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A Little Girl in Old New York

by Amanda M. Douglas · English · Gutenberg #23780 · 455,008 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Little Girl in Old New York

Author: Amanda M. Douglas


        
Release date: December 9, 2007 [eBook #23780]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23780

Credits: Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J.P.W. Fraser, Mary
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK ***




Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J.P.W. Fraser, Mary
Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                        A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK

                            By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS




New York
Dodd, Mead and Company

COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY


To
_DOROTHY MOORE_,
A LITTLE GIRL OF TO-DAY,
FROM
HER MAMMA'S FRIEND,
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
NEWARK, 1896.




CONTENTS


       I. THE LITTLE GIRL

      II. GOOD-BY TO AN OLD HOME

     III. FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN

      IV. A LOOK AT OLD NEW YORK

       V. GIRLS AND GIRLS

      VI. MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN

     VII. MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO

    VIII. THE END OF THE WORLD

      IX. A WONDERFUL SCHEME

       X. A MERRY CHRISTMAS

      XI. THE LITTLE GIRL IN POLITICS

     XII. A REAL PARTY

    XIII. NEW RELATIONS

     XIV. JOHN ROBERT CHARLES

      XV. A PLAY IN THE BACKYARD

     XVI. DAISY JASPER

    XVII. SOME OF THE OLD LANDMARKS

   XVIII. SUNDRY DISSIPATIONS

     XIX. WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING




A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK




CHAPTER I

THE LITTLE GIRL


"How would you like to go to New York to live, little girl?"

The little girl looked up into her father's face to see if he was
"making fun." He did sometimes. He was beginning to go down the hill of
middle life, a rather stout personage with a fair, florid complexion,
brown hair, rough and curly, and a border of beard shaved well away from
his mouth. Both beard and hair were getting threads of white in them.
His jolly blue eyes were mostly in a twinkle, and his good-natured mouth
looked as if he might be laughing at you.

She studied him intently. Three months before she had been taken to the
city on a visit, and it was a great event. I suspect that her mother did
not like being separated from her a whole fortnight. She was such a
nice, quiet, well-behaved little girl. Children were trained in those
days. Some of them actually took pride in being as nice as possible and
obeying the first time they were spoken to, without even asking "Why?"

The little girl sat on a stool sewing patchwork. This particular pattern
was called a lemon star and had eight diamond-shaped pieces of two
colors, filled in with white around the edge, making a square. Her
grandmother was coming to "join" it for her, and have it quilted before
she was eight years old. She was doing her part with a good will.

"To New York?" she repeated very deliberately. Then she went on with her
sewing for she had no time to waste.

"Yes, Pussy." Her father pinched her cheek softly. The little girl was
the most precious thing in the world, he sometimes thought.

"What, all of us?" You see she had a mind to understand the case before
she committed herself.

"Oh, certainly! I don't know as we could leave any one behind."

Then he lifted her up in his lap and hugged her, scrubbing her face with
his beard which gave her pink cheeks. They both laughed. She held her
sewing out with one hand so that the needle should not scratch either of
them.

"I can't--hardly--tell;" and her face was serious.

I want to explain to you that the little girl had not begun with
grammar. You may find her making mistakes occasionally. Perhaps the
children of to-day do the same thing.

"Would we move everything?" raising her wondering eyes.

"Well, no--not quite;" and the humorous light crossed his face. "We
couldn't take the orchard nor the meadows nor the woods nor the creek."
(I think he said "medders" and "crick," and his "nor" sounded as if he
put an _e_ in it.) "There are a good many things we should have to leave
behind."

He sighed and the little girl sighed too. She drew up her patchwork and
began to sew.

"It is a great deal of trouble to move;" she began gravely. "I must
consider."

She had caught that from Great-Aunt Van Kortlandt, who never committed
herself to anything without considering.

Her father kissed her cheek. If it had been a little fatter she would
have had a dimple. Or perhaps he put so many kisses in the little dent
it was always filled up with love.

I don't know whether you would have thought this little girl of past
seven pretty or not. She was small and fair with a rather prim face and
thick light hair, parted in the middle, combed back of her ears, and cut
square across the neck, but the ends had some curly twists.

Certainly children are dressed prettier nowadays. The little girl's
frock was green with tiny rivulets of yellow meandering over it. They
made islands and peninsulas and isthmuses of green that were odd and
freaky. Mrs. Underhill had bought it to join her sashwork quilt, and
there was enough left to make the little girl a frock. It had the merit
of washing well, but it gave her a rather ghostly look. It had a short,
full waist with shoulder straps, making a square neck, a wide belt, and
a skirt that came down to the tops of her shoes, which were like Oxford
ties. Though she was not rosy she had never been really ill, and only
stayed at home two weeks the previous winter at the worst of the
whooping-cough, which nobody seemed to mind then. But it must have made
a sort of Wagner chorus if many children coughed at once.

"I had a very nice time in New York," she began, with grave approbation,
when she had considered for some seconds. "The museum was splendid! And
the houses seem sociable-like. Don't you suppose they nod to each other
when the folks are asleep? And the stores are so--so--" she tried to
think of the longest word she knew--"so magnificent? Aunt Patience and
Aunt Nancy were so nice. And the cat was perfectly white and sat in Aunt
Nancy's lap. There was a little girl next door who had a big doll and a
cradle and a set of dishes, and we had tea together. I'd like to have
some dishes. Do you think Uncle Faid is coming back?" she asked
suddenly.

"I believe he is, this time. And if we get very homesick we shall have
to come back and live with him."

"I shouldn't be homesick with you and mother and the boys, and Steve and
Joe. It would be nice to have Dobbin and Prince, but the stores are on
the corners instead of going to the village, and its nice and queer to
ride in the omnibuses and hand your money up through the roof. The
drivers must have an awful sight when night comes."

They even said "awful" in those far-back days, they truly did.

Father Underhill laughed and squeezed the little girl with a fondness
she understood very well.

Just then a voice called rather sharply: "'Milyer! 'Milyer!" and he sat
the little girl down on the stool as carefully as if she had been china.
He put another kiss in the little dent, and she gave him a tender smile.

His whole name was Vermilye Fowler Underhill. Everybody called him
Familiar, but Mrs. Underhill shortened it to 'Milyer.

The little girl's name was Hannah Ann. The school children called her
Han and Hanny. One grandmother always said Hanneran. But being the
youngest, the most natural name seemed "little girl."

There were three sons to lead off, Stephen Decatur, Joseph Bennett, and
John Fowler. Then a daughter was most welcome, and she was called
Margaret Hunter after her mother, and shortened to Peggy. They used
nicknames and diminutives, if they were not as fanciful as ours.

After Margaret came George Horton, Benny Franklin, and James Odell. The
poor mother gave a sigh of disappointment, she had so longed for another
girl. When Jim had outgrown babyhood altogether and was nearly five, the
desired blessing came.

There was a great discussion about her name. Grandmother Hunter had
married a second time and was a Van Kortlandt now. She had named her
only daughter after her mother and was a bit offended that Margaret was
not named for her. Now she came with a fairy god-mother's insistence,
and declared she would put a hundred dollars in the bank at once, and
remember the child in her will, besides giving her the old Hunter
tablespoons made in London more than a hundred years ago, with the crown
mark on them.

Grandmother Underhill's name was Ann. She lived with her eldest son at
White Plains, who had fallen heir to his grandfather's farm. When a
widow she had gone back to her girlhood's home and taken care of her old
father. David, her eldest son, had come to work the farm. She had a
"wing" in the house, but she never lived by herself, for her son and the
grandchildren adored her.

Now she said to the baby's mother: "You put in Ann for a middle name and
I'll give her a hundred dollars as well, and my string of gold beads
that came from Paris. And I'll make her a nice down bed and pillows."

So Hannah Ann it was, and the little girl began life with a bank
account. She was a grave, sweet, dainty sort of baby, with wondering
eyes of bluish violet, bordering on gray. I think myself that she should
have had a prettier name, but people were not throwing away even
two-hundred-dollar chances in those days. Neither had they come to
Ediths and Ethels and Mays and Gladys. And they barbarously shortened
some of their most beautiful names to Peggy and Betsey and Polly and
Sukey.

Left to herself the little girl went on with her patchwork, and recalled
her visit to the city. There were so many aunts and cousins and so many
wonderful things to see. She must find out whether there would be any
snow and sleighrides in the winter. As for fruit and vegetables and eggs
and poultry the farmers were always sending them in to the city, she
knew that.

The prospect of a removal from Yonkers, where they had always lived, was
not so new to the elders. Stephen was in New York nearly all the week
now. Joseph was studying for a doctor. John was not in love with farming
and had a great taste for mechanical pursuits. Margaret, a tall, fair
girl of seventeen, was begging to be sent away to school another year,
and learn some of the higher branches people were talking about. Joe
thought she should. Her father was quite sure she knew enough, for she
could do all the puzzling sums in "Perkins' Higher Arithmetic," and you
couldn't trip her up on the hardest words. She went to a very good
school in the village. And the village was quite primitive in those
days. The steamboat-landing was the great focus of interest. It was all
rock and hills and a few factories were plodding along. The farm was two
good miles away.

The young people thought it a most auspicious turn in affairs that Uncle
Faid was coming back. His real name was Frederic. Since David had his
grandfather's farm, this had been divided between the two remaining
sons, but Frederic had been seized with the Western fever and gone out
to what was called the new countries. His sons had married and settled
in different places, one daughter had married and come East to live, and
Uncle Faid was homesick for the land of his youth.

Mrs. Underhill had declared at first, "She wouldn't stir a step. 'Milyer
could buy out his brother's part in the house"--the two hundred acres
had been already divided. But people had begun to complain even then
that farming did not pay, and John wanted to learn a trade. And if three
or four went out of the old home nest! Steve wanted his father in New
York. If they were not satisfied they could come back and build a new
house. And presently she began to think it best even if she didn't like
it.

The little girl finished her block of patchwork, pinched and patted down
the seams, and laid it on the pile. Her "stent" for that day was done.
There were nine more blocks to make.

There was a wide half closet beside the chimney and she had the top
shelf for her own. It was so neat that it looked like a doll's house.
Her only doll had been a "rag baby," and Gip, the dog, had demolished
that.

"Never mind," said her mother, "you are too big to play with dolls." But
the little girl in New York was almost a year older, and she had a large
wax doll with "truly" clothes that could be taken off and washed. If she
went to the city she might have one.

She piled up her patchwork with a sense of exultation. She was extremely
neat. There was a tiny, hair-covered trunk grandmother Van Kortland had
given her full of pretty chintz and calico pieces. She kept her baby
shoes of blue kid that were outgrown before they were half worn out, so
choice had her mother been of them. There were some gift-books and
mementos and a beautiful Shaker basket Stephen had given her at
Christmas. It was round, so she imagined you put something in it and
shook it, for she had no idea the Shakers were a community and made
dainty articles for sale, even if they discarded all personal vanities.

She went through to the next room, which was the kitchen in winter and
dining-room in summer. She took down her blue-and-white gingham
sun-bonnet, and skipped along a narrow path through the grass to the
summer kitchen. This was a short distance from the house, a big, square
room with a door at each side, and smoky rafters overhead. The brick and
stone chimney was built inside, very wide at the bottom and tapering up
to the peak in the roof. There was a great black crane across it, with
two sets of trammels suspended from it, on which you could hang two
kettles at the same time. If you have never seen one, get Longfellow's
beautiful illustrated poem, "The Hanging of the Crane." A great many old
country houses had them, and they were considered extremely handy.

The presiding genius of the kitchen was a fat old black woman, so old
that her hair was all grizzled. When she braided it up in little tails
on Saturday afternoon Hannah Ann watched with a kind of fascination. She
always wore a plaid Madras turban with a bow tied in front. She had been
grandmother Underhill's slave woman. I suppose very few of you know
there were slaves in New York State in the early part of the century.
Aunt Mary had sons married, and grandchildren doing well. They begged
her now and then to give up work, but she clung to her old home.

"Aunt Mary," inquired the little girl, "is the chicken feed mixed?"

"Laws, yaas, honey, lem me scoop it in de pail. You's got such little
claws o' han's. Don't seem 's if dey ever grow big ernough fer nothin'."

She ladled out the scalded meal, mixed with bits of broken bread. The
little girl laughed and nodded and crossed the small bridge that spanned
the creek. The spring, or rather the series of them, ran around the
house and down past the kitchen, then widened out into quite a pond
where the ducks and geese disported themselves, and the cows always
paused to drink on their way to the barn.

She went down to the barn. On the carriage-house side in the sun were
some chicken-coops. Pretty little chicks whose mothers had "stolen
their nests;" thirty-two of various sizes, and they belonged to the
little girl. She rarely forgot them.

There were plenty of chores for Ben and Jim. They drove the cows to
pasture, chopped wood, picked apples, and dug potatoes. You wondered how
they found any time for play or study.

Jim "tagged" the little girl as she came back with her pail. She could
run like a deer.

"Here you, Jim!" called Aunt Mary, "you jes' take dis pail an' git some
of dem big blackbre'es fer supper steder gallopin' roun' like a wild
palakin ob de desert!" and she held out the shining pail.

A "palakin of the desert" was Aunt Mary's favorite simile. In vain had
Margaret explained that the pelican was a bird and couldn't gallop.

"Laws, honey," the old woman would reply, "I aint hankerin' arter any ob
dis new book larnin'. I's a heap too old fer 'rithmertic an' 'stology. I
jes' keeps to de plain Bible dat served de chillen of Isrul in de
wilderness. Some day, Miss Peggy, when you's waded tru seas o' trubble
an' come out on de good Lord's side an' made your callin' an' 'lection
sure, you'll know more 'bout it I done reckon."

"Come with me, do, Hanny," pleaded Jim. "You can walk along the stone
fence and pick the high ones and we'll fill the kittle in no time."

Jim thought if he had made a spelling-book, he would have spelled the
word that way. Jim would have been a master hand at phonetics.

The little girl crossed two of her fingers. That was a sign of truce in
the game.

"No play till we come back," said Jim.

The little girl nodded and ran for her mitts of strong muslin with the
thumb and finger ends out. The briars were so apt to tear your hands.

They ran a race down to the blackberry patch. Then they sat on the fence
and ate berries. It was really a broad, handsome wall. There were so
many stones on the ground that they built the walls as they "cleared
up." The blackberry lot was a wild tangle. There were some hickory-nut
trees in it and a splendid branching black walnut. Sometimes they found
a cluster of hazel-nuts.

The great blackberry canes grew six or seven feet high. They generally
cut one path through in the early summer. The long branches made arches
overhead.

The little girl pinned a big dock-leaf with a thorn and made a cup. When
it was full she emptied it into Jim's pail. They were such great,
luscious berries that they soon had it filled. Then they sat down and
rested. Everybody knows that it is harder work to pick berries than to
play "tag."

Jim had a piece to speak on Friday afternoon at school. They had these
exercises once a month, but this was to be a rather grand affair, as
then school closed for a fortnight. That was all the vacation they had.

Jim was rather proud of his elocutionary gift. He stood up on a big flat
stone and declaimed so that the little girl might see if he knew every
word. It was extremely patriotic, beginning:

    "Columbia! Columbia! to glory arise,
    The queen of the world and the child of the skies!"

"Oh, you say it just splendid!" declared the little girl
enthusiastically. She never laughed and teased him as Peggy did.

She was learning some verses herself, but she wondered if she would have
courage enough to face the whole school. They were in her "Child's
Reader" with the "Little Busy Bee," and "Let Dogs Delight to Bark and
Bite." She thought them beautiful:

    "The rose had been washed, lately washed in a shower,
      Which Mary to Anna conveyed."

It puzzled her small brain a good deal as to why the rose needed
washing. But Peggy showed her one day how dusty the leaves and flowers
grew in a dry time, and she learned that the whole world was the better
for an occasional washing. She asked Mary afterward why the clothes were
not put out in a hard rain to get them clean.

"Laws, honey, dey need elbow-grease," and the old woman laughed
heartily.

"I do wish my name was Anna," she said, with a sigh.

"Well, you just need to put another _a_ to the Ann," said her brother
confidently.

"And I don't like being called Han and Hanny."

"I'd a heap rather be called Jim than James. When pop calls me James I
think it's time to pick myself up mighty spry, I tell you!" and he
laughed.

"It's different with boys," she said, with a soft sigh. "Girls ought to
have pretty names, and Hanneran is dreadful."

"I'd stand a good deal for two hundred dollars. And it doubles in
fourteen years. And seven again! Why you'll have more than five hundred
dollars when you're grown up!"

She did not know the value of money and thought she would rather have
the pretty name. Yet she wasn't _quite_ sure she would choose Anna.

"You stay here while I run after the cows," said Jim. "It will save
another journey."

Boys are often economical of their steps, I have noticed. Perhaps this
is how they gain time for play. The little girl jumped down presently
and looked over at the wild flowers. There were clusters of yarrow in
bloom, spikes of yellow snap-dragons, and a great clump of thistles in
their purple glory. She must tell her father about them, and have them
rooted out. Would it hurt them to be killed? She felt suddenly sorry for
them.

A squirrel ran along and winked at her as he gave his tail an extra
perk. Nothing was ever afraid of the little girl. But she ran from the
old gobbler, and the big gander who believed he had pre-empted the farm
from the Indians. She generally climbed over the fence when she saw old
Red, who had an ominous fashion of brandishing her long horns. But she
didn't mind with Jim nor Benny.

Jim came now and took up the pail. The cows meandered along. She was
rather glad Jim did not see the thistle. She would not tell him about it
to-night.




CHAPTER II

GOOD-BY TO AN OLD HOME


When they reached the barn they saw Aunt Mary carrying a great platter
of corn up to the house. The little girl washed her hands and her face,
that was quite rosy now, and followed. How delicious it all looked!
White bread, corncake, cold chicken, pot-cheese in great creamy balls,
and a hot molasses cake to come on with the berries.

The little girl always sat beside her mother, and Margaret on the boys'
side, to help them. There were four boys and two hired men.

Mrs. Underhill was a notable housekeeper. She was a little sharp in the
temper, but Mr. Underhill was so easy that some one had to uphold the
family dignity. She complained that 'Milyer spoiled the children, but
they were good-natured and jolly, and quite up to the average.

After supper the cows were milked, the horses fed and bedded, Margaret
and her mother packed up the dishes in a big basket, and the boys took
them down to Mary. Mrs. Underhill looked after the milk.

The little girl went out on the wide porch and studied her lessons.
There were two long lines in Webster's elementary spelling-book to get
by heart, for the teacher "skipped about." The children went up and
down, and it was rare fun sometimes. The little girl had been out of the
Baker class a long while. They call it that because the first column
began with that easy word. She was very proud of having gone in the
larger class. Her father gave her a silver dollar with a hole punched
through it, and Steve brought her a blue ribbon for it. She wore it on
state occasions. She studied Peter Parley's geography and knew the
verses beginning:

    "The world is round and like a ball,
      Seems swinging in the air."

How it could be puzzled her. She asked her father, for she thought he
knew everything. He said he believed it was, but he could never make it
seem so.

Aunt Mary strenuously denied it. "Sta'ns to reason de folks would fall
off w'en it went swirlin' round. De good Lord He knows His business
better'n dat. Jes don't mind any sech foolin', honey! Its clear agin de
Bible dat speaks ob de sun's risin' an' settin', an' de Lord nebber
makes any mistake 'bout dat ar Bible."

