y-stricken fourth floor. He was leaning over
the railing, his white, thoughtful head just clearing the top, holding a
short, round stick in his hand. The little fellow made a pathetic
picture, all alone there above the street, so friendless and desolate,
and his pale face came between me and my business many a time that day.
On going uptown that evening just as night was falling, I saw him still
at his place, white and patient and silent.

Every day afterward I saw him there, always with the short stick in his
hand. Occasionally he would walk around the balcony, rattling the stick
in a solemn manner against the railing, or poke it across from one
corner to another and sit on it. This was the only playing I ever saw
him do, and the stick was the only plaything he had. But he was never
without it. His little hand always held it, and I pictured him every
morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep, picking up his poor toy
and going out to his balcony, as other boys go to play. Or perhaps he
slept with it, as little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.

I could see that the room beyond the window was bare. I never saw any
one in it. The heat must have been terrible, for it could have had no
ventilation. Once I missed the boy from the balcony, but saw his white
head moving about slowly in the dusk of the room. Gradually the little
fellow became a burden to me. I found myself continually thinking of
him, and troubled with that remorse that thoughtless people feel even
for suffering for which they are not in the slightest degree
responsible. Not that I ever saw any suffering on his face. It was
patient, thoughtful, serious, but with never a sign of petulance. What
thoughts filled that young head--what contemplation took the place of
what should have been the [v]ineffable upspringing of childish
emotion--what complaint or questioning were living behind that white
face--no one could guess. In an older person the face would have
betokened a resignation that found peace in the hope of things
hereafter. In this child, without hope or aspiration, it was sad beyond
expression.

One day as I passed I nodded at him. He made no sign in return. I
repeated the nod on another trip, waving my hand at him--but without
avail. At length, in response to an unusually winning exhortation, his
pale lips trembled into a smile, but a smile that was soberness itself.
Wherever I went that day that smile went with me. Wherever I saw
children playing i