It was noon time on a dreary November day, when a lonesome young boy named Bert stood at the door of a restaurant, offering his last copy of the morning newspaper for sale to the people passing.
Being Thanksgiving Day in the United States, there were really not many people out on the streets since the stores were closed and everyone who had a home to go to, and a dinner to eat, seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner.
After a while, an old man who was dressed in a seedy black coat, came by the restaurant. He appeared to hesitate between hunger and a sense of poverty before going in.
Bert thought that he was considering whether he could afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper, so he said, “Would you like to buy a paper, sir? It is all about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents.”
The little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes which seemed to light up and said, “You ought to come down in your price, this time of day. You can’t expect to sell a morning paper at 12 o’clock for full price.”
“Well, give me a cent, then,” said Bert. “That’s less than cost; but that’s ok. It is my last copy.”
“You look cold,” said the old man.
“Cold,” replied Bert, “I’m nearly frozen. And I am very hungry. I plan on having a big dinner, too, since it’s Thanksgiving Day.”
“Ah! Lucky for you, my boy!” said the old man. “You’ve got a home to go to, and friends, too, I hope.”
“No, sir; I have no home, and no friend—only my mother.” Bert hesitated and grew serious, then suddenly changed his tone—“I do have one friend, Frank. I told him to meet me here, and we’d have a nice Thanksgiving dinner together, because it’s no fun eating alone on Thanksgiving Day!”
“It’s more lonesome not to eat at all,” said the old man, his gray eyes twinkling. “Here, I guess I can find one cent for you.”
The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert’s hand.
“Here! You’ve made a mistake!” cried Bert. “A bargain’s a bargain. You’ve given me a cent too much!”
“No, I didn’t,—I never give anybody a cent too much!”
“But—see here!” And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return one.
“That’s ok,” said the old man. “I will just have one cent less for my dinner, that’s all.”
Bert put the pennies in his pocket, but felt a little sorry for the old man.
“Poor old man!” he thought; “he seems so lonely. Perhaps he’s got no home. A boy like me can manage, but it must be hard for him. He meant to give me the extra cent, all the time; and I don’t believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day.”
Now, Bert was a generous young man, and any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow. “Look here,” he cried; “where are you going for dinner today?”
“I may as well eat here—it doesn’t matter much to me,” replied the old man.
“Come; eat dinner with me,” said Bert.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to eat a fancy dinner like you are planning,” said the old man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again.
“I’ll pay for your dinner!” Bert exclaimed. “Come! Thanksgiving is here only once a year, and a we should have a good time then.”
“But you are waiting for another boy.”
“Oh! He won’t come now, it’s too late. He’s gone to a place down in North Street, I guess,—a place I don’t like, there’s so much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there.” Bert cast a final glance up the street, but could see nothing of his friend. “No, he won’t come now. He likes the men down there; I don’t.”
“Ah!” said the man, taking off his hat and giving it a brush with his elbow as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy.
He placed his hat on the floor, and took a seat opposite Bert at a little table which they had all to themselves. Bert offered him the menu.
“I will ask you to choose for me; nothing very extravagant. I am a vegetarian and accustomed to simple food.”
“So am I,” said Bert, generously. “How about vegetable soup—and a big piece of squash pie for dessert! How’s that for a Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Very delicious,” said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of the room and the prospect of a good dinner. “But won’t it cost you too much?”
“Too much? No, sir!” said Bert. “Vegetable soup, fifteen cents; pie—they give big pieces here, thick, I tell you—ten cents. That’s twenty-five cents; half a dollar for the two of us. Of course, I don’t eat this way every day! But mother’s glad to have me enjoy a good meal, once in a while.”
“Where is your mother? Why are you not having dinner with her?” the old man asked.
Bert’s face grew sober in a moment.
“That’s the question! Why don’t I? I’ll tell you why I don’t. I’ve got the best mother in the world! What I’m trying to do is to make a home for her, so we can live together, and eat our Thanksgiving dinners together. Some boys want only good times in life, others are in such a hurry to get rich, they don’t care how they do it; but what I want most of anything is to be with my mother and my two sisters again, and I am not ashamed to say so.”
Bert’s eyes grew very tender, and he went on; while his companion across the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look.
“I haven’t been with her now for two years—hardly at all since father died. When his business was settled, it was found he hadn’t left us anything. We had lived pretty well up to that time, and I and my two sisters had been to school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got her places to go out nursing; she’s a nurse now. Everybody likes her, and she is very busy, but she could not be home to take care of us so she found a nice place to board us. I saw how hard it was going to be for her to support us, so I said, ‘I’m a boy; I can do something for myself; you just pay the board for the girls and keep them in school, and I’ll go to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of myself.’”