The little girl studied her lesson over four times. Then Jim came up and
they had a game of tag. Dave Andrews and Milton Scott sat out under the
old apple-tree smoking their pipes and talking politics. One was a Whig
and the other a Democrat who believed that we had never had a President
worth mentioning since Andrew Jackson, Old Hickory as he was often
called.

When her father came round the corner of the house she stopped running
after Jim and held out both hands to him. Her cheeks were like wild
roses and her eyes shone with pleasure. They sat down on the step, and
he put his arm about her and "cuddled" her up to his side. She told him
she had gone up three in saying seven times in the multiplication table,
and four in spelling "tetrarch." Then when Charley Banks was reading he
said "condig-en" and the class laughed. She also told him she had been
studying about Rhode Island and Roger Williams, and all the bays and
inlets and islands. She made believe comb his hair with her slim little
fingers and once in a while he opened his lips like a trap and caught
them, and they both laughed.

Presently Mrs. Underhill, who sat by the window knitting in the
twilight, said: "'Milyer, that child must go to bed."

She felt she had to issue this mandate two of three times, so she began
early.

They hugged each other and laughed a little. Then he said: "All the
chickens right?"

"Yes, I counted them. They're so cunning and lovely."

"I hope they'll get their feather cloaks on before cold weather," said
her father.

"'Milyer, that child _must_ go to bed! I don't see why you want to keep
her up all hours of the night."

They hugged each other a little closer this time and did not laugh, but
just kissed softly. It was beginning to grow dusky. The peeps and
crickets and katydids were out in force. The katydids told you there
would be frost in six weeks.

When her mother added in a dignified tone, "Come, Hannah Ann," the
little girl took one last hug and came into the room. Margaret had
lighted the candles in their polished brass candlesticks. One stood on
the hall table, one on the stand in the middle of the room. Mrs.
Underhill had knit past the seam in her stocking and pulled out a few
stitches. Then she laid it down and unfastened the little girl's frock
and said, "Now run to bed this minute." Margaret was reading, but she
glanced up and smiled.

The candle made a vague yellowish light on the stairs. There were people
who burned lamp-oil, as the oil from whales was called. The little girl
held it in curious awe, associating it with the story of Jonah. Mrs.
Underhill despised the "ill-smelling stuff" and would not have it in the
house. She made beautiful candles. Oil-wells had hardly been thought of,
except that some one occasionally brought a bottle from Pennsylvania for
rheumatism.

The little girl had slept in her mother's room, which answered to the
back parlor, until this spring when she had gone up to Margaret's room.
There were four large chambers on the second floor and a spacious
clothes-room with a closet for bedding. Up above was an immense garret
with four gables. The three younger boys and the two hired men slept
there.

The little girl didn't mind going to bed alone, but her mother generally
found some good reason for going up-stairs. On cool nights she was afraid
the little girl wasn't well covered; and to-night she looked in and
said:

"I hope you're not bundled up in a blanket this hot night, Hannah Ann!
Children seem to have such little sense."

"Oh no, I have only the sheet over me." But the little girl raised up
and held out her arms, and her mother gave her a soft squeeze and patted
the pillow and said:

"Now you must go to sleep like a good little girl;" quite as if she was
in the habit of being bad and not going to sleep, but they both
understood.

You may think the little girl's life was dull with lessons and sewing
and going to bed at dusk. But she found no end of fun. Now and then a
host of cousins came, and they climbed trees, ran races, waded in the
brooks, went off to the woods and swung in the wild grape-vines.
Sometimes they walked out on the end of a wide-spreading branch, holding
to the one above, and when they began to "teeter" too much they gave a
spring and came down on the soft ground. The little girl could go out a
long way because she was so light and fearless. They never broke their
necks or their limbs. They laughed and shouted and turned summersaults
and ran races. No day was ever long enough.

The school was a good mile away, but on very stormy days they were taken
in the covered wagon. They studied with a will, just as they played, and
you heard nothing about nerves in those days.

Some of the parents came that last day at school. Jim acquitted himself
creditably in his "Ode to Columbia," and the little girl recited with a
rose in her hand, though Margaret had quite a trouble to find one for
her. Roses didn't bloom all the year round as they do now. When the
children were dismissed they went out and gave some deafening hurrahs
for the two weeks' vacation. Oh, what throats and lungs they had!

When the little girl reached home she found a houseful of company. When
families have lived from one to two hundred years in one section of the
country, they get related to almost everybody. And though Aunt Becky
Odell was a second cousin of her mother's, she was aunt to the little
girl all the same. She had come up from West Farms to spend a few days
and brought her two little girls. Some other relatives had come from
Tarrytown.

The little girl greeted everybody, took off her Sunday white frock that
had a needleworked edge that her mother had worn twenty years and more
ago. Then she took the little girls out to see the chickens and hunt
some eggs and have a good play on the hay in the barn.

"Oh, ain't you just crazy to go to New York to live?" cried Polly Odell.
"The stores are so beautiful! When I go down I just don't want to come
back!"

"You was homesick at Aunt Ph[oe]be's, you know you was," said her
sister, with small regard for her tense.

"Well, I didn't like Aunt Ph[oe]be one bit. She's old and cross, and she
isn't our own aunt either. She won't let you stand by the window les'
you breathe on the glass, and she won't let you rock on the carpet nor
run up and down stairs, nor touch a book, and makes you get up at five
in the morning when you're so sleepy. She wanted me to stay 'cause she
said 'I was handy to wait on her.' And it wasn't truly New York but way
up by the East River. I wouldn't have stayed for a dollar. I just jumped
up and down when poppy came, and she said, 'For goodness' sake! don't
thrash out all my carpet with your jouncin' up an' down.' You can just
go yourself, Janey Odell, and see how you like it!"

"I'm sure I don't want to go. But you just jumped at it!"

"Well, I thought it would be nice. But oh, Hanneran, it's just splendid
here! And to-morrow Uncle 'Milyer's going to take us out riding. He said
so. Oh, Hanneran, wasn't you awful 'fear'd to speak a piece before all
the folks at school?"

Polly Odell looked at her in amazement.

"Well--just at first----"

"I wouldn't dast to for a dollar!" cried Janey.

They went on with their play, now and then stumbling against a
discussion that never really reached the height of a dispute. Margaret
came to hunt them up presently that they might have their tousled heads
smoothed and their hands and faces washed.

The little girl was always interested when they had a high tea in the
sitting-room. The best old blue china was out, the loaf sugar, and the
sugar-tongs that the little girl watched breathlessly lest her mother
should lose the lump of sugar before it reached the cup.

The men and boys were having supper in the other room, but the little
girls waited on the porch. They were so quiet and kept so tidy that Mrs.
Underhill gave them a lump of sugar in each glass of milk, and took it
up with the sugar-tongs, to the little girl's great delight.

She couldn't help hearing the talk as they all sat out on the porch.
Uncle Faid had really sold his farm, stock, and crops, and was to give
possession in September. Then they would visit their two sons and some
of Aunt Betsey's people in Michigan, and get on about Christmas.

"It's a shame to have to give up the house," declared Cousin Odell.
"Can't you keep it, 'Milyer?"

"A bargain's a bargain. Faid did a fair thing when he went away, and I
can't do less than a fair thing now. If he'd died, his share in the
house would have been offered to me first. I dare say we could put on an
addition and live together without quarrellin', but the boys want to go
to New York, and they couldn't all stay here and make a living. The
young folks must strike out, and I tell mother if she don't get to
feeling at home I'll come back and build her a house."

"It'll never be like this one," said Mrs. Underhill sharply.

"The world is full of changes," declared the Tarrytown cousin.

The little girl sat in her father's lap and listened until she went
soundly asleep. Janey Odell leaned against the porch column and almost
tumbled over. Mrs. Underhill sprang up.

"Mercy on us! These children ought to be in bed. Wake up, Hannah Ann!"

"I'll carry her up-stairs," said her father, and he kissed her tenderly
as he laid her on the bed. Her mother undressed her and patted down her
pillow. She flung her arms about her mother's neck.

"Oh, mother!" she cried softly, wonderingly, "do you want to go to New
York?"

"Child dear, I don't know what I want," and there was a muffled sound in
her voice. "There, go to sleep, dear. Don't worry."

They inspected the pretty knoll the next day where Mrs. Underhill was to
have her new house built if they didn't take root in New York. Were not
her children dearer to her than any spot of ground? And if they were all
going away----

The children had a very jolly time. On Monday the Odells went home, and
the little girl hated to say good-by. Cousin Famie Morgan, her real name
was Euphemia, wanted to go to White Plains to visit a while with Aunt
Ann and David, and Cousin Joanna would stay a few days longer and go to
New York to do some shopping. Margaret would go with Cousin Famie. The
little girl wanted to go too, and take her patchwork. She had only six
blocks to do now.

Grandmother was very glad to see her, and praised her without stint.
Uncle David and Aunt Eunice had some grandchildren. Two sons and one
daughter were married, and one son and daughter were still at home. Aunt
Eunice was a very placid, sweet body, and still clung to her Quaker
dress and speech, though she went to the old Episcopal church with her
husband. Her folks lived up in Putnam County.

Grandmother would have spoiled the little girl if such a thing had been
possible. She would help her with the patchwork, and then she brought
out some lovely red French calico that was soft and rich, and began to
join it. They had some nice drives, and one day they took Cousin Morgan
home and stayed to dinner. There were three single women living together
in a queer rambling house that had been added to, and raised in places.
Mr. Erastus Morgan and his wife lived in Paris, and once a year or so
there would come a package of pretty things--china and ornaments of
various kinds, odd pieces of silk and brocade for cushions, gloves, and
fans and laces and silk for gowns, as if they were still quite young
women.

Uncle David had the "Knickerbocker History of New York," which everybody
now knew was written by Mr. Washington Irving, and various members of
the family were settled about Tarrytown, and many others in the Sleepy
Hollow graveyard. The very next day the little girl began to read the
history, for she wanted to know about New York. They had a delightful
visit with grandmother and Aunt Eunice. Uncle David was seven years
older than her father. The little girl concluded she liked him very
much.

When she and Margaret went home everything was going on just the same.
The little girl was somewhat amazed. No one said a word about moving.
She had expected to see everything packed. The children started for
school as usual. Then Mrs. Underhill went down to the city and stayed a
fortnight and came home looking worn and worried. The impending change
weighed upon her. But the little girl was so interested in Mr. Dederich
Knickerbocker which she was reading aloud to her father that changes
hardly mattered.

Early in December Mr. Frederic Underhill with his wife and daughter came
to hand. He was thin and stooped a good deal, and looked older than
Uncle David. Aunt Crete's name was Lucretia, and the little girl was
amazed to learn that. She was tall and thin and wore a black lace sort
of cap to cover the bald spot on her head. Then she had a false front of
dark hair. Her own was very thin and white. She had been a great
sufferer from 'ager,' as she called it, and the doctors said only an
entire change of climate would break it up. And goodness only knew how
glad she was to get back East.

Lauretta--Retty as she was called--was about twenty-two, a good, stout,
common-place girl who made herself at home at once. She had a lover who
was coming on in the spring when they would be married, and he expected
"to help Pop farm. Pop was pretty well broken down with hard work, and
he'd about seen his best days. He'd been awful anxious to get back among
his own folks, and she, Retty, hoped now he'd take things kinder easy."

Grandmother and Uncle David's family came down to welcome them. All the
country round seemed to turn out. And just before Christmas, with all
the rest of the work, the little girl's quilt was put in. Some of the
older people came the first day and had a fine supper. Next afternoon it
was the young people's turn.

The little girl had a blue-and-white figured silk frock made from a
skirt of her mother's. The tops of the sleeves were trimmed with four or
five ruffles and there were two ruffles around the neck. She wore her
gold beads, and Margaret curled her hair. Everybody praised her and she
felt very happy. Some of the young men came in while they were taking
the quilt out of the frame, and oh, what a tussle there was! The girl
who could wrap herself first in it was to be married first. Such pulling
and laughing, such a din of voices and struggle of hands--you would have
thought all the girls wild to get married. The little girl looked with
dismay, for it seemed as if her quilt would be torn to pieces.

Retty wound one corner around herself, and two of the young men rolled
Margaret and several of the other girls in the other end amid the shouts
of the lookers-on.

Then grandmother shook it out and folded it.

"There!" she exclaimed, "to-morrow I'll put on the binding. And, Hannah
Ann, you have a good beginning. Not every little girl can show such a
quilt as that, pieced all by herself before she was eight years old!"

"But you helped, grandmother----"

"Nonsense, child! Just a piece now and then! And I've a nice pair of
wool blankets I'm saving up for you that I spun myself. You'll have a
good many things saved up in a dozen years."

What fun they had afterward! There were two black fiddlers in the hall;
one was Cato, Aunt Mary's grandson, a stylish young fellow much in
demand for parties. They danced and danced.

Steve took his little sister out several times, and John danced with
her. Her father thought her the very prettiest one in the crowd. Her
mother let her stay up until eleven.

"I'm so sorry you are going away," said Retty, the next morning. "I
never did have such a good time in my life. I don't see why we can't all
live together in this big house!"

In the new year the real business of changing began. It was hard to
select a house. Joe said all New York was going up-town, and that before
many years the lower part of the city would be given over to business.
Bond and Amity Street, around St. John's Park and East Broadway were
still centres of fashion. The society people had come up from the
Bowling Green and the Battery, though there were still some beautiful
old houses that business people clung to because they wanted to be near
to everything. Harlem and Yorkville were considered country. Up on the
east side as far as Eightieth or Ninetieth Street there were some
spacious summer residences with beautiful grounds. A few fine mansions
clustered about University Square. City Hall Park was still covered with
fine growing shade-trees. There was such a magnificent fountain that
Lydia Maria Child, describing it, said there was nothing to equal it in
the Old World.

Still, the unmistakable trend was up-town. Grace Church was agitating a
new building at Tenth Street. Rows of houses were being put up on the
new streets, though down-town people rather scoffed and wondered why
people were not going up to Harlem and taking their business places
along.

After much discussion the Underhills settled upon First Street. Stephen
made the decision, though he had great faith in "up-town." This was
convenient. Then they could buy through to Houston Street, and there was
a stable and sort of storehouse on the end of the lot. And though you
wouldn't think it now, it was quite pretty and refined then, from Avenue
A out to the Bowery. They were in a row of nice brick houses, quite near
First Avenue, on the lower side of the street. Opposite it was well
built for quite a space, and then came the crowning glory of the block.
About a dozen houses stood thirty or so feet back from the street and
had lovely flower-gardens in front. Stephen would have liked one of
these, but the houses were not roomy enough. And in their own place they
had a nice grass-plot, some flower-beds, and several fruit-trees, beside
a grape-trellis. He thought his mother would be less homesick if she
could see some bloom and greenery.

It was the last of March, 1843, that the little girl came to New York.
Mrs. Underhill believed it only an experiment. When the boys were grown
up and married, settled in their own homes, she and 'Milyer would go
back to Yonkers on their part of the farm and have a nice big house for
their old age and for the grandchildren. In her motherly heart she hoped
there would be a good many of them. She couldn't have spared any of her
eight children.

The house in First Street seemed very queer. It had a front area and two
basements, two parlors on the next floor with folding-doors and a long
ell-room, rather narrow, so that it would not darken the back room too
much. Up-stairs there were three large chambers and one small one, and
on the fourth floor, that did not have full-size windows, three more.
That there was no "garret" caused endless lamentation.

They could not bring old Mary, indeed she would not come, but they had a
rather youngish countrywoman whose husband had deserted her, and who was
looking for a good home. Mary thought she would stay a while with the
"new folks" and get them "broke in," as she phrased it, and then go and
live with her son.

The little girl stood on her own front stoop looking up and down the
street. It was queer the houses should be just alike--six brown-stone
steps, and iron side railings, and an iron railing to the area, that was
paved with brick. You would always have to be thinking of the number or
you might get into the neighbor's house. Oh, no. Here was a sure sign,
the bright silver door-plate with black lettering--"Vermilye F.
Underhill." She looked at it in amazement. It made her father suddenly
grand in her estimation. Could she sit in his lap just the same and
twist his whiskers about her fingers and comb his hair and read out of
her story-books to him? And where would she go to school? Were there any
little girls around to play with? How could she get acquainted with
them?

While she was considering this point, two girls went by. Both had straw
gypsy hats with flowers and ruffled capes of black silk. They looked up
at her. She was going to smile down to them in the innocent belief that
all little girls must be glad to see each other. One of them
giggled--yes, she absolutely did, and said:

"Oh, what a queer-looking thing! Her frock comes down to her shoe-tops
like an old woman's and that sun-bonnet! Why she must have just come in
from the backwoods!"




CHAPTER III

FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN


The little girl stood still a moment as if transfixed. There came the
passionate desire to run and hide. She gave the door-bell a sharp pull.

Martha Stimis answered it.

"Goodness sakes, is it you, ringin' as if the world wouldn't stand
another minnit? Next time you want to get in, Haneran, you jest come
down the _aree_! And me a-mouldin' up the biscuit!"

The little girl walked through the hall with a swelling heart. She
couldn't be allowed to ring the door-bell when her own father's name was
on the door!

The ell part was her mother's sleeping chamber and sitting-room. No one
was in it. Hannah Ann walked down to the end. There was a beautiful old
dressing-case that had been brought over with the French great, great
grandmother. It had a tall glass coming down to the floor. At the sides
were several small drawers that went up about four feet, and the top had
some handsome carved work. It was one of Mrs. Underhill's choicest
possessions. In the mirror you could see yourself from "top to toe."

The little girl stood before it. She had on a brown woollen frock and a
gingham high apron. Her skirt _was_ straight and long. Her laced shoes
only came to her ankles. Her stockings were black, and she remembered
how she had watched these little girls coming down the street, their
stockings were snowy white. Of course she wore white yarn ones on
Sundays. A great piece of their pantalets was visible, ruffled, too.
Yes, she did look queer! And the starch was mostly out of her
sun-bonnet. It wasn't her best one, either.

She sat down on a little bench and cried as if her heart would break.

"Oh, Hanny dear, what is the matter?"

Margaret had entered the room unheard. She knelt by her little sister,
took off her sun-bonnet and pressed the child in her arms. "What is it,
dear?" in a soft, persuasive voice. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"No. I--I----" Then she put her little arms around Margaret's neck. "Oh,
Peggy, am I very, very queer?"

"You're a little darling. Did Martha scold you?"

"No. It wasn't--some girls came along----" She tried very hard to stop
her sobbing.

"There, dear, let me wash your face. Don't cry any more." She laid aside
the bonnet and bathed the small face, then she began to brush the soft
hair. It had not been cut all winter and was quite a curly mop. Stephen
had bought her a round comb of which she was very proud.

"It was two girls. They went by and they laughed----"

Her voice was all of a quaver again, but she did not mean to cry if she
could help it.

"Did they call you 'country'?"

Margaret smiled and kissed the little girl, who tried to smile also.
Then she repeated the ill-bred comment.

"We are not quite citified," said Margaret cheerfully. "And it isn't
pleasant to be laughed at for something you cannot well help. But all
the little girls _are_ wearing short dresses, and you are to have some
new ones. Mother has gone out shopping, and next week cousin Cynthia
Blackfan is coming to fix us all up. But I _do_ hope, Hanny, you will
have better manners and a kinder heart than to laugh at strangers, no
matter if they are rather old-fashioned."

"I don't believe I ever will," said the little girl soberly.

"Now come up in my room. Mother said I might rip up her pretty blue
plaid silk and have it made over. I came down to hunt up the waist."

She found it in one of the drawers, pinned up in a linen pillow-case.

