Robin, Robin Redbreast, O, Robin, dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night winds whistle, And moan all round the house. The frosty way like iron, The branches plumed with snow-- Alas! in winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O, Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.
It will be a real honest story--of how Christmas came to a poor cold home, and made it bright, and warm, and glad. A _very_ poor home it was, up three flights of worm-eaten, dirt-stained stairs, in the old gray house that stood far up a narrow, crooked alley, where the sun never shone except just a while in the middle of the day. He tried hard to brighten up the place a little, but the tall houses all about prevented him. Still he slanted a few golden beams even into that wretched home away up under the eaves; for though the few small panes of glass in the narrow windows had been mostly broken out, and their places filled with boards nailed tight to keep out the wintry winds, and rain, and snow, still there were some left through which a feeble ray did sometimes creep and make glad the hearts of the children. Five fatherless children lived with their mother in that old garret. Night and day the mother sewed, taking scarcely any rest, and yet found it hard to keep all the little toes and knees covered, and could get only the poorest food for the five hungry mouths. The thought that, work never so hard, she could not earn enough to give them one hearty, satisfying meal, made her heart ache.
Three boys and two girls, in one old naked room, with only their mother to care for them, and she so poor, that for years she had not had a new gown, or a new bonnet! Yet she liked pretty new clothes, as well as any one ever did, I know.
Of these five little folks, the oldest was Harry, the newsboy; then came Katie, and Willie, and Fred, and, last of all, wee Jennie.
Though Harry was the oldest, yet _he_ was not very old. Just twelve--a thin, white little fellow, with eyes that always looked as if they wanted more. More what? Well, more sunshine; more warm clothes, and bright, hot fires, and, O, very much more to eat! Sometimes he would make fifty cents in a day, selling newspapers, and then he would hurry joyfully home, thinking of the hungry little mouths it would help to fill. But some days he would hardly earn ten cents the whole long day. Then he would go slowly and sadly along, wishing all sorts of things--that he could take home as much meat as he could carry to the little ones who had not eaten meat for so long they had almost forgotten how it tasted; or that the gentlemen, who owned the clothing stores which he was passing, would say to him, "Come in, my little fellow, and help yourself to as many warm clothes as you want for yourself and your little brothers at home;" or that he could find a heap of money--and his mouth would water, thinking of the good things which he could buy and take home with some of it.