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The Smallest Boy With The Largest Blue Eyes... I had advertised for a page-boy, and having puzzled through some dozens of answers, more or less illegible and impossible to understand, had come to the last one of the packet, of which the above is an exact copy. The epistle was enclosed in a clumsy envelope, evidently home-made, with the aid of scissors and gum, and was written on a half-sheet of letter-paper, in a large hand, with many blots and smears, on pencilled lines. There was something quaint and straightforward in the letter, in spite of the utter ignorance of grammar and spelling; and while I smiled at the evident pride in the brutther who was a verry good hite, and the offer to take less wages if I would do his washin, I found myself wondering what sort of waif upon the sea of life was this not very tall person, over thirteen, who would serve me well. I had many letters to answer and several appointments to make, and had scarcely made up my mind whether or not to trouble to write to my accomplished correspondent, who was sharp, and could rede and rite, and hadd figgers, when, a shadow falling on the ground by me as I sat by the open window, I looked up, and saw, standing opposite my chair, a boy, -the very smallest boy, with the very largest blue eyes I ever saw. The clothes on his little limbs were evidently meant for somebody almost double his size, but they were clean and tidy.In one hand he held a bundle, tied in a red handkerchief, and in the other a bunch of wild-flowers that bore signs of having travelled far in the heat of the sun, their blossoms hanging down, dusty and fading, and their petals dropping one by one on the ground. (From the first chapter) Written around the turn of the twentieth century, it is the sad story of a young boy who wants to find work as a servant. This innocent lad looking for work in service tugs at the heartstrings. As probably the original book published by Thomas Y. Crowell & Company, in 1903, this delightful little story is completely entertaining. Much of the story is written in the words of an uneducated, or more to the point, self-taught youngster. J. Cole becomes as close to being a family member of the home where he works as is possible. He is mistakenly believed late in the book to be a thief, although his family is not convinced. Unfortunately, he is missing, making him the prime suspect. He is found, but by this time everyone knows he was a victim, not a perpetrator. About the Author: Little can be found online about Emma Gellibrand, other than the fact that she published this book.

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