"And you can have on a white apron," the elder said when they reached
the room.

This had long sleeves and a ruffle round the neck. The little girl was
ever so much improved.

And I think she would have felt comforted if she could have heard the
rest of the talk between the two girls.

"I do wonder if she belongs to the new people," said the girl who
laughed. "They can't be much. They came from the country somewhere."

"But they've bought all the way through to the other street. And ma said
she meant to call on them. Some one told her they owned a big farm in
Yonkers, and one of the young men is to be a doctor. Maybe the little
girl doesn't really belong to them. I wish you hadn't spoken quite so
loud. I'm sure she heard."

"Oh, I don't care!" with an airy toss of the head. "Mother said the
other day she shouldn't bother about new neighbors. Calling on them is
out of style."

Hanny looked out of the window a long while. Then she said gravely:
"Margaret, are all those old Dutch people dead that were in the history?
And where was their Bowery?"

"It is the Bowery out here, but it has changed. That was a long, long
time ago."

"If I'd lived then no one would have laughed about my long frock. I
almost wish I'd been a little girl then."

"Perhaps there were other things to laugh about."

"I don't mind the laughing _now_. But they must have had lovely gardens
full of tulips and roses. There doesn't seem any room about for such
things. And lanes, you know. Did the new people drive the Dutch away?"

"The English came afterward. You will read all about it in history. And
then came the war----"

"That grandmother knows about? Margaret, I think New York is a great,
strange, queer place. There are a good many queernesses, aren't there?"

Margaret assented with a smile.

"Oh, there's father in the wagon!" The little girl was all a tremor of
gladness. He caught her eyes and beckoned, and she ran down. But she
couldn't manage the night-latch, and so Margaret had to follow her.

"Bundle up my little girl," he said. "I've got to drive up to Harlem and
I'll take her along."

Hanny almost danced for joy. Margaret found her red merino coat. The
collar was trimmed with swan's down, and her red silk hood had an edge
of the same. True, some ultra-fashionables had come out in spring
attire, but it was rather cool so early in the season. Hanny looked
very pretty in her winter hood. And as they drove down the street the
same girls were standing on a stoop; one was evidently going away from
her friend. The one who laughed lived there then. But neither of them
would have guessed it was the "queer" girl, and they almost envied her.

"I've never been down to this corner," said Hanny. "And the streets run
together."

"Yes, First Street ends and Houston goes on over to the East River."

The little girl looked about. There was a great sign on the house at the
junction--"Monticello Hotel,"--and on the edge of the sidewalk a pump,
which the little girl thought funny. They dipped the water out of the
spring at home--they had not given up saying that about the old place.
There was no need of a pump, and at grandmother's they had a well-sweep
and bucket.

Then they turned up Avenue A, where he had an errand, and soon they were
going over rough country ways where "squatters" had begun to come in
with pigs and geese. They seemed so familiar that the little girl
laughed. And if some one had told her that she would one day be driving
in a beautiful park over yonder it would have sounded like a fairy tale.
It was rough and wild now. Dobbin spun along, for the sun was hurrying
over westward.

"We have some old cousins living beyond there on Harlem Heights," he
said, "but it's too late to hunt them up. And it'll be dark by the time
we get home. There was a big battle fought here. Their brother was
killed in it. Why, they must be most eighty years old."

The little girl drew a long breath at the thought.

"We'll look them up some day." Then he stopped before a hotel where
there was a long row of horse sheds, and sprang out to tie Dobbin.

"I had better take you out. Something might happen." He carried her in
his arms clear up the steps. A lady came around the corner of the wide
porch.

"I'll leave my little girl in the waiting-room a few moments. I have
some business with Mr. Brockner," he said.

"I will take her through to my sitting-room," the lady replied, and
holding out her hand she led Hanny thither. She insisted on taking off
her hood and loosening her coat, and in a few moments she seemed well
acquainted. The lady asked her father's name and she told it.

"There are some old ladies of that name living half a mile or so from
here," she said. Then remembering they were very poor, and that poor
relations were not always cordially accepted, she hesitated.

"Father spoke of some cousins," cried the little girl eagerly. "He said
sometime we would hunt them up. We only came to New York to live two
weeks ago."

"Then you have hardly had time to look up any one. They would be glad to
see your father, I know. He looks so wholesome and good-natured."

The little girl was not an effusive child, but she and the lady fell
into a delightful talk. Then her hostess brought in a plate of seed
cookies, and she was eating them very delicately when her father
entered.

"We have had such a nice time," she said, "that I'd like you to bring
your little girl up again. Indeed, I have half a mind to keep her."

"We couldn't spare her," said her father, with a fond smile, which Hanny
returned.

"I suppose not. But it will soon be beautiful around here, and when she
longs for a breath of the country you must bring her up."

"Thank you, madam."

"And oh, father, the cousins really are here. Two old, old ladies----"

Mr. Underhill inquired about them, and learned their circumstances were
quite straitened. He promised to come up soon and see them.

Mrs. Brockner kissed Hanny, quite charmed with her simplicity and pretty
manner. And she had never once thought about the length of her old
brown skirt.

It was supper time when they reached home. Steve and Joe and John were
there. The three younger boys had been left at Yonkers. Indeed, George
had declared his intention of being a farmer. Mrs. Underhill said she
didn't want any more boys until she had a place to put them.

Afterward Joe coaxed the little girl to come and sit on his knee. They
were talking about schools.

"Seems to me, Margaret better be studying housekeeping and learning how
to make her clothes instead of going to school," said Mrs. Underhill
shortly. "She can write a nice letter and she's good at figures, and,
really, I don't see----"

"She wants to be finished," returned Steve, with a laugh. "She's a city
girl now. I've been looking schools over. There are several
establishments where they burnish up young ladies. There's Madame
Chegary's----"

"I won't have her going to any French school and reading wretched French
novels!"

Steve threw back his head and laughed. He had such splendid, strong,
white teeth.

"My choice would be Rutgers Institute. It's going to be the school of
the day," declared Joe.

"Exactly. I was coming to that. There would be one term before
vacation."

"I call it all foolishness. And she'll be eighteen on her next
birthday," said her mother. "If she wasn't a good scholar already--and
what more _do_ you expect her to learn?"

They all laughed at their mother's little ebullition of temper.

"The world grows wiser every day," said Joe sententiously.

"And what are you going to do, Pussy?"

Steve reached over and gave the little girl's ear a soft pinch.

"I am going to look up a nice school for her myself. Don't begin to
worry about a child not yet eight years old," said their mother sharply.

"Eight years. She'll soon be that," remarked her father with a soft
sigh. And he wished he could keep her a little girl always.

They went on discussing Rutgers Institute, that was one of the most
highly esteemed schools of the day for young ladies. Steve looked over
at his fair sister--she was _almost_ as pretty as Dolly Beekman. Dolly
had some dainty, attractive ways, played on the piano and sang, and
Peggy had a voice blithe as a bird. Steve was beginning to be quite a
judge of young ladies and social life, and there was no reason why they
should not all aim at something. They had good family names to back
them. Family counted, but so did education and accomplishments.

Mrs. Underhill gave in. Steve would have his way. But then he was such a
good, upright, affectionate son. So when he announced that he had
registered his sister, Margaret's pulses gave a great thrill of delight.

There was so much to do. True, Martha was a good cook and capable, and
there was no milk to look after, no churning, no poultry, and the
countless things of country life. Miss Cynthia Blackfan came the next
week and remodeled the feminine part of the household. She was a tall,
slim, airy-looking person, with large dark eyes and dark hair that she
wore in long ringlets on either side of her face. She always looped them
up when she was sewing. She had all the latest quips of fashion at her
tongue's end--what Margaret must have for school dresses, what for
Sunday best, what lawns and ginghams and prints for summer.

But when she went at the little girl she quite metamorphosed her.

"You must begin to plait the child's hair and tie it with ribbons
[people generally used the word instead of 'braid']. And her frocks must
be made ever so much shorter. And, Cousin Underhill, _do_ put white
stockings on the child. Nobody wears colored ones. Unbleached do wear
stronger and answer for real every day."

"They'll be forever in the wash-tub," said the mother grimly.

"Well, when you're in Rome you must do as the Romans do," with emphasis.
"It looks queer to be so out of date. Everybody dresses so much more in
the city. It's natural. There's so much going and coming."

Even then people had begun to discuss and condemn the extravagance of
the day. The old residents of the Bowling Green were sure Bond Street
and the lower part of Fifth Avenue were stupendous follies and would
ruin the city. Foreign artistic upholsterers came over, carpets and
furniture of the most elegant sort were imported, and even then some
people ordered their gowns and cloaks in Paris. Miss Blackfan's best
customer had gone over for the whole summer, otherwise she would not
have the fortnight for Cousin Underhill. She uttered her dictum with a
certain authority from which there was no appeal. And she charged a
dollar and a half a day, while most dressmakers were satisfied with a
dollar.

So the little girl had her hair braided in two tails--they were quite
short, though, and her father liked the curly mop better. Little girls'
dresses were cut off the shoulder, and made with a yoke or band and a
belt. In warm weather they wore short sleeves, though a pair of long
sleeves were made for cool days. There were some tucks in the skirt to
be let down as the child grew.

The little girl was most proud, I think, of her pantalets. There were
some nankin ones made for every day. And she had a real nankin frock
that Margaret embroidered just above the hem. It was used a great deal
for aprons, too. Aprons, let me tell you, were no longer "high-ups" with
a plain armhole. They were sometimes gathered on a belt and had Bertha
capes over the shoulders trimmed with edging or ruffles. And every
well-conditioned little girl had one of black silk.

"She'll have to hem her own ruffles," declared Mother Underhill almost
sharply. "And how they're ever to get ironed----"

"There's hemstitching and fagoting, but I don't know as it's any less
work than ruffling. And all the little girls are knitting lace. I'm
doing some myself, oak-leaf pattern out of seventy cotton, and it's as
handsome as anything you ever see."

"I don't know how any one is going to find time for so much folderol!"

"Oh, pshaw, Cousin Underhill, we did lots of it in our day. I worked the
bottom of a party dress a good quarter up, and Vandyke capes, and those
great big collars. And we tucked up to the waist. There's always
something. And those old Jewish women had broidery and finery of every
sort, and 'pillows' in their sleeves as we wore years ago. See what a
little it takes to make a pair of sleeves now! We must have looked
funny, all sleeves and waists up under our arms."

When you consider that sewing-machines had not been invented, it was a
wonder how the women accomplished so much. But they always had some
"catch-work" handy. The little girl was provided with a pretty
work-basket, six spools of cotton, a pincushion, a needle-book, a bit of
white wax, and an emery, which was a strawberry-shaped cushion topped
off with some soft green stuff she knew afterward was chenille. This was
to keep her needles bright and smooth. Then she had three rolls of
ruffling, yards and yards in each piece. One was cambric, one was fine
lawn or nainsook, and one of dimity. She had done some over-seam in
sheets, she had hemmed towels and some handkerchiefs, and sewed a little
on the half-dozen shirts Margaret had made for father last winter. But
the stitches had to be so small, and oh, so close together! Then they
looked badly if they were not straight. She liked the dimity the best
because the stitches seemed to sink in, and it ruffled so of itself.

But the little girl didn't sew all the time. She wiped dishes for
Martha. And one day, when she saw a little girl up the street sweeping
the sidewalk, she begged to do that. She could dust a room very nicely.
There was much running up and down, and she was always glad to wait
upon Steve. Indeed, she ran errands cheerfully for anybody. But she
_did_ miss Benny Frank and Jim.

Margaret had felt quite diffident about her new school, and at first
rather shrank from the young ladies, much as she desired to be among
them. But she found herself quite advanced in some of the studies, and
in a week's time began to feel at home. Two girls were very friendly,
Mary Barclay and Annette Beekman.

Perhaps Steve hadn't been quite as disinterested as it seemed. He had
met Dolly Beekman at Miss Jane Barclay's party early in the winter. They
had taken a mutual fancy. Old Peter Beekman lived at the lower end of
Broadway, and had a farm "up the East River," about Ninety-sixth Street.
He had five girls, and the two last had been sore disappointments. But
Harriet, the eldest, had married her cousin and had four Beekman boys.
Two others were married. Dolly had graduated from Rutgers the year
before and was now nineteen. Annette, as the old Dutch name was spelled,
was not quite seventeen. Margaret had been put in her class in most
branches.

Steve _did_ want the Beekmans to think well of his people. He and Dolly
were not declared lovers, but they understood each other. Old Peter
made inquiries about the young man, and if they had not been
satisfactory Stephen would soon have known it. So he felt quite assured.
And though his mother talked of her sons marrying, he knew that just at
first it would come a little hard to find she had a rival.

"Well, Peggy," he said, Friday evening of the first week, "how does
school go? Seen any girls you like?"

"I've seen two that know you," and Margaret laughed. "Mary Barclay said
you had been at their house. And so did Annie Beekman."

"Yes, I was at Miss Beekman's party; quite a fine affair. And I've been
there to play whist. They're a jolly crowd. Next winter we must have a
few parties. And I'm going to get a piano."

"Oh, you lovely Steve!" She squeezed his arm rapturously.

"You have a very pretty voice, Peggy. Annie Beekman's sister sings
beautifully. How do you like Annie?"

"Why, you never can tell whether she is in earnest or quizzing you. But
she's ever so much prettier than Mary. Yes, on the whole I like her."

"You ought to see her sister Dolly. She has real flaxen hair and such a
complexion!"

"Annie has a lovely complexion, too. There are a great many pretty
girls in the world. I have a curious sort of pity for those who are not
a bit pretty," Margaret said sympathetically.

Steve laughed and nodded, as if the idea amused him.

If Margaret and Annie became friends, and if Dolly and Annie came to
call--well, he was sure they would all fall in love with Dolly. And then
the matter would go on smoothly. People thought more of being friendly
with their relations by marriage in those days.




CHAPTER IV

A LOOK AT OLD NEW YORK


On a Sunday toward the end of April, Stephen took his two sisters down
to the Battery for a walk. It was very warm and springlike. The
cherry-tree in their yard had come out in bloom. Buds were swelling
everywhere, and the gray spots were all green and shining in the soft
golden atmosphere. There was the wide, magnificent expanse of the bay,
the edge of Brooklyn, the hazy outline of Staten Island, the vague
Narrows that seemed to lead to some unknown world. And there was the
great round Castle Garden, the Castle Clinton of earlier times, where a
few years later the little girl was to hear some of the world's most
famous singers. And when she looked out of that weird, narrow waterway
and wondered just where Europe was, and how foreign countries must look,
she could not by the most vivid stretch of imagination fancy herself
sailing out to that unknown country.

The short grass was so lovely and green, and the waves came lapping up
with a silvery melody. There were people lounging on the seats, ladies
with sunshades in their hands, mothers with some little children,
fathers with a son or two, or a little girl like herself in pantalets
and white stockings and low shoes. The clothes she thought were
beautiful. The hats were full of flowers. She had a new straw gypsy with
a wreath of buttercups, and soft yellow strings tied under her chin. Her
_challi de laine_ had small blue flowers on a white ground, with
yellow-brown centres, and there was a blue ribbon tied about her waist,
with a bow at the back. She had a white cape of some soft cotton goods
with a satiny finish, warranted to wash as good as new. She would have
liked a sunshade, but she had so many new things.

She thought quite a good deal about her pretty clothes, and how glad she
should be to learn more geography. Stephen was talking about Hudson's
expedition up the river to which he gave his name, and a few months
later when some hovels were built to shelter the sailors, the beginning
of a settlement. And how in 1614 the Dutch erected a rude fort and gave
the place the name of New Amsterdam. Then the Dutch West India Company
bought Manhattoes Island from the natives for goods of various kinds,
amounting to sixty guilders.

"You see the Dutch were thrifty traders even then, more than two hundred
years ago," says Stephen with a pleasant laugh.

"How much are sixty guilders?" asks the little girl. It sounds an
immense sum to her. And to buy a whole city!

"It was about twenty-four dollars at that time," replies Stephen.

The little girl's face is amusing in its surprise.

"Only twenty-four dollars! And father had three hundred a few days ago.
Why, he could have bought"--well, the limitless area takes away her
breath.

"I don't believe we should have wanted to live in such a wilderness as
it was then."

"But when Walter the Testy came--he was really here?" It is rather
chaotic in her mind.

"He was here. Wouter van Twiller was his real name. Then a line of Dutch
governers, after which the island was ceded to the British. It became
quite a Royalist town until the Revolutionary War. We had a 'scrap'
about tea, too," and Stephen laughs. "Old Castle Clinton was a famous
spot. And when General Lafayette, who had helped us fight our battles,
came over in 1824, he had a magnificent ovation as he sailed up the bay.
It's a splendid old place."

Everybody seemed to think so then. The birds were singing in the
sunshine, and the rural aspect was dear to the hearts of the older
people. They rose and walked about in the fragrant air. Now and then
some one bowed gravely to Stephen. There was a Sunday decorum over all.

They rambled up to the Bowling Green. Some quaintly attired elderly
people who had the _entree_ of the place were sitting about enjoying the
loveliness. One old Frenchman had a ruffled shirt-front and a very high
coat-collar that made him look like a picture, and knee-breeches.

Some one sprang up, and coming to the gate said: "Oh, Mr. Underhill, and
Miss Margaret! Is this your little sister? Do walk in and chat with us.
My sister Jane and I have come down to dine with the Morrises, and it
was so lovely out here. Isn't it a charming day?"

There was Miss Jane Barclay very fashionably attired, Miss Morris, and
her brother, who was very attentive to Miss Barclay, and a little
farther on Mrs. Morris, fat, fair, and matronly. She was reading "The
Lady of the Manor," and when the little girl found it afterward in a
Sunday-school library, Mrs. Morris seemed curiously mixed up with it.
Sunday papers at that period would have horrified most people.

"What a dear little girl!" said Mrs. Morris. "Come here and tell me your
name. Why, you look like a lily astray in a bed of buttercups. Is it
possible Mr. Stephen Underhill is your brother?"

"The eldest and the youngest," explained Stephen. "And this is my
sister, Miss Underhill."

Mrs. Morris bowed and shook hands. Then she made room on the settee for
the child.

"You haven't told me your name, my dear."

Mrs. Morris' voice was so soft, almost pleading. The little girl glanced
up and colored, and if the bank could have broken and let her money down
in the ocean, or some one could have stolen it and bought a new
Manhattan Island in the South Seas,--so that she could have had a new
name, she wouldn't have minded a bit. But she said with brave sweetness:

"Hannah Ann. I was named after both grandmothers."

"That's a long name for such a little girl. I believe I should call you
Nannie or Nansie. And Mr. Morris would call you Nan at once. I never
knew such a man for short names. We've always called our Elizabeth Bess,
and half the time her father calls her Bet, to save one letter."

The little girl laughed. The economy of the thing seemed funny.

"What does your father call you?"

"'Little girl,' most always. Margaret was grown into quite a big girl
when I was born, so I was the little girl."

"Well--that's pretty, too. And where are you living?"

"In First Street."

"Why, that's way up-town! And--let me see--you did live at Yonkers? I've
never been there. Is it a town?"

"We lived on a great big farm. And oh, the Croton water pipe came right
across one corner of it."

"Ah, you should have seen the celebration! Such a wonderful,
indescribable thing!"

"Margaret came down and most of the boys. Mother said I would be crushed
to death."

"And she couldn't spare her little girl! Well, I don't blame her. Do you
go to school?"

"No, ma'am, not yet." All the children but the very rough ones said "no,
ma'am," and "yes, ma'am," in those days. "But I did go at Yonkers."

