[adapted]

by
Stephen Crane

A baby was walking around in a strange country. He was a child in torn clothes with a messy lot of yellow hair. His clothes, made of cloth with a square pattern, were dirty, and showed the marks of many fights, like the chain shirt of a fighter. His sun-tanned knees shone above wrinkled socks, which he pulled up sometimes with a quick movement when they got in the way of his feet. From a shoe with a big hole there appeared a row of tiny toes.

He was walking with small steps along a street between rows of plain brown houses. He went slowly, with a very interested look on his small red face. His blue eyes stared curiously. Carriages went by with a soft musical sound over the smooth road. A man with a flower was going up steps. Two nannies chatted as they walked slowly, while the children they looked after played together in a friendly way between baby carriages. A truck roared loudly in the distance.

The child from the poor area walked along the brown street full of dull grey shadows. High up, near the roofs, quick sun rays changed the edges to bright gold and made the fronts of windows look silver. The baby who was wandering stopped and stared at the two children laughing and playing in their carriages among the piles of rugs and cushions. He set his legs apart in a position of serious attention. His lower jaw dropped, and showed his small, even teeth. As they moved on, he followed the carriages with wonder in his face as if watching a parade. Once one of the babies, with quick, happy laughter, shook a fancy rattle at him. He smiled happily in return.

Finally a nanny stopped talking and, turning, made an annoyed gesture.

“Go away, little boy,” she said to him. “Go away. You’re all dirty.”

He looked at her with baby calm for a moment, and then went slowly off, pulling behind him a bit of rope he had got in another street. He kept looking at the new places. The people and houses seemed interesting to him, like flowers and trees would. People walking by had to go around the small, focused child in the middle of the sidewalk. They looked quickly at the serious baby face, covered with scratches and dust as if with scars and with gunpowder smoke.

After a time, the wandering baby found on the sidewalk a pretty child in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a small fire engine, painted brightly in red and gold. The wheels rattled as its small owner pulled it noisily around with a string. The baby, with his bit of rope trailing behind him, stopped and looked at the child and the toy. For a long time he stayed still, except for his eyes, which followed all movements of the shining thing. The owner paid no attention to the watcher, but continued his happy pretending about the different parts of the work of a fire engine. His happy baby laugh sounded against the quiet fronts of the houses. After a little, the wandering baby began quietly to move closer. His bit of rope, now forgotten, dropped at his feet. He took his eyes off the toy and looked hopefully at the other child.

“Say,” he said quietly.

The owner of the toy was running down the walk as fast as he could. His tongue was making a sound like a bell and his legs were moving fast like a horse. He did not look around at the gentle call from the small person in torn clothes at the curb.

The baby who was walking around came even closer, and soon spoke again.

“Say,” he said quietly, “let me play with it?”

The other child stopped some high toots. He bent his head and spoke rudely over his shoulder.

“No,” he said.

The traveler moved back to the edge of the road. He did not notice the piece of rope, once loved. His eyes followed as before the winding path of the engine, and his soft mouth moved a little.

“Say,” he asked at last, “is that yours?”

“Yes,” said the other, raising his round chin. He pulled his thing suddenly behind him as if it were in danger. “Yes,” he repeated, “it’s mine.”

“Well, let me play with it?” said the wandering baby, with a shaky sound of want in his voice.

“No,” said the pretty child with tight lips. “It’s mine. My ma-ma buyed it.”

“Well, can’t I play with it?” His voice was a cry. He stretched out little wanting hands.

“No,” the pretty child kept on saying. “No, it’s mine.”

“Well, I want to play wif it,” cried the other. A sudden angry frown covered his baby face. He closed his fat hands tight and moved forward in a scary way. He looked like some small fighter in a war.

“It’s mine! It’s mine,” cried the pretty child, his voice high because he thought it was not fair.

“I want it,” shouted the traveler.

“It’s mine! It’s mine!”

“I want it!”

“It’s mine!”

The pretty child went back to the fence, and there stopped, ready to fight. He protected his toy with his arms stretched out. The small troublemaker ran at him. There was a short fight at the fence. Each held the string of the toy and pulled. Their faces were wrinkled with baby anger, almost crying. Finally, the child in torn clothes gave a very hard pull and pulled the string from the other’s hands. He went quickly down the street, carrying the toy in his arms. He was crying like someone who was treated badly and had at last got what was fair. The other baby was crying loudly. He seemed very helpless. He twisted his chubby hands and complained loudly.

After the small wild child had got some distance away, he paused and looked at the stolen thing. His small body bent with pride. A soft, happy smile showed through the many tears. With great care he got the toy ready to go. He stopped a moment on a corner and looked at the pretty child, whose small body was shaking with crying. When the other child began to show signs of starting to chase him, the little troublemaker turned and went out of sight down a dark side street as if into a cave.