blue eyes fixed full on me. It- was on the tip of my tongue to remark, “And why aren’t you in your place, and what about your sums?” but something stopped me, and instead I merely asked. “Well, what is your want?”

“Please teacher, I’m goin’ to the ’Ouse this afternoon,” sho replied, in a monotonous undertone. -

She was eight years old, a “two-, cheese high,” squat little figure. Her pale yellow hair hung round her head in a- series of rats’ tails, caught up iri one side with a bit of brown bootlace. Her pinafore was fairly clean. The, frock,, that peered through a largo rent down tho front-, was black. I did liot know . much about -Victoria—she had not been in my class long—except that her language,; when out of my immediate hearing, was not exactly that of babes and sucklings, andl -that her scholastic efforts were most fruitful in blots. But I forgot that for the moment, as I looked at her. < “Going to the workhouse?” I asked. “Why?” “Dad ain’t got no- work,” sho replied, still in the same in fleet ionless drawl.

I looked round my class. It- was apparently hard at work for the moment. I had time to study Victoria in the character of a human child, not of a Standard 11. scholar.

“What does your father do?” “I don’t know what ’e does. ’E goes out. but now.’o don’t do nut-bin’.”

“Is he going too?” She nodded. “And mother?”

“Mother’s dead, and dad ain’t no work, and we’ro goin’ t-o the ’Ouse,” she repeated. I do not know what made mo ask then, “Havo you ever been there before?”

“I’ve been there lots of times;” and then suddenly without expecting it in the very least, she burst out crying, not wildly or loudly, but just pitifully. I havo seen, many children cry, children in pain, in temper, or in weariness, and I have tried to chcor them, and passed on. But never, so it seemed to me, at the moment-, lu\d I seen a child cry so bitterly before. Before I knew what I was doing, I was crying too. I bent over her tel hide my own tears. I was rapidly reviewing tho situation. I. was seriously thinking of taking this little bit of foul-mouthed, tear-strained humanity homo with me. It was surely my duty to rescue her from the workhouse and its horrors. which, young as she was, she seemed instinctively to dread.

“How many of you are- going?” I asked gently caressing the boot-lacc. In any case I could not take tihe family homo with- ho. • . ,

“There’s mo and : iny Amy,” she wailed softly. . “and there’s a- lot of us dead. . . there’s my Ada, and

Bill. . . and Joe what was a soldier. . . and mother’s little baby - . and mother’s in a big coffin. . she was took away. . . and we’re goin’ to the ’Ouse. . .” and tears flowed afresh from her wide-open eyes. Good God, how hard the world is to tlie little ones! What a cycle of sorrows in such a tiny little life. Death, many deatlis, want, and tho workhouse! Yes, I should have to think it over. I had always wished, yes, honestly desired, that someone would deposit *a child on my doorstep, so that in all human fairness I should have to keep it. I remembered discussing, among my friends the advantages of possible legislation that would force all unmarried women of thirty-five to adopt a child. Here was my chance. . and stil] I was wavering. But, of course, she would have to go lor a few day’s. I should liave to make arrangements with her father, with my devoted housekeeper, Mrs. Trip pet, who would have to lie coaxed into extending her love for mo to Victoria Pepper. I should have to buy a. tiny cot. . . clear out my tiny lumber room for her to sleep in, God bless her. I saw a visionary revolution of the flat before me, and was glad. Only I must know at once what were the horrors at which her childish soul so evidently shuddered. It they illtreated her in any way she should not go. not for a single instant, cost what it might. “Do they beat you in the workhouse? Victoria?” I asked. She shook her head. “Are they kind to you?” She nodded, though her tears still flow, ed. “Do they give you enough to eat? Again the affirmative- movement. “Then, why, dearie, do you cry so tic the thouglit of going?” I asked gent_ ]v, very tenderly, fearing to lay bare the sorest spot of all. A fresh deluge, of tears cheeked her answer for a moment. Then from the blackest depths of infantile dejection came the moan, “They give me milky rice puddin’, and I don’t like it.”

I did not lose sympathy or even smile. It was the last link that seemed to bring Victoria even closer to me than before. I understood so well. For Mrs. Trippet gives me milky rice pudding twice a week, at- least, and I hav<j never yet had the courage to ask for “spotted dog” instead. I hope to bring -Victoria Pepper home next week. —T. La L'hard, in the “Westminster Gazette.”