"And what did you learn."

She was quite astonished at the little girl's attainments, and her
simplicity she thought charming. When Stephen came for her, Mrs. Morris
said:

"I have really fallen in love with your little sister. You must bring
her down again. _We_ think there's nothing to compare with our Bowling
Green and the Battery."

They bade each other a pleasant adieu. It was time to go home, indeed.
The little girl felt very happy and joyous, and she thought her pretty
clothes had helped. Perhaps they had.

She sat on her father's knee that night telling him about Mrs. Morris.
And she suddenly said:

"Father, what was the Reign of Terror?"

"The Reign of Terror? Oh, it was a horrible time of war in France. Where
did you pick up that?"

"There was an old man in the Green who had on a queer sort of
dress--knee-breeches and buckles on his shoes like those of
grandfather's. And ruffles all down his shirt-bosom and long, curly,
white hair. And Mrs. Morris said he was in prison in the Reign of
Terror, and then came to America with his daughter, and that his mind
had something the matter with it. Do you suppose he got awfully
frightened?"

"I dare say he did, my dear. When you are a big girl you will learn all
about it in history. But you needn't hurry. There are a great many
pleasanter things to learn."

She leaned her head down on her father's shoulder and thought how sad it
must be to lose one's mind. Was that the part of you always thinking?
How curious it was to always think of something! Your feet didn't always
walk, your hands didn't always work, but that strange thing inside of
you never stopped. Oh, yes, it had to when you were asleep. But then you
sometimes dreamed. And the little girl fell fast asleep over psychology
that she didn't know a word about.

Early in the next week Mrs. Underhill took the little girl and went up
to Yonkers. She said she was homesick to see the boys. And oh, how glad
they were to see her! Aunt Crete was laid up with the _tic douloureux_.
Retty was full of work and house-cleaning, and her lover had come on. He
was a Vermonter by birth, and an uncle in the Mohawk valley had brought
him up. Then he had gone West, but not taken especial root anywhere. He
was tall and thin, with reddish hair and beard, but the kindliest blue
eyes and a pleasant voice. He and George had struck up a friendship
already. And Retty confided to Aunt Margaret "that she was going to be
married without any fuss, and Bart was goin' to turn in and help run the
farm."

Everything wore a different aspect even in this brief while. Mrs.
Underhill had some things to pack up, that she was going to leave, a
while at least, in the garret. Her sister-in-law was very glad to take
anything she wanted to dispose of, since they had sold their furniture
at the West.

Oh, how wonderful the world was to the little girl! The trees were
coming out in bloom, there were great bunches of yellow daffodils, and
the May pinks were full of buds. And then the chickens, the ducks' nests
full of eggs, the pretty little dark-eyed calf that the boys had tamed
already! And the children at school! Everybody was wild over Hanny and
glad to get her back.

But it was queer she should miss her father so much when it came night.
She went out on the old stoop and felt strangely lonesome. Then the boys
came round, having done up their share of the chores.

"Do you _reely_ like it, Hanny?" asked Jim.

She knew he meant the city.

"Well--father and Steve and Joe and John are there"--yet her tone was a
little uncertain.

"Are there any boys about?"

"I don't know any. I haven't had time to find any girls. But there is a
big public school round in Houston Street, and I guess there's a
thousand children. You should see them coming out of the gate."

"Hm'n! I don't believe there's a thousand children in all New York.
That's ten hundred, Miss Hanny!"

Hanny was sobered by the immensity of her statement, for she was a very
truthful little girl.

"What have you been doing all this time?" Jim asked impatiently.

"Well--there was the house to get to rights. And we had to have some new
clothes made. A girl laughed at me one day and said I looked queer."

"If I'd been there I'd punched her head. Yes--I see you're mighty fine.
Would _I_ look queer?"

"Oh, boys always look alike," returned Hanny reflectively. "We had a
beautiful walk one Sunday on the Battery, and I think," hesitatingly,
"that all the boys had on roundabouts."

"Are you sure they didn't have on overcoats?"

"Don't plague her, Jim. Tell us about the Battery, Hanny."

Hanny could describe that quite vividly. Jim soon became interested.
When she paused he said, "What else?" She told them of her ride up to
Harlem, and a walk down the Bowery to Chatham Square.

"But there ain't any real bowers in it any more, only stores and such
things."

"What a pity," commented Benny Frank.

"Well, I think I'd like to go as soon as mammy can get ready. It isn't
as much fun here without you all."

"Oh, Jim, don't say mammy. They don't do it in the city," said the
little girl beseechingly.

"If you think I'm going to put on French airs, you're much mistaken,
Miss Hanny! I'll say pop and mammy when I like. I'm not going to dress
up in Sunday best manners because you wear ruffled pantalets. It makes
you look like a feather-legged chicken!"

"Don't mind him, Hanny," said Ben tenderly. "I wish I had seen that old
man at the Bowling Green----"

"Do they make bowls there?" interrupted teasing Jim.

"Because I've been reading about France and the Reign of Terror," Benny
Frank went on, not heeding his brother. "It was in about 1794.
Robespierre was at the head of it. And there was a dreadful prison into
which they threw everybody they suspected, and only brought them out for
execution. It must have been terrible! And the poor old man must have
been quite young then. I should think he would have lost his mind."

"Bother about such stuff! You'd rather be in New York, wouldn't you,
Hanny? And mother said we might come as soon as she was settled. I'm not
going to stay here and be ordered about by this Finch fellow. Retty's
soft as mush over him. Say, Ben, you _would_ like to go, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I think I would," answered Ben slowly. "There would be such a
splendid chance to learn about everything."

Their mother had been walking around the familiar paths with George, who
had developed some ideas of his own in this brief space. And his mother
had not realized before how tall and stout he was getting.

"I'd like to see father and Steve and make some plans. I'd like to work
part of father's ground on shares or some way. I'm glad Dave Andrews is
staying on. I don't altogether like Uncle Faid's ideas, and oh, mother,
'tisn't any such jolly home as you had. Poor Aunt Crete is so miserable.
But you see if I really had some interest of my own I'd be learning all
the time."

"I'm sure your father will consent." His mother felt so proud, leaning
on his arm. And some time _they_ would come back. So they talked the
matter over with eager interest, and she quite forgot about the little
girl's bedtime. Retty had joined them and was rehearsing some of her
Western experiences, and the little girl sat with wide-open eyes,
looking at Retty in the moon-light, thinking what a great wonderful
world it was to have so many places and all so different. Did you have
two organs of thought? She was so puzzled about thought, anyhow. For
with one side of her that didn't see Retty, she could see her father so
plainly in this very corner, and she was in his arms, and with the
faculty that wasn't listening to her cousin she could hear her father's
voice. You see, she wasn't old enough to know about dual consciousness.

When Hanny went up-stairs with her mother the boys went also.

"Say, Ben," and his brother gave him a dig in the ribs with his elbow;
"say, Ben, don't you want to go back to New York with mother? If we just
push with all our might and main, together we can."

"Well, don't push me through the side of the house."

"You want to be pushed all the while. You're as slow as 'lasses in
winter time. Ben, you take after Uncle Faid. It takes him 'most all day
to make up his mind. Now I can look at a thing and tell in a minute."

"You seem ready enough to tell." Ben laughed a little provokingly.

"Well, you can go or not as you like. 'Taint half the fun here that it
used to be. I didn't think I cared so much for Hanny."

"Is it Hanny?" in a tone that irritated.

"It's Hanny and mother and John and father and New York, and just a
million things rolled into a bundle. And if you don't care I'll fight my
way through. There, Benjamin Franklin! You'd sit on a stone in the
middle of a field and fly your kite forever!"

Jim was losing his temper.

"Yes, I _think_ I'd like to go. There would be so much to see and
learn."

"Oh, hang it all! Simply go!"

Ben was thinking of the old man--he must have been quite young then--who
was in prison through that awful Reign of Terror. He undressed slowly.
He was not such a fly-away as Jim. But Jim was asleep before he was
ready for bed.

Mrs. Underhill had not really meant to take the boys home with her. She
was quite sure the city was a bad place for boys. And the country was so
much healthier in the summer. But they coaxed. And somehow, the old home
_had_ changed already. The air of brisk cheerfulness was gone. Aunt
Crete had her face tied up most of the time, or a little shawl over her
head. Retty was undeniably careless. Barton Finch played cards with the
hired man. Uncle Faid had some queer ideas about farming.

"I'd like wonderful well to have the boys stay," he said. "They're worth
their keep. A boy 'round's mighty handy. I'd have to hire one."

Somehow she wasn't quite willing to have her boys put in the place of a
hired one, or one bound out from the county house. And Jim had been her
baby for so long. The little girl pleaded also. She told them finally
they might come down and try. But if they were the least bit bad or
disobedient they would be sent back at once.

Mrs. Underhill was half-cured of her homesickness. She had thought she
could never be content in New York; why, she was almost content
already.

She and Hanny took a walk the last day of their stay up on the knoll
where the new house was to be built.

"When all the children are married and father and I get to be old
people, we will come back here. I shall want you, Hanny," and she held
the little girl's hand in a tight clasp.

Hanny wondered if she would be stout and have full red cheeks and look
like Retty? And oh, she did hope her mother wouldn't have _tic
douloureux_ and wear shawls over her head. When all the children were
married--oh, how lonesome it would be!

But she had been quite a little heroine and gone to school one day to
see the girls and boys. And one girl said: "I s'pose it's city fashion
to wear pantalets that way, but my! doesn't it look queer!"

She was very glad to get back to her father. The country was beautiful
with all its bloom and fragrance, but First Street had such a clean,
tidy look with its flagged sidewalks and the dirt all swept up to the
middle of the street, leaving the round faces of the cobble-stones
fairly shining. It was quite delightful to show the boys all over the
house and then go through the yard to the stables and greet Dobbin and
Prince. And Battle, the dog, called so because he had been such a
fighter, but commonly known as Bat, wagged his whole body with delight
at sight of the boys.




CHAPTER V

GIRLS AND GIRLS


A week or so after Mrs. Underhill's return, one of the neighbors called
one afternoon and brought her two little girls, Josie and Tudie Dean.
Tudie stood for Susan. The little girl was summoned, and the three,
after the fashion of little girls, sat very stiff on their chairs and
looked at each other, then cast their eyes down on the carpet, fidgeted
a little with the corners of their white aprons, and then gave another
furtive glance.

"Hanny, you might take the little girls out in the yard and gather a
nosegay for them." Flower roots and shrubs had been brought down from
the "old place," and there was quite a showing of bloom.

The mothers talked meanwhile of the street, and Mrs. Dean spoke of the
wonderful strides the city was making up-town. A few objectionable
people had come in the old frame houses at the lower end of the street.
When Mr. Dean built, some seven years ago, it was all that could be
desired, but already immigrants were forcing their way up Houston
Street. If something wasn't done to control immigration, we should soon
be overrun. The Croton water had been such a great and wonderful
blessing. And did her little girl go to school anywhere? Josie and Tudie
went up First Avenue by Third Street to a Mrs. Craven, a rather youngish
widow lady, who had two daughters of her own to educate, and who was
very genteel and accomplished. Little girls needed some one who had
gentle and pretty manners. There was a sewing-class, and all through the
winter a dancing-class, and Mrs. Craven gave lessons on the piano.
Public schools were well enough for boys, but they were too rude and
rough for little girls.

Mrs. Underhill assented. "She wouldn't think of sending Hannah Ann to a
public school."

"She looks like a very delicate child," commented Mrs. Dean.

"She's always been very well," said the mother, "but she _is_ small for
her age. And all of my children have grown up so rapidly."

"I couldn't believe those young men belonged to you. And that tall,
pretty young girl."

Mrs. Underhill smiled and flushed and betrayed her pride in her eight
nice healthy children.

"I envy you some of your sons," Mrs. Dean went on. "I never had but the
two little girls."

They came in now, each with the promised nosegay, and full of delight.
They were round and rosy, and looked more like one's idea of a country
girl than little lilybud Hannah. But they were all eager now, and even
her cheeks were pink. They had talked themselves into friendship. And
Josie wanted to know if Hanny couldn't come and see them, and if they
couldn't have their dishes out and have tea all by themselves?

Mrs. Dean looked up at Mrs. Underhill, and replied: "Why, yes, if her
mother is willing. Saturday would be best, as you are not in school."

That was only two days off. Hanny's eyes entreated so wistfully. And the
Deans lived only three doors away.

"Why, yes," answered her mother with a touch of becoming hesitation.

Hanny was telling this eventful interview over to Jim as they sat on the
stoop that evening. Ben was reading a book, Jim was trying the toes of
his shoes against the iron railing and secretly wishing he could go
barefoot.

"And they have a real play-house up-stairs in one room. There's two beds
in it and two bureaus, and oh, lots of things! Josie has seven dolls and
Tudie four. Tudie gave two of hers away, and Josie has a lovely big wax
doll that her aunt sent from Paris. And a table, and their mother lets
them play tea with bread and cake and real things. And I'm to go on
Saturday."

Hanny uttered this in a rapid breath.

"Sho!" ejaculated Jim rather disdainfully. "They're not much if they
play with dolls. Now _I_ know some girls----"

The boys had been at Houston Street public school not quite a week. Jim
knew half the boys at least, already, and all the boys that lived on the
block. He wasn't a bit afraid of girls, either, though he generally
called them "gals."

"There's some living down the street, and Jiminy! if they haven't got
names! You'd just die of envy! Rosabelle May, think of it! And Lilian
Alice Ludlow. Lily's an awful pretty girl, too. And they wanted to know
all about you and Peggy."

"Did you tell her my name?" asked the little girl timidly.

"Well--don't you know you said you wished it was Anna?" Jim answered
slowly. "I just said it so it sounded like Anna. And Lily said she'd
seen you riding with father. I wish you'd walk down there," coaxingly.

"I'll see if mother will let me." Hanny sprang up.

"And put on a nice white apron," said Jim.

"They're too old for Hanny," began Ben, looking up from his book.

"Why, Lily's only eleven. And anyhow----"

Jim didn't know just how to explain it. Lily had begged him that
afternoon to bring his little sister down. To tell the truth she was
very ambitious to know the Underhills. They must be somebody, for they
kept horses and a carriage, and owned their house.

"Do you know," said Belle May as they watched Jim going up the street,
"I half believe the little girl who stood on the stoop that day is Jim's
sister."

"That little country thing! I never thought of it. But I don't suppose
she really heard."

"If she _did_--what will you do?"

"Do?" Lily tossed her head. "Why, I shall act just as if I never said it
or had seen her before or anything. You don't suppose I'm a goose in
pin-feathers, do you? I want to get acquainted with them. Of course I
shall ask both boys to my birthday party. I should only ask the nice
people in the street."

Margaret threw her pretty pink fascinator round Hanny's shoulders. She
didn't need any hat this warm summer night. Hanny was very proud to walk
down the street with her brother, who knew so many girls already. Jim
wasn't a bit afraid of being called a "girl boy." Quite a number of
people were sitting out on their stoops. It was the fashion then. Some
of the ladies were knitting lace on two little needles that had sealing
wax on one end, so the stitches could not drop off. There was much
pleasant chatting. The country ways of sociability had not all gone out
of date.

They walked down to the lower end, where the houses were rather
irregular and getting old. Two or three had a small grass door-yard in
front. Two girls were walking up and down with their arms around each.
Jim knew in a moment who they were, but he loitered behind them until
they turned.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lily Ludlow in well-acted surprise. "Are you out taking
a walk?"

"Yes," answered Jim, quite as innocently as if the matter had not been
arranged a few hours ago. "And this is my sister. And this is Lily
Ludlow, and this Belle May."

Alas for Hanny! Lily Ludlow was the girl who had called her "queer" and
laughed. The child's face flushed and there was a lump in her throat.

"You don't go to school, do you?" asked Lily with the utmost
nonchalance. She was quite ready for anything.

The little girl made an effort, but no words would come. She could never
like this girl with the pretty name, she felt very sure.

"No," said Jim. "She's so small for her size that mother would be
afraid of her getting lost."

They all giggled but the little girl, who wanted to run away.

"But you like New York, don't you? Jim thinks he wouldn't go back to the
country for anything."

We had not come to "Bet your life," and "There's where your head's
level," in those days. But Jim answered for his sister--"You just guess
I wouldn't," with a deal of gusto.

They all walked up a short distance. The girls and Jim had all the talk,
and they chaffed each other merrily. Hanny was silent. She really was
too young for their fun.

Belle May's mother called her presently, and the little girl said in a
whisper: "Oh, Jim, we must go home."

Jim wondered if he might ask Lily to walk with them, so he could come
back with her. But she settled it with a gay toss of the head.

"Good-night," she said. "Come down again some evening."

"What a little stupid you are, Hanny!" Jim began, vexed enough. "Why
didn't you ask them to walk up our way! And you never said a word! I
could have given you an awful shake!"

"I--I don't like them."

"You don't know anything about them. Ben and I see them half a dozen
times a day, and walk to school with them, and they're nice and pretty
and have some manners. You're awful country, Hanny!"

The little girl began to cry.

"Oh, what a baby you are! Well, I s'pose you can't help it! You're only
eight, and I'm almost thirteen. And Lily Ludlow's nearly eleven. I
suppose you _do_ feel strange among girls so much older."

"It isn't that," sobbed the little girl. How could she get courage to
tell him?

"Oh, Hanny, dear, don't cry." Jim's voice softened--they were nearing
home. "See here, I'll ask father to take us to Tompkins Square on
Sunday, and you shall paint out of my new box. There! and don't tell any
one--don't say a word to Ben."

He kissed her and wiped her eyes with the end of her starchy apron. Jim
was very coaxing and sweet when he tried.

"Joe's here," said Ben. "And he thought the wolves would eat you up if
you went too far. He wants to see you."

Jim dropped down on the step. Hanny ran through the hall. They were
using the back parlor as a sitting-room, and everybody seemed talking at
once. Joe held out his arms and the little girl flew to them.

Then it came out that Joe had taken one of the prizes for a thesis, and
he would shortly be a full fledged M.D. He was so jubilant and the rest
were so happy that the little girl forgot all about her discomfort.

Jim came rushing in. "Where's the hundred dollars?" he inquired.

Joe laughed. "I have not received the money yet. I thought the
announcement was enough for one night."

"You and Hanny'll be so stuck up there'll be no living with you," said
Jim.

Hanny glanced up with a smiling face. If she had only looked that way at
Lily Ludlow! But even his schoolmate was momentarily distanced by the
thought of such a prize. And he remembered later on with much
gratification that he could tell her to-morrow.

Miss Chrissy Ludlow had been sitting by the front window in her white
gown, half expecting a caller. When Lily entered, she inquired if that
little thing was the Underhill girl?

"Oh, that's the baby," and Lily giggled. "There's a young lady who goes
to Rutgers--well, I suppose she isn't quite grown up, for she doesn't
wear real-long dresses. And they have another brother in the
country--six brothers!"

Chrissy sighed. If she only knew some way to get acquainted with the
young woman. And all the brothers fairly made one green with envy.

"You keep in with them," she advised her sister. "You might as well look
up in the world for your friends."

There were not many people in the street who kept a carriage. Chrissy
longed ardently to know them. And she had been almost fighting for a
term at Rutgers. Mr. Ludlow was a common-place man, clerk in a
shoe-store round in Houston Street, and capable of doing repairs. They
rented out the second floor, as they could not afford to keep the whole
house. But since Chrissy had found out that they were distant
connections of some Ludlows quite well off and high up in the social
scale, she had felt extremely aristocratic. For a year she had been out
of school, and now her mother thought she better learn dressmaking,
since she was so "handy." She meant to get married at the first good
opportunity.