“What could you do?” said the little old man.
“Well, I was only eleven years old; and what could I do? I would have liked to be at some nice place where I could do light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business. But beggars mustn’t be choosers. I couldn’t find such a place; and I wasn’t going to be loafing about the streets, so I started selling newspapers. I’ve sold newspapers ever since, and I shall be twelve years old next month.”
“You like it?” said the old man.
“I like to get my own living,” replied Bert, proudly. “But what I want is, to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down and make a home for my mother.”
“Well, I’ve told you about myself,” added Bert; “now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”
“About myself?” The man shook his head. “I could go back and tell you about many of my plans and high hopes when I was a lad of your age; but it would be too much like your own story over again. Life isn’t what we think it will be, when we are young. You’ll find that out soon enough. I am all alone in the world now; and I am nearly seventy years old.”
“It must be so lonely, at your age! What do you do for a living?”
“I have a little place in Devonshire Street. My name is Crooker. You’ll find me up two flights of stairs, back room at the right. Come and see me, and I’ll tell you all about my business and perhaps help you to such a place as you want, for I know several business men.” Then Mr. Crooker wrote his address, with a little stub of a pencil, on a corner of the newspaper which he had purchased, tore it off carefully, and gave it to Bert.
“Well, Bert,” said the old man, “I’m glad to have met you, and I hope you’ll come and see me. You’ll find me in a very simple apartment. Now, won’t you let me pay for my dinner? I believe I have money enough. Let me see.” And he put his hand in his pocket.
Bert would not hear of such a thing; but walked up to the cashier, and paid the bill. When he looked around again, the little old man was gone.
“That’s fine. I’ll go and see him the first chance I have,” said Bert, as he looked at the penciled strip of newspaper margin again before putting it into his pocket.
He then went to his miserable quarters, in the top of a cheap lodging-house, and prepared himself at once to go and see his mother. He could not afford to ride, and it was a long walk,—at least five miles to the place where his mother was nursing.
The following Monday, Bert, having a little spare time decided to visit his new friend in Devonshire Street.
After climbing the two flights he found the door open, and, looking in, saw Mr. Crooker at a desk, in the act of receiving a roll of money from a well-dressed visitor.
Bert entered unnoticed, and waited till the money was counted, and a receipt signed. Then, as the visitor departed, Mr. Crooker noticed Bert and offered him a chair. He then turned to place the money in the safe.
“So this is your place of business?” said Bert, glancing around the plain office room. “What do you do here?”
“I buy real estate, sometimes—sell—rent—and so forth.”
Bert started, perfectly aghast, at this situation. “I—I—I thought—you were a poor man!”
“I am a poor man,” said Mr. Crooker, locking his safe. “Money doesn’t make a man rich. I’ve money enough. I own houses in the city. They give me something to think of, and so keep me alive. I had truer riches once, but I lost them long ago.”
From the way the old man’s voice trembled and eyes glistened, Bert thought he must have meant by these riches, the friends he had lost, wife and children, perhaps.
“To think of me inviting you to dinner!” he said, embarrassed.
“It was odd. But it may turn out to have been a lucky circumstance for both of us. I like you. I believe in you, and I’ve an offer to make you. I want a trusty, bright boy in this office, somebody I can bring up to run my business, and leave it with, when I get too old to attend to it myself. What do you say?”
That afternoon Bert ran to his mother; and, after consulting with her, joyfully accepted Mr. Crooker’s offer.
The lonely, childless old man, who owned so many houses, wanted a home; and one of these houses he offered to Mrs. Hampton, with ample support for herself and children if she would also make it a home for him.
Of course this proposition was accepted; and Bert soon had the satisfaction of seeing the great ambition of his life accomplished. He had employment, which promised to become a profitable business, as indeed it did in a few years. The old man and the lad proved useful to each other; and, more than that, he was united once more with his mother and sisters in a happy home, where he has since had many Thanksgiving dinners.
Bert did not know who Mr. Crooker was. Even though he had very little himself, he gladly shared the little he had and in the end he was tremendously blessed.
Like the widow woman who gave her last two mites to the church because she loved the Lord more than she loved her own self, so also Bert gave unselfishly from the little he had, for someone else.
Unselfish love, that is willing to give all, will receive its reward. We may not end up rich in this life, but we will find that which money cannot buy. We will find peace, happiness, joy and most importantly an eternal reward in heaven.
Make it a principle in your life to deny yourself and be a blessing for others. Give today. God will bless you tomorrow for the needs of tomorrow.