Little Tommy, the hunchback, sat on the door-stone crying. Some younger boys had taunted him with his deformity, had called him "Humpy," and made wry faces at him, because he wouldn't join them in stealing apples from Deacon Thompson's orchard.
As he sat there nursing his grief and shame the boy wondered, as many older and wiser people have before, whether after all it paid to do right at the expense of ridicule. For as Tommy had wept more, so he had thought more than other boys.
Thought was a natural consequence of tears.
Though humbly born, a mis-shapen son of the people, this boy was a dreamer. From the lurid tales of war told by his grandsire, a grizzled veteran of '63; from the gorgeous illustrations in the family Bible and the grotesque drawings of Dore in his mother's old copy of Dante, Tommy had created a dream-world of his own, the only world in which he cared much to live; for with the cripple's pain he had the cripple's morbid sensitiveness, and life to him was mostly one vast ache.
But that afternoon as he sat on the door-stone of his lowly home, and saw his young play-fellows — straight of back and supple of limb — leaping and climbing high, and heard their jeering laughter flung tauntingly back at him, what wonder that his heart was full of bitterness? Why was he not like other boys? he asked himself. What had he done that he alone of all the world should be the sport of nature — too ugly for any love save a mother's ever to reach down to him.
But though his body was mis-shapen, his eyes were beautiful — large and deep and liquid, as are always the eyes of a hunchback.
A sound came from within the house, the voice of a woman scolding.
The boy winced as from a blow, and clambering to his feet he limped away.
West of the house was an orchard, and beyond it the downward slope of a hill.
He went past the gnarled old apple trees and threw himself upon the bank, with his face toward the sunset.
Billows of crimson and gold were piled high in the western sky; while the edges of dark clouds curled over like the crests of breakers, showing their ragged silvery linings.
Something swept over the boy's soul and he drew a long and tremulous-breath.
"How beautiful!" he whispered to himself. "The clouds look like great, pink feather-beds all made up for angels to sleep on."
He sat watching the glory till it faded tone by tone into the gray twilight. The insects hummed drowsily; the boy's tear-wet eyes closed heavily, and he slept.
He slept and dreamed a wonderful dream.
Spread out before his eyes was a great and splendid city, with wide streets and stately palaces — a city like those in the Bible pictures, only more beautiful. A triumphal arch spanned a broad thoroughfare, and from every tower and window flags streamed upon the breeze. The streets were full of people, all in gala dress. Linked together with chains of flowers, a band of happy children, like a cloud of bright-hued butterflies, flitted gaily along in the sunshine. From the distance came a sound of martial music, and an army of brave soldiers, the army of the conqueror, came into sight. Tall, erect and magnificent in his triumphal car rode the great hero, with his mounted officers beside him, and those poor wretches, his prisoners of war, chained to his chariot wheels. He was brave and high and noble, the pride and darling of his people; but in his lion heart there was no pity and no mercy; the cries of his captured enemies were sweet as music to his war-tried ears.
He passed beneath the arch. Beautiful women strewed his path with roses, and the heart of the conquering hero beat high with pride and joy. But a change came over the dream.
It was the dreamer who stood in the triumphal car; his were the broad and manly shoulders from which the purple mantle fell; at his feet were the roses. The conquering hero was himself — the hunchback, Tommy!
With a start the boy awoke. He sat up and rubbed his heavy eyelids.
The sound of a cow-bell reminded him that it was chore time, and the hero humbly went and milked the cows.
Did he understand the dream? No, — not then.