Mr. Thackeray in England was writing about snobs during this period. He
thought he found a great many in London. And even among the republican
simplicity of New York he could have found some.

Hanny's second attempt at social life was a much greater success. The
visit at the Deans' was utterly delightful. The play-house was
enchanting. They dressed and undressed the dolls, they gave Hanny two,
and called her Mrs. Hill, because Underhill was such a long name, and
they had an aunt by the name of Hill. They "made believe" days and
nights, and measles and whooping cough, and earache and sore throat.
Josie put on an old linen coat of her father's and "made believe" she
was the doctor. And oh, the solicitude when Victoria Arabella lay at the
point of death and they had to go round on tiptoe and speak in whispers,
and the poor mother said: "If Victoria Arabella dies, my heart will be
broken!" But the lovely child mended and was so weak for a while that
the greatest care had to be taken of her, for she couldn't sit up a bit.
And Hanny proposed they should take her up to Yonkers, where she could
recruit in the country air.

Mrs. Dean came up with a basket and said it was supper time. She
arranged a side table to hold some of the things. There was a nice white
tablecloth and Josie's pretty dishes. There was a pitcher of hot water
to make cambric tea, square lumps of sugar, dainty slices of bread
already spread, smoked beef, pot-cheese, raspberries, cherry-jam, and
two kinds of cake. Well, it was just splendid.

Then they went out on the sidewalk and skipped up and down. There was
quite an art in skipping gracefully without breaking step. When they
were warm and tired they came in, and Mr. Dean played on the piano for
them.

At seven o'clock Mr. Underhill walked up for his little girl, whose
cheeks were pink and her eyes shining like stars. He sat on the stoop
and talked a little while with Mr. Dean, and said most cordially the
other girls must come and take tea with Hanny. And if they liked he
would take them out driving some day. That was a most delightful
proposal.

Jim let the whole school know the next week that his "big brother" had
won a prize of one hundred dollars. And when Joseph passed with honor
and took his degree, they were all proud enough of him.

"Mother," said the little girl after much consideration, "if any of us
get sick will we have to pay Joe like a truly doctor?"

"Well--why not?" asked Mrs. Underhill. "That will be his way of earning
his living."

The little girl drew a long breath. "He might come and live with us
then. Where will he live, anyway?"

"He is to practise in the hospital awhile."

"Couldn't he doctor us at all?" she asked in surprise?

"Oh, yes, he might if we had faith in him," returned her mother
laughingly.

That puzzled the little girl a good deal, and when she had an
opportunity she asked her father if he had faith in Joe.

"Well," her father seemed to hesitate, "he might doctor Tabby, but I
wouldn't let him experiment on Dobbin or Prince."

Hanny's face was a study in gravity and disappointment. "And if _I_ was
sick?" she ventured with a very long sigh.

Then her father hugged her up in his arms until she was breathless, and
scrubbed her soft little face with his whiskers, and both of them
laughed. But Joe promised one day when he was home to doctor her for
nothing, so that point was settled.

They had a great time Fourth of July. Lamb and green peas were the
regulation dinner. Steve sent a wagon up every morning with the freshest
vegetables there were in market, and the meat for the day. Their milk
came from the Odells in West Farms, and their butter from Yonkers. To be
sure, it wasn't quite like country living, and Mrs. Underhill was
positive that no one gave such a flavor to butter as herself.

The Odells and some other relatives were down on Fourth of July. They
had the lamb and peas, as I said, and at that date one kind of meat was
considered enough. They had green-apple pie. There was a very early
pie-apple on the farm and George had brought some down for his mother.
He was well and happy as he could be "without the folks," and he shook
his head a little ambiguously about Uncle Faid's method, and those of
Mr. Finch.

They had some ice-cream and cake afterward. The little girl had never
eaten any, and she thought it very queer. It would have been delightful
but for the awful coldness of it! It froze the roof of her mouth and
made an ache in the middle of her forehead. Steve told her people
sometimes warmed it, and she ran out to the stove with her saucer.

"The land alive! What are you going to do with that cream?" almost
shrieked Martha, who was washing dishes at the sink.

"Warm it," replied the little girl. "It's so cold."

Martha almost fell into a chair with the dish-cloth in her hand, and
laughed as if she would have a fit. There was a suspicious sound from
the dining-room as well, and the fair little face grew very red.

Steve came out.

"Here, Nannie, is mine that the weather has warmed, and I'll trade it
for your peak of Greenland." He took the chunk out of her saucer, and
poured the soft in.

"It is nicer," she said. "And you needn't laugh, Martha. When I am a big
woman and make ice-cream I shall just boil it," and she walked back with
grave dignity.

She took the Odell girls to Mrs. Dean's, and some other children flocked
around the stoop. They had torpedoes and lady-crackers, that two
children pulled, when they went off with a loud explosion in the middle
and made you jump. There were real fire-crackers that the boys had, and
pin-wheels and various simple fireworks. But the great thing would be
going down to City Hall in the evening and seeing the fireworks there.

The Odells could not stay, to their sorrow. Mr. Underhill proposed to
take the business wagon and put three seats in it, and ask the Deans to
go with them. Mrs. Dean was very glad to accept for herself and the
children. There was a young lady next door, Miss Weir, that Margaret
liked very much, and she accompanied them. John had promised to take
charge of the boys. Steve had dressed himself in his new light summer
suit and gone off.

The little girl thought the display beyond any words at her command.
Such mysterious rockets falling to pieces in stars of every color. There
was a great dome of stars, and rays that presently shot up into heaven;
there was a ship on fire, which really frightened her. And, oh! the
noise and the people, the shouting and hurrahing, the houses trimmed
with flags, the brass band that played all the patriotic songs, and the
endless confusion! The little girl clung closely to her mother, glad
she was not down on the sidewalk, for the people would surely have
trodden on her.

They came home very tired. But the little girl had added to her stock of
historical knowledge and knew what Fourth of July stood for. It was a
very great day, the beginning of the Republic.

The boys were out early the next morning finding "cissers," crackers
that had failed to burn out entirely, and still had a little explosive
merit when touched by a piece of lighted punk. There was no school that
day, and Steve took them up to West Farms to expend the rest of their
hilarity. The little girl was pale and languid. Mrs. Underhill was quite
troubled at times when friends said:

"Isn't Hanny very small of her age? Is she real strong? She looks so
delicate."

This was why she had thought it best not to send her to school this
summer. She read aloud to her mother and said one column in a speller
and definer, and Margaret taught her a little geography and arithmetic.
She could hem very nicely now. She had learned to knit lace, and do some
fancy work that was then called lap stitching. You pulled out some
threads one way of the cloth, then took three and just lapped them over
the next three, drawing your needle and thread through. Now a machine
does it beautifully.

There was another fashion, "fads" we should call them nowadays. A
school-bag--they didn't call them satchels then--was made of a piece of
blue and white bed-ticking, folded at the bottom. Every white stripe you
worked with zephyr worsted in briar stitch or herring-bone or feather
stitch. You could use one color or several. And now the old work and the
bed-ticking has come back again and ladies make the old-fashioned bags
with tinsel thread.

Margaret had made one, and the little girl had taken it up. She was
quite an expert with her needle. She had found several delightful new
books to read. The Deans had some wonderful fairy stories. She was
enraptured with the "Lady of the Lake," and some of Mrs. Howitt's
stories and poems. She had learned her way about, and could go out to
the Bowery to do an errand for her mother. She knew some more little
girls, and with her sewing, helping her mother, studying and reading and
play, the days seemed too short.

Vacation did not begin until the 1st of August. The boys were to go up
to Yonkers and help George and Uncle Faid. They were quite ready for new
ventures.

When Margaret came home the last day of school with a really fine
report, her mother felt quite proud of her. The little girl, with large
eyes and a mysterious expression, begged her to come into the parlor and
see something. She smiled and took Hanny's small hand in hers. The
furniture had been moved about a little. And oh, what was this? The
little girl's eyes were stars of joy.

"It's your piano and mine," she said. "Yours till you get married and go
away, and then mine forever and ever. Joe gave fifty dollars of his
prize money toward it. Wasn't he lovely? And oh, Margaret, such
beautiful music as it makes!"

The little girl with one small finger struck a key. The sound seemed to
fascinate her. Margaret caught her in her arms and kissed the enraptured
face.

"We shall be too happy, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have had the courage to
ask for a piano, but it's the one thing above all others that I have
wanted. Oh, it's just too delightful!"

Mrs. Underhill said: "It's a great piece of wastefulness, but the boys
would have it. I'm sure I don't see where you're going to get time to
learn everything. And you'll never know anything about housekeeping. I
should be ashamed to have any one marry you."

People didn't hustle off to the country the day school closed. Indeed,
some didn't go at all. The children played on the shady side of the
street. The little girls had "Ring around a rosy," that I think Eve's
grandchildren must have invented. Then there was "London Bridge is
falling down," "Open the gates as high as the sky," and

    "Here come two lords quite out of Spain
    A-courting for your daughter faire,"

and after a great deal of disputing and beseeching they obtained
"daughter faire," and averted war. And "Tag" never failed with its "Ana
mana mona mike." You find children playing them all yet, but I think the
wonderful zest has gone out of them.

In the evening a throng of the First Street children who had pennies to
spend used to go up to the corner of Second Street and Avenue A. An old
colored woman sat there, with a gay Madras turban, and a little table
before her, that had a mysterious spring drawer. On one side she had an
earthen jar, on the other a great pail with a white cloth over it, that
emitted a steamy fragrance. And she sang in a sort of chanting tone:

"H-o-t corn, hot corn. Here's your nice hot corn, s-m-okin' h-o-t.
B-a-ked pears, baked pears--Get away, chillen,' get away, 'les you've
got a penny. Stop crowdin'."

They had enough to eat at home, but the corn was tempting. One night one
boy would treat and break the ear of corn in two and divide. And the
baked pears were simply delicious. The old woman fished them out with a
fork and put them on a bit of paper. Wooden plates had not been
invented. And the high art was to lift up your pear by the stem and eat
it. Sometimes a mischievous companion would joggle your arm and the stem
would come out--and oh, the pear would drop in a "mash" on the sidewalk.
You could not divide the pear very well, though children did sometimes
pass a "bite" around. But we lived in happy innocence and safety, for
the deadly bacillus had not been invented and ignorance was bliss.




CHAPTER VI

MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN


It seemed curiously still after the boys went away. Margaret took two
music lessons a week and gave the little girl half a one. And one day
Stephen came in and said:

    "Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array,
    And I'll take you a-drivin' so galliant and gay."

"Both of us?" asked the little girl.

"Yes--both of us. I have my new buggy and silver-mounted harness. You
must go out and christen it for good luck. Hurry, Peggy, and put on your
white dress."

Miss Blackfan had been again and made them two white frocks apiece. The
little girl had "wings" over her shoulders and they made her less slim.
She wore a pink sash and her hair was tied with pink. Her stockings were
as white as "the driven snow," and her slippers looked like dolls' wear.
They were bronze and laced across the top several times with narrow
ribbon tied in a bow at her instep. She had a new hat, too, a leghorn
flat with pale pink roses on it. It cost a good deal, but then it would
"do up" every summer and last years and years. Fashions didn't change
every three months then. Margaret had a pretty gipsy hat, with a big
light-blue satin bow on the top, and the strings tied under her chin,
and it made quite a picture of her. Her sleeves came a little below the
elbow, and both wore black silk "openwork" mitts that came half-way up
the arm.

There had been a shower the night before and the dust was laid. They
went over Second Street to the East River, where one or two blocks were
quite given over to colored people. There was an African M. E. church,
that the little girl was very curious to see. Folks said in revival
times they danced for joy. Crowds used to go to hear the singing.

"But do they dance?" asked the little girl wonderingly. She couldn't
quite reconcile it with the gravity of worship.

"They simply march up and down the aisles keeping time to the tunes.
Well--the Shakers dance in the same fashion." Stephen had been up to
Lebanon.

Then a little farther on was another Methodist church, where several
notable lights had preached. Nearer the river were some queer old
houses, and at almost every corner a store. Saloons were a rarity. Over
yonder was Williamsburg, up a little farther Astoria, just a place of
country greenery. There were a few boats going up and down, and the
ferry-boats crossing.

The houses were no longer in rows. There were some vegetable gardens,
and German women were weeding in them; then tracts of rather rocky land,
wild and unimproved. After a while it began to grow more diversified and
beautiful--country residences and well-kept grounds full of shrubbery at
the front and vegetables in the rear, with barns and stables, betraying
a rural aspect. The air was so sweet and fresh.

"Oh!" exclaimed Margaret, "Annette Beekman must live somewhere about
here. I promised her we would come up some day."

Stephen turned into a country road. There were many grand old elms,
hemlocks, pines, and fruit-trees as well. A table stood under one, and
some ladies were sitting there sewing and chatting, while several
children ran about. And while they were glancing at them a girl in a
pretty blue muslin sprang up and ran down to the wide-open gate.

"Oh, Margaret!" cried Annette Beekman. "Why, this is lovely of you,
Stephen! Can't you turn in and stop a while with us?"

"I'm showing Margaret New York," said Steve, with his pleasant laugh.
"She has begun to think straight down to Rutgers Institute comprised
every bit there was of it."

"Oh, Stephen!" deprecatingly.

Some one else came out; a fair, tall girl with great braids of flaxen
hair and a silver comb in the top to make her look taller still. She
smiled very sweetly.

"Oh, Mr. Underhill!" she exclaimed.

"This is my big sister and this is my little one," explained Stephen.
"And this," to Margaret, "is Miss Dolly Beekman."

A warm color rose in Margaret's cheeks as a half-suspicion stole over
her.

"You must get out and rest a while after this long ride," said Miss
Dolly with winsome cordiality. "The rain last evening was delightful,
but the day is warm. We are all living out-of-doors, as you see. And
this, I suppose, is your little sister? Drive up and help the girls out,
and then go round to the barn. You will find some one there."

Stephen wound slowly up the driveway, nodding to the group of ladies.
Dolly walked along the grassy path. She wore a white dotted suisse gown
with a "baby waist," and had a blue satin sash with ends that fell
nearly to the bottom of the skirt. Her sleeves came to the elbow and
were composed of three rather deep ruffles edged with lace. Round her
pretty white neck she had an inch-wide black velvet, fastened with a
tiny diamond that Stephen had brought her a week ago. She looked like a
picture, Margaret thought, and later her portrait in costume was
exhibited at the Academy of Design.

Stephen lifted his sisters down. Dolly took Margaret's arm and the
little girl's hand and introduced them to almost as many sisters and
cousins and aunts as there were in "Pinafore." The small person was not
quite comfortable. She had a feeling that the back of her nice frock was
dreadfully crushed. Margaret was a little confused. Stephen seemed so at
home among them all. Annette had spoken so familiarly of him, yet she
had not suspected. How blind she had been!

There was young Mrs. Beekman, thirty or so, already getting stout, and
with the fifth Beekman boy that she would gladly have changed for a
girl; Mrs. Bond, the next sister, with a boy and a girl; Aunt Gitty
Beekman, some Vandewater cousins, and some Gessler cousins from Nyack.

They had rush-bottomed and splint chairs, several rockers, some rustic
benches, and two or three tables standing about, with work-baskets and
piles of sewing and knitting, for people had not outgrown industry in
those days, and still taught their children the verses about the busy
bee.

Dolly put Margaret in a rocker, untied her bonnet, and took off her soft
white mull scarf--long shawls they were called, and the elder ladies
wore them of black silk and handsome black lace. They were held up on
the arms and sometimes tied carelessly, and the richer you were, the
more handsomely you trimmed them at the ends. Then for cooler weather
there were Paisley and India long shawls.

Hanny kept close to her sister and leaned against her knee. She felt
strange and timid with the eyes of so many grown people upon her. But
they all took up their work and talked, asking Margaret various
questions in sociable fashion.

There were three Beekman boys and one little Bond running about. The
girl was very shy and would sit on her mother's lap. The Beekmans were
fat and chubby, with their hair cut quite close, but not in the modern
extreme. They wore long trousers and roundabouts, and low shoes with
light gray stockings, though their Sunday best were white. We should say
now they looked very queer, and unmistakably Dutch. You sometimes see
this attire among the new immigrants. But there were no little
Fauntleroy boys at that period with their velvet jackets and
knickerbockers, flowing curls and collars.

The boys tried to inveigle Hanny among them. Pety offered her the small
wooden bench he was carrying round. Paulus asked her "to come and see
Molly who had great big horns and went this way," brandishing his head
so fiercely that the little girl shuddered and grasped Margaret's hand.

"Don't tease her, boys," entreated their mother. "She'll get acquainted
by and by. I suppose she isn't much used to children, being the
youngest?"

"No, ma'am," answered Margaret.

The boys scampered off. Annette knelt down on the short grass, and
presently won a smile from the little girl, who was revolving a
perplexity as to whether big boys were not a great deal nicer than
little boys. Then Stephen came back and Mr. Paulus Beekman, who was
stout and dark, and favored his mother's side of the family. The ladies
were very jolly, teasing one another, telling bits of fun, comparing
work, and exchanging cooking recipes. Miss Gitty asked Margaret about
her mother's family, the Vermilyeas. A Miss Vermilye, sixty or seventy
years ago, had married a Conklin and come over to Closter. She seemed to
have all her family genealogy at her tongue's end, and knew all the
relations to the third and fourth generation. But she had a rather sweet
face with fine wrinkles and blue veins, and wore her hair in long
ringlets at the sides, fastened with shell combs that had been her
mother's, and were very dear to her. She wore a light changeable silk,
and it still had big sleeves, such as we are wearing to-day. But they
had mostly gone out. And the elder ladies were combing their hair down
over their ears. There were no crimping-pins, so they had to braid it up
at night in "tails" to make it wave, unless one had curly hair. Most of
the young girls brushed it straight above their ears for ordinary wear,
and braided or twisted it in a great coil at the back, though it was
often elaborately dressed for parties.

Aunt Gitty was netting a shawl out of white zephyr. It was tied in the
same manner that one makes fish-nets, and you used a little shuttle on
which your thread was wound. It was very light and fleecy. Aunt Gitty
had made one of silk for a cousin who was going abroad, and it had been
very much admired. The little girl was greatly interested in this, and
ventured on an attempt at friendliness.

Dolly took them away presently to show them the flower-beds. Mr. Beekman
had ten acres of ground. There were vegetables, corn and potato fields
and a pasture lot, beside the great lawn and flower-garden. Old Mr.
Beekman was out there. He was past seventy now, hale and hearty to be
sure, with a round, wrinkled face, and thick white hair, and he was
passionately fond of his grandchildren. He had not married until he was
forty and his wife was much younger.

There were long walks of dahlias of every color and kind. They were a
favorite autumn flower. A great round bed of "Robin-run-away," bergamot,
that scented the air and attracted the humming-birds. All manner of
old-fashioned flowers that are coming around again, and you could see
where there had been magnificent beds of peonies. In the early season
people drove out here to see Peter Beekman's tulip-beds.

There were borders of artemisias, as they were called, that diffused a
pungent fragrance. We had not shaken hands so neighborly with Japan
then, nor learned how she evolved her wonderful chrysanthemums.

