I stopped when I noticed a little boy with only one arm. I could feel his heavy little heart as he sat with a tin cup in front of him and his gaze fixed upon the many feet that hurried past.
“We should see if he needs help,” I said.
“And what about him? And him? And that one over there?” Mary said, pointin’ to three other boys with dirty faces, dressed in rags, with tin cups by their feet.
I stumbled along after her. “We cannot simply think that they should starve or die? Surely, we can help?”
“We hafta’ begin by helpin’ ourselves. It don’t make us bad. When we find our way, we’ll return. But for now, we gotta’ move along.”
“But that one has lost his arm. How can he look after himself in such a sorry state?”
“He is likely one of the mill boys that met with an unfortunate accident. You’ll get used to it. They get along jest fine and swear like grown men. Some are even bold enough to use the pennies from their cup to go into a beer store and drink,” she said.
“What kind of unfortunate accident would take his arm?” I asked, knowin’ full well what the answer might be.
“Their lil’ hands and arms get caught in machinery. It can happen to anyone,” she said. ~Sarah and Mary, August 31, 1872, Boston, MA~ Excerpt: THE ANGELS' LAMENT Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series, Book Two
BOOK THREE COMING SOON (Samuel's Story)
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