Driven Back to Eden

By Edward Payson Roe.

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This volume
is lovingly dedicated to
“Johnnie.”

Months since, with much doubt and diffidence, I began this simple story. I had never before written expressly for young people, and I knew that the honest little critics could not be beguiled with words which did not tell an interesting story. How far I have succeeded, the readers of this volume, and of the “St. Nicholas” magazine, wherein the tale appeared as a serial, alone can answer.

I have portrayed no actual experience, but have sought to present one which might be verified in real life. I have tried to avoid all that would be impossible or even improbable. The labors performed by the children in the story were not unknown to my own hands, in childhood, nor would they form tasks too severe for many little hands now idle in the cities.

The characters are all imaginary; the scenes, in the main, are real: and I would gladly lure other families from tenement flats into green pastures.

E. P. R.

Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,
August 10, 1885.

Driven Back to Eden

I

A Problem

“Where are the children?”

“They can’t be far away,” replied my wife, looking up from her preparations for supper. “Bobsey was here a moment ago. As soon as my back’s turned he’s out and away. I haven’t seen Merton since he brought his books from school, and I suppose Winnie is upstairs with the Daggetts.”

“I wish, my dear, you could keep the children at home more,” I said, a little petulantly.

“I wish you would go and find them for me now, and tomorrow take my place—for just one day.”

“Well, well,” I said, with a laugh that had no mirth in it; “only one of your wishes stands much chance of being carried out. I’ll find the children now if I can without the aid of the police. Mousie, do you feel stronger tonight?”

These words were spoken to a pale girl of fourteen, who appeared to be scarcely more than twelve, so diminutive was her frame.

“Yes, papa,” she replied, a faint smile flitting like a ray of light across her features. She always said she was better, but never got well. Her quiet ways and tones had led to the household name of “Mousie.”

As I was descending the narrow stairway I was almost overthrown by a torrent of children pouring down from the flats above. In the dim light of a gas burner I saw that Bobsey was one of the reckless atoms. He had not heard my voice in the uproar, and before I could reach him, he with the others had burst out at the street door and gone tearing toward the nearest corner. It seemed that he had slipped away in order to take part in a race, and I found him “squaring off” at a bigger boy who had tripped him up. Without a word I carried him home, followed by the jeers and laughter of the racers, the girls making their presence known in the early December twilight by the shrillness of their voices and by manners no gentler than those of the boys.

I put down the child—he was only seven years of age—in the middle of our general living room, and looked at him. His little coat was split out in the back; one of his stockings, already well-darned at the knees, was past remedy; his hands were black, and one was bleeding; his whole little body was throbbing with excitement, anger, and violent exercise. As I looked at him quietly the defiant expression in his eyes began to give place to tears.

“There is no use in punishing him now,” said my wife. “Please leave him to me and find the others.”

“I wasn’t going to punish him,” I said.

“What are you going to do? What makes you look at him so?”

“He’s a problem I can’t solve—with the given conditions.”

“O Robert, you drive me half wild. If the house was on fire you’d stop to follow out some train of thought about it all. I’m tired to death. Do bring the children home. When we’ve put them to bed you can figure on your problem, and I can sit down.”

As I went up to the Daggetts’ flat I was dimly conscious of another problem. My wife was growing fretful and nervous. Our rooms would not have satisfied a Dutch housewife, but if “order is heaven’s first law” a little of Paradise was in them as compared to the Daggetts’ apartments. “Yes,” I was told, in response to my inquiries; “Winnie is in the bedroom with Melissy.”

The door was locked, and after some hesitation the girls opened it. As we were going downstairs I caught a glimpse of a newspaper in my girl’s pocket. She gave it to me reluctantly, and said “Melissy” had lent it to her. I told her to help her mother prepare supper while I went to find Merton. Opening the paper under a street lamp, I found it to be a cheap, vile journal, full of flashy pictures that so often offend the eye on newsstands. With a chill of fear I thought, “Another problem.” The Daggett children had had the scarlet fever a few months before. “But here’s a worse infection,” I reflected. “Thank heaven, Winnie is only a child, and can’t understand these pictures;” and I tore the paper up and thrust it into its proper place, the gutter.

“Now,” I muttered, “I’ve only to find Merton in mischief to make the evening’s experience complete.”

In mischief I did find him—a very harmful kind of mischief, it appeared to me. Merton was little over fifteen, and he and two or three other lads were smoking cigarettes which, to judge by their odor, must certainly have been made from the sweepings of the manufacturer’s floor.

“Can’t you find anything better than that to do after school?” I asked, severely.