The little girl grew quite talkative with Mr. Beekman. You see, in those
days there was a theory about children being seen and not heard, and no
one expected a little six-year-old to entertain or disturb a room full
of company. The repression made them rather diffident, to be sure. But
Mr. Beekman gathered her a nosegay of spice pinks, carnations now, and
took her to see his beautiful ducks, snowy white, in a little pond, and
another pair of Muscovy ducks, then some rare Mandarin ducks from China.
She told him about the ducks and chickens at Yonkers and how sorry she
was to leave them.

And then came the handsome white Angora cat with its long fur and
curious eyes that were almost blue, and when she said "mie-e-o-u" in a
rather delighted tone, it seemed as if she meant "O master, where have
you been? I'm so glad to see you!"

He stood and patted her and they held quite a conversation as she arched
her neck, rubbed against his leg, and turned back and forth. Then she
stretched way up on him and gave him her paw, which was very cunningly
done.

"This is a nice little girl who has come to see me," he said, as she
seemed to look inquiringly at Hanny. "She's fond of everything, kitties
especially."

Kitty looked rather uncertain. Hanny was a little afraid of such a
curious creature. But presently she came and rubbed against her with a
soft little mew, and Hanny ventured to touch her.

"She likes you," declared old Mr. Beekman, much pleased. "She doesn't
often take fancies. She loves Dolly, and she won't have anything to do
with Annette, though I think the girl teases her. Nice Katschina," said
her master, patting her. "Shall we buy this little girl?"

Perhaps you won't believe it, but Katschina really said "yes," and
smiled. It was very different from the grin of the "Chessy cat" that
Alice saw in Wonderland.

Some one came flying down the path.

"Father," exclaimed Dolly, "come and have a cup of tea or a glass of
beer. Stephen and his sister think they can't stay to supper. But may be
they'll leave the little girl--you seem to have taken such a notion to
her."

Hanny didn't want to be impolite and she really _did_ like Mr. Beekman,
but as for staying--her heart was up in her throat.

Dolly picked up Katschina and carried her in triumph. Two white paws lay
over Dolly's shoulder.

There was a table with a shining copper tea-kettle, a pewter tankard of
home-brewed ale, bread and butter, cold chicken and ham, a great dish of
curd cheese, pound cake, soft and yellow, fruit cake, a heaping dish of
doughnuts and various cookies and seed cakes. Scipio, a young colored
lad, passed the eatables. Young Mrs. Beekman poured the tea. The mother
sat near her. She was short and fat and wore her hair in a high
Pompadour roll, and she laughed a good deal, showing her fine white
teeth of which she was very proud.

Katschina sat in her master's lap, and the little girl was beside him.
The boys were given their hands full and sent away. It was a very pretty
picture and the little girl felt as if she was reading an entertaining
story. One of the Gessler cousins had been knitting lace, double
oak-leaf with a heading of insertion. It looked marvellous to the little
girl. She said she was making it to trim a visite. This was a Frenchy
sort of garment lately come into vogue, though the little girl did not
know what it was, and was too well trained to ask questions. But the
lace might be the desire of one's heart.

They sipped their tea or raspberry shrub, or enjoyed a glass of ale.
They were all very merry. The little girl wondered how Dolly dared to be
so saucy with Stephen when she only knew him such a little. Mrs. Beekman
could hardly accept the fact that they would not stay to supper, and
said they must come soon and spend the day, and have Stephen drive up
for them, and that she hoped soon to see Mrs. Underhill. "It is quite
delightful and we are all well satisfied," she added, nodding rather
mysteriously.

Dolly put on the little girl's hat and kissed her, giving her a
breathless squeeze. Miss Gitty kissed her as well and told her she was a
"very pretty behaved child." The buggy came round and Stephen put them
in amid a chorus of good-bys.

"The little one looks delicate," commented the younger Mrs. Beekman when
they had driven away. "I'm afraid she doesn't run and play enough. But
she's beautifully behaved. And what a fancy father took to her!"

"Miss Underhill doesn't seem like a real country girl," said another.

"The Underhills are a good family all through, English descent from some
Lord Underhill. They were staunch Royalists at one time."

"And the Vermilyeas are good stock," said Aunt Gitty. "There's nothing
like being particular as to family. It tells in the long run."

"Well, Dolly, we think he will do," said Mrs. Beekman laughingly, as
Dolly, having said her good-bys, sauntered back to the circle. "He might
be richer, of course. There's a large family and they can't have much
apiece."

"Stephen Underhill's got the making of a good substantial man in him,"
grunted father Beekman. "If he'd been a poor shoat he wouldn't have hung
around here very long, would he, Katschina? We'd 'a put a flea in his
ear, wouldn't we."

Katschina arched her back. Dolly laughed and blushed. Stephen was her
own true-love anyway, but she was glad to have them all like him. With
the insistence of youth she felt she never could have loved any other
man.

Stephen clicked to Prince, who was rested and full of spirits. They
drove almost straight across the city, about at the end of our first
hundred numbered streets. But the road wound around to get out of a low
marshy place, a pond in the rainy season, and some rocks that seemed
tumbled up on end. They struck a bit of the old Boston Post Road, and
that caused the little girl to stop her prattle and think of the old
ladies they had never visited. She must "jog" her father's memory. That
was what her mother always said when she recalled half-forgotten things.

Stephen and Margaret had only spoken in answer to the little girl. He
had a young man's awkwardness concerning a subject so dear to his heart.
Margaret was awed by the mystery of love, captivated by Dolly's
friendliness, and puzzled to decide what her mother would think of it.
Stephen married! Any of them married for that matter. How strange it
would seem! And yet she had sometimes said, "When I am married."

The place was wild enough. You would hardly think so now when hollows
have been filled and hills levelled, and rocks blasted away. After they
turned a little stream wound in and out through the trees and bushes.
Amid a tangled mass the little girl espied some wild roses.

"Oh, Steve!" she cried, "may I get out and pick some?"

"I will." He handed the reins over to Margaret and sprang down, running
across a little bridge, and soon gathered a great handful.

"Oh, thank you," and her eyes shone. "What a funny little bridge."

"That's Kissing Bridge."

"Who do you have to kiss?" asked the little girl mirthfully.

"Well, a long while ago, in Van Twiller's time, I guess," with a twinkle
in his eye, "there wasn't any bridge. The lovers used to carry their
sweethearts over, and the charge was a kiss."

"But there wasn't any kissing _bridge_ then," she said shrewdly.

"When the bridge was built they stopped and kissed out of remembrance."

"Was it really so, Margaret?"

"It has been called that ever since I can remember."

"You unkind girl, not to believe me!" exclaimed Stephen, with an air of
offended dignity. "And I am ever so much older than Margaret."

"You didn't carry _me_ over, but you carried the roses, so you shall
have the kiss all the same," and as she reached up to his cheek they
both smiled.

Then they came down Broadway to Bleecker Street, and over home. Father
Underhill was sitting on the stoop reading his paper. Jim begged to take
the horse round to the stable. Margaret went up-stairs to pull off her
best dress and put on her pink gingham. She had just finished and was
calling for Hanny, when Stephen caught her in his arms.

"Dear Peggy--you must have guessed."

"Oh, Stephen! It seems so strange. Is it really so? I never dreamed----"

"I fell in love with Dolly months ago. There were so many caring for her
that I hardly hoped myself. But there's some mysterious sense about it,
and I began to see presently that she preferred me. Though I didn't
really ask her until Sunday night. And they all consented. We are
regularly engaged now."

"Oh, Stephen! To lose you!"

That is the first natural thought of the household.

"You are not going to lose me. We shall be engaged a long while; a year
surely."

"But, father--and our coming here."

"That is all right. It can't make any difference. Only you will have a
new sister. Oh, Peggy, try to love her," persuasively, yet knowing she
could not resist her.

"She is very sweet."

"Sweet! She's just cream and roses and all the sweetest things of life
put together! I tell you, Peggy, I'm a lucky fellow. Of course it will
seem a little strange at first. But some day you'll have your romance,
only I don't believe you can ever understand how glad the other fellow
will be to get you. Girls can't. And you'll try to make things smooth
with mother if she feels a little put out at first? Dolly wants to love
you all. She's admired Joe so much, and they are all proud of him."

The supper bell rang impatiently. Stephen kissed his sister and gave her
a rapturous hug.

Hanny came up-stairs and Margaret hurried through her change of attire.

"I thought you never were coming," began their mother tartly. "'Milyer,
you're the worst of the lot when you get your nose buried in a
newspaper. Boys, do keep still, though I suppose you're half starved,"
with a reproachful look at those who had delayed the meal.

The little girl had eaten so many of the delicious cookies that she
wasn't a bit hungry. So she entertained her father with the miles of
dahlias and the wonderful cat, so soft and furry and different from
theirs, and with truly blue eyes, and who could understand everything
you said to her. And Mr. Beekman was very nice, but not as nice as
father. The little boys were so short and so funny. "And I don't believe
I like _little_ boys. Jim and Benny, Frank and all of you are nicer.
Perhaps it _is_ the bigness."

They all laughed at that.

She sat in her father's lap afterward and went on with her quaint story,
until her mother came and routed her out and said, "I do believe,
'Milyer, you'd keep that child up all night."

Afterward Mr. Underhill went out on the front stoop, where he and
Stephen had a long talk, while Margaret sat at the piano making up for
her afternoon's dissipation, but in the soft, vague light she could see
Dolly Beekman with her laughing eyes and crown of shining hair, and was
sure she would make a delightful sister. Mrs. Underhill sat and darned
stockings and sighed a little. Yet she was secretly proud of Margaret,
even if she did study French and music. Whether they would ever help her
to keep house was a question. Where would she have found time for such
things?




CHAPTER VII

MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO


"Yes; come get out once in a while."

"I've no time to spare," said Mrs. Underhill. "Some one has to work or
you'd all be in a fine case. Here's Margaret spending her time drumming
on the piano and studying French and what not. I dare say you'll be
called upon some time to take your daughter to Paris to show off her
accomplishments."

"I hope we'll do credit to each other," he returned with a dry, humorous
laugh, as if amused.

"The world goes round so fast one can't keep up with it. If the work
only rushed on that way! Why don't some of you smart men who have plenty
of time to sit round, invent a machine to cook and sew and sweep the
house?"

"Martha's a pretty good housekeeping machine, I think. And you might
find another to sew."

She had no idea that Elias Howe was hard at work on a tireless iron and
steel sewing-woman and was puzzling his brains day and night to put an
eye in the needle that would be satisfactory.

"You'd need to be made of money to hire all these folks! Margaret ought
to be sewing this very minute, but she's fussing over those drawings of
John's. I've such a smart family I think they'll set me crazy. And what
you will do when I am gone----"

"We're not going to let you get away so easy. And if you would just go
out a bit now and then. Come, mother," with entreaty in his voice.

"Oh, 'Milyer," she said, touched by something in the tone, "I really
can't go to-day. I've all those shirts to cut out, and Miss Weir told me
of a girl who would be glad to come and sew for fifty cents a day. I
think I'll have her a few days. And you look up the poor old creatures
and see if they are in any want. Then if I really _can_ do them any good
I'll go."

She always softened in the end. She felt a little sore and touchy about
Steve's engagement, and proud, too, that Miss Beekman had accepted him.
Stephen had insisted some one must come in and help sew, and that his
mother must have a little time for herself. Seven men and boys to make
shirts for was no light matter. The little girl was learning to darn
stockings very nicely and helped her mother with those.

So father Underhill took the little girl and Dobbin and the ordinary
harness, for Steve had Prince and the silver-mounted trappings, and the
elders could guess where he had gone. Business was dull along in August,
so the men had some time for diversion, and the father always enjoyed
his little daughter. Her limited knowledge and quaint comments amused
him, and her sweet, innocent love touched the depths of his soul.

It was quite in the afternoon when they started. Dobbin was not as young
and frisky as Prince, so they jogged along, looking at the gardens, the
trees, the wild masses of vines and sumac, and then stretches of rocky
space interspersed with squatters' cabins and the goats, pigs, geese,
and chickens. Sometimes in after years when she rode through Central
Park, she wondered if she had not dreamed all this, instead of seeing it
with her own eyes.

They went over to Mr. Brockner's to inquire.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "Mrs. Brockner will be so sorry to miss you. She has
talked so much about your little girl, and threatened to hunt her up.
And now she's gone to Saratoga for a fortnight, to see the fashions. But
you must come up again."

Then he directed them, and they drove over in a westerly course and soon
came to the little stone house that bore evident marks of decay from
neglect as well as age. The first story was rough stone, the half-story
of shingles, that had once been painted red. There were two small
windows in the gable ends, but in front the eaves overhung the doorway
and the windows and were broken and moss-grown. There was a big flat
stone for the doorstep, a room on one side with two windows, and on the
other only one. The hall door was divided in the middle, the upper part
open. There was a queer brass knocker on this, and the lower part
fastened with an old-fashioned latch. The little courtyard looked tidy,
and there was a great row of sweet clover along the fence, but now and
then the goats would nibble it off.

When they stepped up on the stoop they saw an old lady sitting in a
rocking-chair, with a little table beside her, and some knitting in her
lap. She had evidently fallen into a doze. Hanny stretched up on tiptoe.
A great gray cat lay asleep also. There were some mats laid about the
floor, two very old arm-chairs with fine rush bottoms painted yellow, a
door open on either side of the hall, and a well-worn winding stairs
going up at the back.

Mr. Underhill reached over and gave a light knock. The cat lifted its
head and made a queer sound like a gentle call, then went to the old
lady and stretched up to her knees. She started and glanced toward the
door, then rose in a little confusion.

"I am looking for a Miss Underhill," began the visitor.

"Oh, pardon me." She unbolted the lower door. "I believe I had fallen
asleep. Miss Underhill?" in a sort of surprised inquiry. "I am--one of
the sisters. Walk in."

She pushed out one of the arm-chairs and gave her footstool to the
little girl.

"I am an Underhill myself, a sort of connection, I dare say. We heard of
you some time ago, but I have been much occupied with business, yet I
have intended all the time to call on you."

"You are very good, I am sure. We had some relations on Long Island, and
I think some here-about, but we lost sight of them long ago. We really
have no one now. My sister Jane is past eighty, and I am only three
years younger."

She was a slim, shrunken body and her hands were almost transparent, so
white was her skin. Her gown was gray, and she wore a white kerchief
crossed on her bosom like a Quakeress. Her fine muslin cap had the
narrow plain border of that denomination.

Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and his
removal to the city,--then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.

"You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble in
her voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father's
relatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my only
brother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned a
great farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little later
the old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before the
British evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever,
and there were only my mother and us two girls."

Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took the
wrinkled hand gently.

"Do you mean you were alive then--a little girl in the Revolutionary
War?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.

"Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubt
if you're more than that."

"I am a little past eight," said Hanny.

"And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hoped
so that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic and
very much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armies
were separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward through
McGowan's Pass, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced them
into the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessians
they would have driven the British off the field. But I believe
Washington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost a
victory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, for
we could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word came
that father was killed."

"Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkled
hand. What if she had been alive then!--and she looked over at _her_
father with tears in her eyes.

"It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side.
You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said they
never could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father's
espousing the Federalists' cause."

"But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl,
wide-eyed.

"We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, and
folks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was taken
prisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headed
young fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool his
ardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill.
Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire. Oh, my
child, such quantities of things as were in it! My mother had never
gone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then the
land was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. The
British took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made money
right along. But the English were very good to us, and no one ever
molested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journey
to go down to the Bowling Green."

The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.

"There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on until
most everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane,
though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don't
know,"--hesitatingly.

"Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.

"Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to some
Germans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our little
work and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctor
thought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It made
it easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. But
there'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sigh
of self-abnegation.

"And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"

"Well, you see grandmother made hard feelings with the relatives. She
didn't think the colonies had any right to go to war. And after father's
death mother felt a good deal that way. They dropped us out, and we
never took any pains to hunt them up. We never knew much about the
Underhills. I must say you are very kind to come," and her voice
trembled.

Just then the door opened and Miss Underhill sprang up to take her
sister's arm and lead her to a chair. She was taller and stouter, and
the little girl thought her the oldest-looking person she had ever seen.
Her cap was all awry, her shawl was slipping off of one shoulder, and
she had a sort of dishevelled appearance, as she looked curiously
around.

Lois straightened her up, seated her, and introduced her to the
visitors.

"I'm hungry. I want something to eat, Lois," she exclaimed in a whining,
tremulous tone, regardless of the strangers.

Miss Underhill begged to be excused, and went for a plate of bread and
butter and a cup of milk.

"Perhaps you'd like to see our old parlor," she said to her guests, and
opened the door.

There were two rooms on this side of the house. The back one was used
for a sleeping chamber. She threw the shutters wide open, and a little
late sunshine stole over the faded carpet that had once been such a
matter of pride with the two young women. There were some family
portraits, a man with a queue and a ruffled shirt-front, another with a
big curly white wig coming down over his shoulders, and several ladies
whose attire seemed very queer indeed. There was a black sofa studded
with brass nails that shone as if they had been lately polished, a tall
desk and bookcase going up to the ceiling, brass and silver candlesticks
and snuffers' tray, as well as a bright steel "tinder box" on the high,
narrow mantel. A big mahogany table stood in the centre of the room,
polished until you could see your face in it. But there was an odd tall
article in the corner, much tarnished now, but ornamented with gilt and
white vines that drooped and twisted about. Long wiry strings went from
top to bottom.

"I suppose you don't know what that is!" said Miss Lois, when she saw
the little girl inspecting it. "That's a harp. Young ladies played on it
when we were young ourselves. And they had a spinet. I believe it's
altered now and called a piano."

"A harp!" said the little girl in amaze. Her ideas of a harp were very
vague, but she thought it was something you carried around with you.
She had heard the children sing

    "I want to be an angel
      And with the angels stand;
    A crown upon my forehead,
      A harp within my hand,"

and the size of this confused her.

"But how could you play on it?" she asked.

"You stood this way. You could sit down, but it was considered more
graceful to stand. And you played in this manner."

She fingered the rusted strings. A few emitted a doleful sort of sound
almost like a cry.

"We've all grown old together," she said sorrowfully. "It was considered
a great accomplishment in my time. I believe people still play on the
harp. We had a great many curious things, but several years ago a
committee of some kind came and bought them. We needed the money sadly,
and we had no one to leave them to when we died. There was some
beautiful old china, and a lady bought the fan and handkerchief that my
grandmother carried at her wedding. The handkerchief was worked at some
convent in Italy and was fine as a cobweb. My mother used it, and then
it was laid by for us. But we never needed it," and she gave a soft
sigh.

She had glided out now and then to look after Jane, who was eating as
if she was starved. And in the broken bits of talk Mr. Underhill had
learned by indirect questioning that they had parted with their land by
degrees, and with some family valuables, until there was only this old
house and a small space of ground left.

Miss Jane was anxious now to see the visitors. But she was so deaf Lois
had to repeat everything, and she seemed to forget the moment a thing
was said. Dobbin whinnied as if he thought the call had been long
enough.

Mr. Underhill squeezed a bank-note into the hand of Miss Lois as he said
good-by. "Get some little luxury for your sister," he added.

"Thank you for all your friendliness," and the tears stood in her eyes.
"Come again and bring your sister Margaret," she said to the little
girl.

They drove over westward a short distance. The rocky gorge was still
there, and at its foot was one of the first battle-fields of this
vicinity. Hanny looked at it wonderingly.

"Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "They
found they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followed
by some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, for
they were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that.
And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to fly
to a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boy
then."

The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?

"It seems such a long, long time ago--like the flood and the selling of
Joseph. And was grandmother really alive?"

"Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."

"Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I felt
afraid of her."

