"matches! matches! here's your nice matches!" was heard in a shrill treble, proceeding from a little boy on clark street, in chicago.

he looked thin and pale, and it was easy to see the poor little fellow was poorly fed, as well as ill-clad.

"only five cents a package!" the little fellow continued to cry; and he looked wistfully in the faces of those who passed him, hoping for a possible purchaser.

"clear out of my way there, you brat!" said a rough voice. "do you want to take up the whole sidewalk?"

the boy shrank timidly, as the man who had addressed him swaggered by. he would not have dared to resent the rudeness, but another did. it was a stout, and healthy-looking woman, with a large basket on her arm, whose heart warmed towards the poor little match boy, sent out so early to earn his livelihood.

"you ought to be ashamed to speak to the poor boy that way!" she said, warmly.

"mind your business, woman!" retorted lyman taylor, for it was he whose rough speech had been quoted.

"i always do," said the woman. "it's my business to speak my mind to such brutes as you!"

lyman vented his wrath in a volley of oaths, for his language was by no means choice, when his anger was excited. he might have been more prudent, if he had known that a policeman was just behind.

"stop that, my man, unless you want me to take you in!" said the burly officer.

lyman taylor turned sharply round, but quailed when he saw the officer.

"this woman has insulted me," he said, sullenly.

"i just spoke to him for abusin' that poor match boy," said the good woman.

"i heard it all," said the officer. "move on, my man, and behave yourself, if you don't want to get into trouble."

such a scene was sure to attract a small crowd. one kind-hearted man drew out a dime from his pocket and handed it to the match boy.

"here, my lad," he said; "take this, and i hope it'll do you good."

"here are two boxes of matches for you, sir."

"no, keep them. i give you the money."

"here's another dime," said a young man, of literary aspect. he was a reporter on one of the chicago daily papers, who, in spite of the cases of poverty and privation that came under his notice every day, still preserved a warm and sympathetic heart.

then a lady followed his example, and in the end, the match boy had received a sum much larger than the value of his small stock-in-trade.

lyman taylor's rudeness had proved to him a piece of good luck, in opening the hearts of those who would otherwise have passed him by without notice.

smiling with pleasure at the child's good fortune, the good woman who had resented lyman's rudeness so warmly, went on her way. if all had hearts as warm, there would be little misery or suffering in the world. it is often those who have little, that are most ready to help others poorer than themselves. i must not omit to add, that among the contributors to the little match boy's fund was the policeman, who placed a nickel in his hands, with the admonition to "brace up and be a good boy!" this was true charity, for out of his salary the officer had to support a large family of his own, and therefore had very few nickels to spare. he was bluff of aspect, but kind of heart.

"it's a shame to send out such a child on the streets," he said to himself. "think of my rob having to lead such a life!"

the policeman looked sober, for, should anything happen to him, as in his exposed life might very well happen, he knew not what would be the fate of his little ones. they might be as badly off as the poor match boy.

the little match boy's thin face showed signs of satisfaction as he looked at the collection of small coins which had been given him by the pitying crowd. he turned into an alleyway and counted it. it amounted to seventy-six cents. this was a phenomenal sum for the small merchant. and the best of it was, he had his stock of merchandise left.

a thought entered the little boy's mind, prompted by his craving for food.

"would it be wrong for me to take a little of this money and buy me some dinner?" he said to himself. "i am so hungry. aunt peggy only gave me a slice of bread for breakfast, and it's most two o'clock now."

only a slice of bread, and he had been walking about for hours, trying to sell matches. the fruit of all his labor was the sale of two boxes at five cents each. but he had seventy-six cents besides, and they were his. they had not been given to aunt peggy, but to him. so, at least, he reasoned. not that he meant to keep it all himself. he intended to give the greater part to the woman who was the only guardian he knew, but he thought he had a right to use fifteen cents for himself. it wasn't much, but he knew a place—a cheap place—where for this sum he could get a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak. at the thought of this delicious repast the match boy's mouth watered. when had he eaten meat? three days ago peggy had given him a bone to pick. there was not much on it, but when he had got through with it there was none at all.

johnny could not resist the temptation. he suspended sales, and made his way to a cheap restaurant on a side street. with eager steps he entered, and sat down at a wooden table from which nearly all the paint had been worn off, and scanned the bill of fare.

it seemed to him that there was nothing better than the dish he had already mentally selected.

a greasy looking waiter approached, and said sharply, "what'll you have, kid?"

"cup o' coffee an' plate of beefsteak!" answered johnny.

"sure yer got money enough to pay for it?"

"i wouldn't have asked for it if i hadn't," said johnny, emboldened by his unusual wealth.

"all right, then! sometimes chaps come in and order their dinner, and skip off before it comes time to pay."

the greasy looking waiter went to the back of the room, and soon returned with the banquet johnny ordered.

he set it down with a jerk.