"Don't think of her, pussy. It's very sad to lose your senses and be a
trouble."

"You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. She
didn't see how such a thing could happen to him.

"I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just under
his breath.

Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper.
The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over her
adventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John was
drawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work at
house-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man had
come in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans and
several of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walked
up and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and what
wonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't be
any to come in the future.

At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, as
grandmother was anxious to see them.

Her grandmother was invested with a curious new interest in her eyes.
That any one belonging to her should have lived in the Revolutionary War
seemed a real stretch of the imagination for a little girl eight years
old. Grandmother considered _her_ wonderful also. She wasn't so much in
favor of short frocks and pantalets that came down to your ankles, but
the little girl did look pretty in them. And when she found how neatly
she could hemstitch and do such beautiful featherstitch, and darn, and
read so plainly that it was a pleasure to listen to her, she had to
admit that Hannah Ann was a real credit, and, she confessed in her
secret heart, a very sweet little girl.

"I've begun your new Irish chain patchwork," she said. "I've made one
block for a pattern, and cut out quite a pile. Aunt Eunice lighted upon
some beautiful green calico. I was upon a stand whether to have green or
red, but an Irish chain generally is pieced of green. It seems more
appropriate."

And yet people had not begun to sing "The Wearing of the Green."

"I declare," said Cousin Ann, "you're such an old-fashioned little thing
one can hardly tell which is the oldest, you or grandmother."

"Is it anything"--what should she say?--wrong or bad seemed too
forcible--"queer to be old-fashioned?"

"Well, yes, _queer_. But you're awful sweet and cunning, Hannah Ann, and
we'd just like to keep you forever."

With that she almost squeezed the breath out of the little girl and
kissed her a dozen times.

Grandmother could tell such wonderful stories as they sat and sewed. All
the glories of the old Underhill house, and the silver and plate that
had come over from England, and the set of real china that a sea
captain, one of the Underhills, had brought from China and how it had
taken three years to go there and come back. And the beautiful India
shawl it had taken seven years to make, and the Persian silk gown that
had been bought of some great chief or Mogul--grandmother wasn't quite
sure, but she thought they had a king or emperor in those countries. She
had a little piece of the silk that she showed Hanny, and a waist ribbon
that came from Paris, "For you see," said she, "we were so angry with
England that we wouldn't buy anything of her if we could help it. And
the French people came over and helped us."

"What did they fight about, grandmother?"

"Oh, child, a great many things. You can't understand them all now, but
you'll learn about them presently. The people who came here and settled
the country wanted the right to govern themselves. They thought a king,
thousands of miles away, couldn't know what was best for them. And
England sent over things and we had to pay for them whether we wanted
them or not. And it was a long struggle, but we won, and the British had
to go back to their own country. Why, if we hadn't fought, we wouldn't
have had any country," and grandmother's old face flushed.

The little girl thinks it would be dreadful not to have a country, but
her mind is quite chaotic on the subject. She is glad, however, to have
been on the winning side.

Nearly every day Uncle David took her out driving. They saw the old
house on the hill in a half-hidden, woody section where the family had
to live until the new house was built. They went round the battlefield,
but sixty years of peace had made great changes, and the next fifty
years was to see a beautiful town and many-storied palaces all about.
She dipped into the history of New Amsterdam again and began to
understand it better, though she did mistrust that Mr. Dederich
Knickerbocker now and then "made fun," not unlike her father.

The visit came to an end quite too soon, grandmother thought, and she
was very sorry to part with the little girl. She thought she would try
and come down when the fall work was done, and she gave Hanny only four
blocks of patchwork, for if she went to school there wouldn't be much
time to sew.

They stopped at Yonkers two days and picked up the boys, who were brown
and rosy. Aunt Crete was much better and did not have to go about with
her face tied up. She said there was no place like Yonkers, after all.
Retty seemed happy and jolly, but there was a new girl in the kitchen,
for Aunt Mary had gone to live with her children. George said he should
come down a while when the crops were in.

School commenced the 1st of September sharp. It was hot, of course.
Summer generally does lap over. The boys who had shouted themselves
hoarse with joy when school closed, made the street and the playground
ring with delight again. If they were not so fond of studying they liked
the fun and good-fellowship. And when they marched up and down the long
aisles singing:

    "Hail Columbia, happy land;
    Hail ye heroes, heaven-born band.
    Who fought and bled in freedom's cause!"

you could feel assured another generation of patriots was being raised
for some future emergency. Oh, what throats and lungs they had!

Mrs. Underhill had been around to see Mrs. Craven, and liked her very
well indeed. So the little girl was to go to school with Josie and Tudie
Dean.

Some new people had come in the street two doors below. Among the
members was a little girl of seven, the child of the oldest son, and a
large girl of fourteen or so, two young ladies, one of whom was teaching
school, and the other making artificial flowers in a factory down-town,
and two sons. The eldest one was connected with a newspaper, and was in
quite poor health. His wife, the little girl's mother, had been dead
some years. The child was rather pale and thin, with large, dark eyes,
and a face too old for her years and rather pathetic. And when Mrs.
Whitney came in a few days later to inquire where Mrs. Underhill sent
her little girl to school, she decided to let her grandchild go to Mrs.
Craven's also.

"She's quite a delicate little thing and takes after her mother. I tell
my son, she wants to company with other children and not sit around
nursing the cat. But Ophelia, that's my daughter who teaches down-town,
where we used to live, says the public school is no place for her. And
your little girl seems so nice and quiet like."

Nora, as they called her, was very shy at first. Hanny went after her,
and found the Deans waiting on their stoop. Nora never uttered a word,
but looked as if she would cry the next moment. Mrs. Craven took her in
charge in a motherly fashion, but it seemed very hard for her to
fraternize with the children.

Mrs. Craven lived in a corner house. The entrance to the school was on
Third Street, and the schoolroom was built off the back parlor, which
was used as a recitation-room for the older class. There were about
twenty little girls, none of them older than twelve. At the end of the
yard was a vacant lot, fenced in, which made a beautiful playground.

There were numbers of such schools at that period, but they were mostly
for little girls. Hanny liked it very much. On Wednesday afternoon they
had drawing, and reading aloud, when the girls could make their own
selections, which were sometimes very amusing. On Friday afternoon they
sewed and embroidered and did worsted work. There was quite a rage about
this. One girl had a large piece in a frame--"Joseph Sold by his
Brethren." Hanny never tired of the beautiful blue and red and orange
costumes. Another girl was working a chair seat. And still another had
begun to embroider a black silk apron with a soft shade of red. Then
they hemstitched handkerchiefs, they marked towels and napkins with
ornate letters, and really were a busy lot. Little Eleanora Whitney
couldn't sew a stitch, and some of the girls thought it "just dreadful."

Friday from half-past three until five Miss Helen Craven gave the
children, whose parents desired it, a dancing lesson. If Nora couldn't
sew, she could dance like a fairy. Her education was a curious
conglomeration. She could read and declaim, but spelling was quite
beyond her, and her attempts at it made a titter through the room. She
could talk a little French, and she had crossed the ocean to England
with her papa. So she wasn't to be despised altogether.




CHAPTER VIII

THE END OF THE WORLD


"'Taint no such thing! The world couldn't come to an end!" Janey Day
quite forgot Mrs. Craven's strictures on speech. "It's too strong.
And--and----"

"And it's round," said the wit of the school. "Round as a ring and has
no end. There now."

"But the world ain't like a ring."

"So is_n't_ my love for you, my friend."

There was quite a little shout of laughter.

One of the larger girls, Hester Brown, stood with upraised head and
earnest countenance.

"It _is_ coming to an end in October. It is only two or three weeks off.
My father has read it all in the Bible. And we are getting ready."

Her demeanor silenced the little group.

"But how _do_ you get ready?"

"We must repent of our sins. And that's why mother wouldn't let me come
to the dancing-class. She thinks it wrong, any way. And mother and
Auntie are making their ascension robes. We go to church every night."

The girls stood awestruck.

"What's going to happen?" asked one.

"Why, the world will be burned up. All those who love God are to be
caught up to heaven. Then the dead people who have been good will rise
out of their graves. And all the rest--everything will be burned."

The solemnity of the girl's voice impressed so that they looked at each
other in silent fear.

"I just don't believe a word of it," declared Janey Day, drawing a long
breath. "My father's a good man and goes to church and reads the Bible
every night. He's read it through more than fifty times, and he's never
said a word about the world coming to an end. And he's building a new
house for us to move into next spring."

"Fifty times, Janey Day! It takes a long, long while to read the Bible
through. My grandmother's read it all through twice, and she's awful
old."

"Well--twenty times at least. And don't you 'spose he'd found something
about it?"

"Everybody can't tell. It's in Daniel. There's days and times to be
added up."

"Five of _you_, Janey," said the wit with a child's irreverence.

"Just _when_ is it coming to an end? Girls, there's no use to study any
more lessons."

"It will be next week," said Hester with almost tragic solemnity. "But
you must all go on doing your work just the same."

"I don't see the sense. I've just begun fractions, and I hate them. I
won't do another sum."

The bell rang and recess was at an end. The girls straggled until they
reached the doorway, then suddenly straightened themselves into an
orderly line and took their seats quietly. There was a sound of rapidly
moving pencils--slates and pencils were in full swing then. No one had
invented "pads."

One after another read out answers. A few went up to Mrs. Craven for
assistance.

"Lottie Brower," the lady said presently.

Lottie colored. She had a kind of school-girl grudge against Hester.

"I--I haven't done my sums," she replied slowly.

"Why not?"

"Because the world is coming to an end. They're so hard, and what is the
use if we're not going to live longer than next week?"

Every girl stopped her work and stared at Hester, amazed, yet rather
enjoying Lottie's audacity.

"How did you come by such an idea?" asked Mrs. Craven quietly.

"But _is_ there any use of studying or anything?" Lottie's voice had a
little tremble in it. "I'm sure I don't want the world to come to an
end, but----"

"Do your people believe this?"

"No, ma'am," replied Lottie.

"Where, then, did you get the idea?"

"Hester Brown is sure----"

Hester's face was scarlet. She felt that she was called upon to bear
witness.

"My father and mother believe it, and we are all getting ready. My uncle
means to give away all his things next week."

The girl was in such earnest that Mrs. Craven was puzzled for a moment.

"I do not think we shall know the day or the hour," was the reply. "We
are all exhorted to go on diligently with whatever we are doing. And
Lottie, Hester has certainly set you an example. She did her sums
correctly. She has added works to her faith as the Bible commands. I am
aware many people think the end of the world is near, but that is no
reason for our being careless and indolent. I doubt if that excuse would
be accepted; at all events, I cannot accept yours."

"But I hate fractions! The divisors and the multiples get all mixed up
and go racing round in my head until I can't tell one from the other."

"Bring your slate here." Mrs. Craven made room for her by the table.
"Now, what is the trouble?"

Twelve o'clock struck before Lottie was through, but she had to admit
that it wasn't so "awful" when Mrs. Craven explained the sums in her
quiet, lucid manner. The girls rose and went to the closet for their
hats and capes.

"Girls," began Mrs. Craven, "I want to say a word. I hope each one of
you will respect the other's religious belief. Our country has been
founded on the corner-stone of liberty in this matter, and one ought to
be noble enough not to ridicule or sneer at any honest, sincere faith,
remembering that we cannot all believe alike."

Hester went out with two or three of the larger girls.

"I do not think you were quite kind, Lottie," said her teacher, in a
soft tone.

"But what would be the use of fractions if the world came to an end?"

"Oh, Mrs. Craven! _do_ you believe it? I should feel just dreadful. The
world has so many splendid things in it--and to be burned up."

"I should just be frightened to death," and one little girl shuddered.

"Children, I am sorry anything has been said about this. There are a
good many people who believe and who have preached for the last three
years that the end of the world is near. The time has been set for next
week. Yet the Bible _does_ say that _no_ man knoweth the day nor the
hour. I do not believe in these predictions," and she smiled
reassuringly. "I think we can all count on Thanksgiving and a merry
Christmas as well as a happy New Year. I want you all to be kind to each
other, and when Hester is disappointed next week, to refrain from
teasing her. If you think for a moment, you will find it very easy to
believe just as your parents do, for you love them the best of any one
in this world. And the more you respect and obey them, the more ready
you are to be kind and gentle and truthful to all about you, the better
you are serving God. You must leave this matter in His hands, and
remember that He loves you all, and will do whatever is best. Don't feel
troubled about the world coming to an end. I am afraid Lottie here will
have a great deal more trouble about fractions. I doubt if she gets
through by Christmas. Now run home or you will be late for dinner."

The little girl sat very quiet at the table. There was only her mother,
John, and the boys. She wished that her father or Steve were here so she
could ask them. A strange awe was creeping over her. It seemed so
dreadful to have all the world burned up. There might be some people
left behind in the hurry. It hurt terribly to be burned even a little.

There was a very sober lot of girls at school that afternoon. The jest
was all taken out of recess. Hester sat on the steps reading a little
pocket Testament. The others huddled together and shook their heads
mysteriously, saying just above a whisper, "I don't believe it." "My
mother says it isn't so." But somehow they did not seem to fortify
themselves much with these protestations.

Some of the elder cousins had come to visit and take tea. People went
visiting by three in the afternoon and carried their work along. There
was an atmosphere of relationship and real living that gave a certain
satisfaction. You enjoyed it. It was not paying a social debt
reluctantly, relieved to have it over, but a solid, substantial
pleasure.

Martha took the little girl up-stairs and put on a blue delaine frock and
white apron, and polished her "buskins," as the low shoes were called.
Then she went into the parlor and spoke to all the ladies. She had her
lace in a little bag, and presently she sat down on an ottoman and took
out her work.

"You don't mean to say that child can knit lace? And oak-leaf, too, I do
declare! What a smart little girl!"

"Oh, she embroiders quite nicely, also. Hannah Ann, get your apron and
show Cousin Dorcas."

The apron was praised and the handkerchiefs she had marked for her
father were brought out. Then she was asked what she was studying at
school.

Cousin Dorcas was knitting "shells" for a counterpane. There was one of
white and one of red, and they were put together in a rather long
diamond shape with a row of openwork between every block. It was for her
daughter, who was going to be married in the spring, and it interested
the little girl wonderfully.

Then they talked about Steve and Dolly Beekman. While the girls were at
White Plains, Steve had coaxed his father and mother up to the
Beekmans', and the engagement had been settled with all due formality.
Dolly and her mother had been down and taken tea. And now Steve went up
every Sunday afternoon and stayed to supper, and once or twice through
the week, and took Dolly out driving and escorted her to parties.

The Beekmans were good, solid people, and Peggy ought to be satisfied
that Stephen had chosen so wisely. "Was it true that Steve had been
buying some land way out of town? Did he mean to build there?"

"Oh, dear, no!" answered his mother. "It was a crazy thing, but John had
really persuaded him, and John was too young to have any judgment. But
he said the Astors were buying up there, and land was almost given
away."

"I don't know what it's good for," declared Aunt Frasie. "Why it'll be
forty years before the city'll go out there. Well, it may be good for
his grandchildren."

They all gave a little laugh.

Presently another of the cousins sat down at the piano and played the
"Battle of Prague."

Then Aunt Frasie said, "Do sing something. It doesn't seem half like
music without the singing."

Maria Jane ran her fingers over the keys, and began a plaintive air very
much in vogue:

    "Shed not a tear o'er your friend's early bier,
      When I am gone, I am gone."

Aunt Frasie heard her through the first verse, and then said
impatiently:

"You've sung that at so many funerals, Maria Jane, that it makes me feel
creepy. You used to sing 'Banks and Braes.' Do try that."

It had been said of Maria Jane in her earlier years that she had sung
"Bonnie Doon" so pathetically she had moved the roomful to tears. Her
voice was rather thin now, with a touch of shrillness on the high notes,
but the little girl listened entranced. Then she sang "Scots wha' hae"
and "Roy's wife of Aldivaloch." Margaret had come home, the
supper-table was spread, the men came in, and they sat down to the
feast. They teased Steve a little, and bade John beware, and were so
merry all the evening that when it came her bedtime the little girl had
forgotten all about the world coming to an end.

The girls discussed it the next day. Most of their mothers and fathers
had scouted the idea. Josie Dean was very positive it couldn't be--her
father had been going over the Bible and the Millerites had made a big
mistake.

"And girls," said Josie earnestly, "St. John, one of the disciples of
our Saviour, lived to be a hundred years old. Some people taught that
the world would come to an end before he died. And now it's 1843, and
it's stood all this while, though every now and then there's been an
excitement about it. And I ain't going to be afraid at all, there now!"

The little girl wondered whether she would be afraid. But Friday evening
the boys were full of it, and Steve said it was nonsense. She crept up
into her father's lap and asked him in a tremulous whisper if he was
afraid.

"No, dear," he answered, pressing her to his heart.

"But if it _should_ come."

"Well--I'd take my little girl and mother and Margaret----"

"And what would you do?" as he made a long pause.

"I'd beg to be taken into heaven. And we would all be together. I think
God would be good to us."

"And the boys."

"Yes, the boys." He wondered within himself if they were all fit for
heaven. But he was quite sure the little girl was.

There was a very great excitement. For months there had been meetings of
exhortation and prophesying, and appeals to conscience, to terror, to
the desire of being saved from impending destruction. Last winter there
had been revivals everywhere, yet during the summer thoughtful people
had questioned whether the moral tone of the community had been any
higher. There were heroic souls, that always rise to the surface in
times of spiritual agitation. There were others moved by any excitement,
who seized on this with a kind of ungovernable rapture.

No one spoke of it in Sunday-school. Hanny brought home "Little Blind
Lucy," and was so lost in its perusal that she hardly wanted to leave
off for half an hour with Joe. But her mother let her look over to see
whether Lucy really did have her eyesight restored. She was so sleepy
that when she had said her little prayer she felt quite sure that God
would take care of her and the beautiful world He had made. It would be
cruel to burn it all up.

But the children went to school on Monday. Martha washed as usual. She
did think it would be a waste of labor and strength if the world came to
an end, though she was sure clean clothes would burn up quicker, and if
it had to be, one might as well have it over as soon as possible.

All things went on, the buying and selling, the business of the day, and
in some houses there were weary pain-racked bodies that slipped out of
life gently without waiting for the general conflagration.

Still a strange awe did pervade the city. Some of the churches were
open, and people were on their knees weeping and sobbing to be made
ready; others were full of faith and expectations, singing hymns, and
impatiently waiting the moment when the trump would sound and they be
caught up to glory. Down on Grand Street Hester Brown's uncle was giving
away shoes, and wondering at the fatal unbelief of those who were so
ready to accept. Here and there another of abounding faith was doing the
same thing, or perhaps giving away things they did not need, hoping it
would be accounted to them for good works.

Hester was not in school. Neither did she come on Tuesday, and that
night was to be the fatal end of all things. A great many people went to
church that day. The children did suffer from dread, though Lottie
Brower kept up a sort of cheery bravado, as one whistles or sings in the
dark.

"And I don't think Hester's been such an awful sight better than the
rest of us. She answered correct one day when she had talked, and
pretended she had forgotten all about it. And she was just mean enough
about that clover-leaf pattern and wouldn't show a single girl. And she
gets mad just as easy as the rest of us."

"I think we oughtn't get mad any more. And, girls, I'll lend you my
knife to sharpen your pencils. We ought to _try_ to be just as good as
we could, for my Sunday-school teacher said if we died the world came to
an end for us."

They made many resolves. Mrs. Craven thought they had never been so
angelic in their lives.

But the little girl was very much "stirred up."

People didn't say nervous so much in those days. In fact nervousness was
rather associated with whims and tempers. Joe came over to supper--he
could get off from the hospital now and then. They were all talking
about going to Delancey Street Church, where it was said people would
be dressed in their ascension robes, and remain to the final change.

Margaret begged to go, and said she knew all her lessons. The boys had
theirs to study. Jim scouted the idea of the world's coming to an end.
Benny adduced several remarkable reasons why it couldn't come just yet.
The Millerites had made a mistake in the true meaning of the "days" in
Daniel.

"Are you quite sure?" asked the little girl timidly.

"Well--you'll see the same old world next week this time. Don't you get
frightened, Hanny dear," and Ben kissed her reassuringly.

She sat by the boys and knit on her lace a while. Then her mother looked
up from the stockings she was darning. She said "she always took Time by
the forelock," and the little girl had a fancy some time she would drag
him out. She wondered if she would really like to see Time with his
hour-glass and scythe, and all his bones showing.

Mrs. Underhill looked up at the clock.

"My goodness, Hanny!" she exclaimed, "it's time you were in bed half an
hour ago. Put up your lace. You'll be sleepy enough in the morning."

The little girl wound it round her needles and then stuck the ends in
the stem of the spool and put it away in her basket. She kissed Ben and
Jim good-night, and followed her mother. Her eyes had a half-frightened
look and the pupils were very large. Mrs. Underhill felt out of patience
that there should be so much talk about the world coming to an end
before children. She knew Hanny was "just alive with terror." She
couldn't pretend to explain anything to her; she was of the opinion that
as you grew older "you found out things for yourself." And I am really
afraid she didn't believe in total depravity for sweet little girls like
Hanny. It was well enough for boys. So much of her life had been spent
in doing, that she might have neglected some of the "mint, anise, and
cummin." She undressed the little girl. Oh, how fair and pretty her
shoulders were, and her round white arms that had a dimple at the top of
the elbow. She was small for her age, but nice and plump, and her mother
felt just this minute as if she would like to cuddle her up in her arms
and kiss her as she had in babyhood. If she had, all the fear would have
gone out of the little girl's heart.

Hanny said her prayer, and added to it, "Oh, Lord Jesus, please don't
let the world come to an end to-night." Then her mother patted down the
bed, took off one pillow and the pretty top quilt, and put her in,
kissing her tenderly, the little trembling thing.

Then she stood still awhile.

"I do wonder what I did with your red coat," she began. "Cousin Cynthia
said it might be let down and do for this winter. There's no little girl
to grow into your clothes. Let me see--I put a lot of things in this
closet. I remember pinning them up in linen pillow-cases, but I meant to
store them in the cedar chest. I wonder if I have been that careless."

She stood up on a chair and threw down some bundles with unnecessary
force. Then she stepped down and began to look them over, keeping up a
running comment. She would not have admitted that she was talking
against time, secretly hoping the little girl would drop off to sleep.
But the coat was not in any of the bundles.

"I think it must be in the chest. While I'm about it I may as well go
and see. If you have outgrown it, it could be made over into a dress;
it's nice, fine merino, a little thicker than I'd buy for a dress, but
your father would have just that piece. I'll get a candle and go
up-stairs--I wouldn't trust a glass lamp with this horrid burning-fluid
in _my_ storeroom. Hanny, be sure you don't get up and touch it," as if
there was the slightest possibility. "I'll be down again in five
minutes."

That was a shrewd motherly excuse not to leave the little girl alone in
the dark, though she was never afraid.

She lay there very still, with a feeling of safety since her mother was
up-stairs. Of course she was old enough to know a great many things and
to have ideas on religious subjects. But I think the Underhills were
more intelligent than intellectual, and people were still living rather
simple lives, not yet impregnated with ideas. They had not had the old
Puritan training, and the ferment of science and philosophy and
transcendentalism had not invaded the country places. To-night in the
city there were wise heads proving and disproving the times and half
times, and days and signs, but they really had no interest for Mrs.
Underhill, who was training her family the best she knew how, making
good men and women.

And the little girl's ideas were extremely vague. She thought her soul
was that part of her heart that beat. When it ceased beating you died
and the body was left behind; so of course that was what went to heaven.
And when she had been naughty or when she had left something undone and
was hurrying with all her might to do it, this thing beat and throbbed.
If she wanted something very much and was almost tempted to take it, the
feeling came up in her throat, and she knew that was conscience. She was
trying now to recall and repent of her sins, and oh, she did so wish
her father was here. Would he be back before the end came, and take them
all in his strong arms? and they would run--Oh, no! they were to be
caught up in the clouds. But she would be safe where he was.

Years afterward, she was to understand how human and finite love
foreshadowed the eternal. But then she could only believe, and her faith
in her human father was the rock of her salvation.

And when her mother came down she _had_ fallen asleep, but she thought
it would be just as well to leave the lamp burning until Margaret's
return. She would look in now and then to see that it didn't explode.
Burning-fluid was considered rather dangerous stuff.

Hanny was so tired that she slept soundly. It was almost midnight when
the folks came home, and Mrs. Underhill begged Margaret to go to bed
quietly and not disturb her. And it was all light with the sun rising in
the eastern sky and shining in one window when she opened her eyes.
Margaret stood before the glass plaiting her pretty, long hair.

The little girl sat up. Something had happened. There was a great
weight--a great fear. What was it? Oh, yes, this was their room; they
were all alive, for she heard Jim's breezy voice, and Joe, who had
stayed all night, said impatiently:

"Peggy, are you never coming down?"

Hanny sprang out of bed and clasped her little arms about her sister.

"Oh!" with a great exultation in her sweet child's voice--"the world
didn't come to an end, did it? Oh, you beautiful world! I am so glad you
are left. And everybody--only--Margaret, were the people at the church
dreadfully disappointed? What a pity God couldn't have taken those who
wanted to go; but I'm so glad we are left. Oh, you lovely world, you are
too nice to burn up!"

I think there were a great many people in the city just as glad as
Hanny, if they did not put it in the same joyful words.

Margaret smiled. "Hurry, dear," she said, "Joe will have to go, and I
know he wants to see you."

Hanny put on her shoes and stockings, and Margaret helped her with the
rest, washed her and just tied up her hair with a second-best ribbon.
Joseph had eaten his breakfast and was impatiently waiting to say
good-by. John was off already.

Nothing had happened. The world was going on as usual. True there had
been the comet and falling stars and wars and rumors of wars, but the
old world had sailed triumphantly through them all. The dear, old,
splendid world, that was to grow more splendid with the years.

Perhaps it did rouse people to better and kindlier living and more
serious thought. Before Mr. Underhill went away his wife said:

"'Milyer, hadn't you better look after those old people up at Harlem. I
suppose they had some garden truck, but there's flour and meat and
little things that take off the money when you haven't much. And fuel.
I'll try to go up some day with you and see what they need to keep them
comfortable in cold weather."

The girls could hardly study at school, there was so much excitement.
Did people really have on their ascension robes? What _would_ Hester
say?

Hester did not come to school all the week. Of course they had made a
mistake in computing the time, but a few weeks couldn't make much
difference. Still, the worst scare was over, and if one mistake could be
made, why not another? Were they so sure all the signs were fulfilled?




CHAPTER IX

A WONDERFUL SCHEME


The Whitneys and the Underhills became very neighborly. Mr. Theodore
Whitney often stopped for a little chat, and he was very fond of a good
game of checkers with Steve or John. He was on the other side in
politics and they had some warm discussions. Ophelia, the oldest girl,
was engaged and deeply absorbed with her lover. Frances went away early
in the morning and did not get back until after six. Mrs. Whitney, a
Southern woman by birth, was one of the easy-going kind and very fond of
novels. Mr. Whitney brought them home by the dozen. The house seemed
somehow to run itself, with the aid of Dele, as she was commonly called.

Dele proved a powerful rival to Miss Lily Ludlow. Lily was much prettier
and more delicate looking. Dele had brown-red hair, dry and curly. She
was a little freckled, even in the fall. Her mouth _was_ wide, but she
was always laughing, and she had such splendid teeth. Then her eyes were
so full of fun, and her voice had a sort of rollicking sound. She knew
all kinds of boys' play, and was great at marbles. Then she had so many
odd, entertaining things, and their parlor wasn't too good for use when
'Phelia's beau was not there. But the children lived mostly on the stoop
and the sidewalk.

Delia went to Houston Street school. She could walk farther up the
street with the boys, and watch out for them when they went. Ben liked
her better than he did Lily or Rosa, but Jim was quite divided. He, like
the other poor man with two charmers, sometimes wished there was only
one of them. But Lily was a born coquette, and jealous at that. She had
a way of calling back her admirers, while Dele didn't care a bit for
admiration, but just wanted a good time.

Benny Frank was something of a bookworm and student. Jim, who was
growing very fast, was a regular boy, and, I am sorry to say, did not
always have perfect lessons. He was so very quick and correct in figures
that he managed to slip through other things. Moreover he carried
authority. The boys had called him "country" at first and teased him in
different ways until small skirmishes had begun. And one day there was a
stand-up fight at recess. Jim thrashed the bully of his class. It was a
forbidden thing to fight in the school-yard, or in school hours, and so
Jim was thrashed again for his victory. But Mr. Hazeltine shook hands
with him afterward and said "it wasn't because he thrashed Upton, but
because he had broken the rules, and he liked to see a boy have courage
enough to stand up for himself." So Jim did not mind it very much,
though he had a black eye for two or three days.

After that he was a sort of hero to the boys, and Upton did not bully as
much. But some of the boys delighted to "pick" at Benny Frank, who would
have made a good Quaker. Jim sometimes felt quite "mad" with him.

Lily did not seem to get along very rapidly with her intimacy. Hanny was
too young, and now that she had the Deans on one side and little Nora
Whitney on the other, was quite out of Lily's reach. And she did enjoy
Delia immensely, though she was past thirteen and such a tall girl. So
Lily tried all her arts on Jim, and succeeded very well, it must be
confessed.

It was Saturday, and the world had not come to an end yet. Benny had
gone down-town with Steve in the morning, but he would not have both
boys together, for Jim was so full of "capers." So he had done errands
for his mother, blackened the boots and shoes--the bootblack brigade had
not then come in fashion, and you hardly ever saw an Italian boy. He had
cleared up the yard and earned his five cents. He was wondering a
little what he would do all the afternoon.

Dele came flying in, eager and impetuous.

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill!" she cried, "can't Hanny go to the Museum this
afternoon? The"--it seemed so odd, Hanny thought, to call grave-looking
Mr. Whitney that, but she said Steve to her big brother. "The brought
home four tickets. My cousin, Walter Hay, is here, and he will go with
us and then go down home. And Nora does so want Hanny to go. Oh, won't
you please let her? I'll take the best of care of her. I've taken Nora
and my little Cousin Julia ever so many times. Oh, Jim, what a pity! If
I had one more ticket!"

"Sho!" and Jim straightened himself up. "I have twenty-eight cents, and
I wouldn't want to go sponging on a girl anyhow! Oh, mother, do let us
go? Hanny, come quick! Oh, do you want to go to the Museum?"

"To the Museum?" Hanny drew a breath of remembered delight and thrilling
anticipation.

Dele and Jim talked together. They were so earnest, so full of entreaty.
Jim might have gone in welcome, but Hanny----

"Why, we shall just take the stage and ride to the door, and we'll be so
careful getting out. They drive clear up to the sidewalk, you know.
Walter is fourteen and he takes his little sisters out, and knows how
to care for girls. And there's such a pretty play; just the thing for
children, The. said."

"Oh, mother, please do," and the little girl's voice was so persuasive,
so pleading.

"Oh, please, mother! I'll see that nothing happens to Hanny."

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill, Nora would be so disappointed. And we all want
Hanny."

Mrs. Underhill had told her husband if he would come up about three she
would take the drive to Harlem with him. Of course she meant to take the
little girl. Which would Hanny rather do?

The fascinations of the Museum outweighed the drive. Margaret was up to
the Beekmans' spending the day, their last week on the farm. Of course
Jim could go--and when she looked at all the eager faces she gave in,
and Hanny danced with delight.

It was almost three before they could get off, and the play began at
that hour. However they caught a stage out on the Bowery and were soon
whirled down to the corner of Broadway and Ann Street.

People were crowding in, it was such a beautiful day, and this was
considered the place preeminently for children. People who would have
been horrified at the thought of a theatre did not have a scruple about
the lecture-room.

"We better not stop to look at things," advised Delia. "We can do that
afterward. Let's go in and get our seats."

They had to go way up front, but they didn't mind that so long as they
were all together. They studied the wonderful Venetian scene on the
drop-curtain, and the young lad in a supposedly green satin costume,
with a long white feather in his hat, who was just stepping into a
gondola where a very lovely lady was playing on a guitar. Then the
orchestra gave a clash of drums, cymbals, French horns, and a big bass
viol, and up went the curtain.

A musical family came out and sang. Then there were some acrobatic
performances. After that the pantomime.

Grandpapa Jerome, in a very foreign costume and a bald head which he
tried to keep covered with a black velvet cap, had two extremely tricksy
sprites for grandchildren. They were very pretty, the girl with long,
light curls, the boy with dark ones. But of all mischief, of all
tormenting deeds and antics with which they nearly set grandpapa crazy
and threw the audience into convulsions! They took the nice fat boiled
ham off the table and greased the doorstep so thoroughly you would have
thought every bone in the old man's body would have been broken by the
repeated falls. They cut the seat out of the chair, and when he went to
sit down he doubled up equal to any modern folding-bed, and he kicked
and turned summersaults until the maid came out and rescued him. Then he
spied the author of the mischief asleep on a grassy bank, and he found a
big strap and went creeping up cautiously, when--whack! and the little
boy flew all to pieces, and the old man was so amazed at his cruelty
that he sat down and began to weep and bewail when the little lad peeped
from behind a tree and, seeing poor grandfather's grief, ran out, hugged
him and kissed him and wiped his eyes, and you could see he was
promising never to do anything naughty again. But that didn't hinder him
from cutting out the bottom of the basket into which the old man was
cutting some very splendid grapes. There were not more than half a dozen
bunches, and the children ran away with them. The old man descended so
carefully, put his hand in the basket, his whole arm, and not a grape.
There was none on the ground. Where had they gone! Oh, there was the
cat. But pussy was much spryer than the old man, and the audience knew
she had not touched a grape.

After that some Indians came on the scene of action, fierce red men of
the forest, and their language was decidedly Jabberwocky. The little
girl was quite frightened at the fierce brandishing of tomahawks. Then
they had a war dance. And oh, then came the marvel of all! Four
beautiful Shetland ponies with the daintiest carriage and six lads in
livery. There sat General Tom Thumb, the curiosity of the time, the
smallest dwarf known. He was not much bigger than a year-old baby, but
he dismounted from his carriage, gave orders to his servants; a
bright-eyed little fellow with rosy cheeks, graceful and with a variety
of pretty tricks. He sang a song or two, then sprang into his carriage
and the ponies trotted off the stage. The curtain came down.

The children were breathless at first. The crowd was surging out and the
place nearly empty before they found their tongues. And then there was
so much else to see. The various stuffed animals, the giraffe with his
three-story neck, the mermaid, the wax figures, the birds and beasts and
serpents, and a model of Paris, of London, and of Jerusalem. The place
looked quite gorgeous all lighted up.

The people were beginning to thin out. They had not seen half, Jim
thought.

"Oh, we haven't been up-stairs!" exclaimed Walter. "There's a great
roof-garden. And you can see all the city."

They trudged up-stairs. Dele kept tight hold of the little girl's hand.
It was quite light up here. What a great space it was! One large flag
was flying, and around the edge of the roof numberless smaller ones.
Some evergreen shrubs in boxes stood around, and there were wooden
arm-chairs, beside some settees. It was rather chilly, though the day
had been very pleasant. And oh, how splendid the lights of Broadway
looked to them, two long rows stretching up and up until lost in
indistinctness. The stores were all open and lighted as brilliantly as
one could with gas. No one thought of Saturday half-holidays then. It
was very grand. But what would they have said to the Columbian nights
and electric lights?

"I don't feel as if I had seen it half," said Jim. He was not grudging
his quarter. "If we had come about one o'clock."

"We'll have to piece it on this end," and Walter laughed. "We must get
our money's worth."

"We might stay over," suggested Dele mirthfully.

"Just the thing," returned Jim, "and all for the same money."

The children glanced at each other in sudden surprise. The glory of a
grand conspiracy shone in their eyes.

"Well, that's too good!" declared Walter. "Won't I just brag of that at
school on Monday. Oh, yes, let's stay."

"We had better go down, for it is getting cool up here. If we only had
something to eat. Hanny, are you hungry? I don't believe Nora ever
knows whether she has eaten or not. Mother says she's just the worst. I
don't mind a bit, but you all----"

"I wouldn't give a copper for supper. It's ever so much more fun
staying," rejoined Walter.

"I'm always hungry as a bear, but I'd a hundred times rather stay," Jim
replied. "Hanny, will you mind?"

"I'm not a bit hungry," answered Hanny. "It's all so beautiful. Oh, do
let's stay!"

"That settles it. Dele, you are a trump."

They picked their way carefully down-stairs. The room was not very
brilliantly lighted, but they found many curiosities that had escaped
their attention before. They espied the diorama and it interested them
very much. Half a dozen people straggled in. The janitor turned on more
light, and began to arrange a platform in a recess.

How any one would feel at home Jim never thought. The rest were in the
habit of doing quite as they liked, and Delia often stayed at her aunt's
until nine o'clock.

At seven the main hall was quite full. The people were crowding up
around the platform. The children went too. The curtain was swung aside
and out stepped Tom Thumb, to be received with cheers. He sang a song
and went through with some military evolutions. There was a railing
around and no one could crowd upon him, but a number spoke to him and
shook hands.

"My little girl," said a tall gentleman who had watched Hanny's
ineffectual efforts to make herself taller, "will you let me hold you
up? Wouldn't you like to shake hands? You're not much bigger yourself."

"Oh, please do," entreated Dele in her eager young voice. "She is so
small."

Hanny was a little startled, but the man held her in his arms and she
smiled hesitatingly. As she met the kindly eyes she said, "Oh, thank
you. It's so nice."

The general came down that end.

"Here is a little lady wants to shake hands with you," the gentleman
said, who was quite a friend of Tom Thumb's.

The small hand was proffered. Hanny was almost afraid, but she put hers
in it and the gallant little general hoped she was well. Then he made a
bow and retired behind the curtain, and it was announced that he would
appear again after the lecture-room performance.

They went in and took their seats. Nora was tired, and leaning her head
on Dele's shoulder went sound asleep. Hanny was getting tired; perhaps,
too, she missed her supper.

It wasn't quite so much fun, for the play was just the same. The
audience enjoyed it greatly. The Indians were more obstreperous, and
sang a hideous song. The vocalists sang many popular songs of the day,
"Old Dan Tucker," "Lucy Long," "Zip Coon," and several patriotic songs.
There was more dancing than in the afternoon, and the boys enjoyed the
Juba in song and dance by a "real slave darkey" who had been made so by
a liberal application of burnt cork, and who could clap and pat the tune
on his knee.

They did not stop to see Tom Thumb again, but went straight down-stairs.
Walter said good-night and declared he had had a splendid time, and Dele
must thank Cousin The again. The four others bundled into the stage,
which was crowded, but some kindly disposed people held both Nora and
Hanny. They had quite a habit of doing it then.

Jim had been wondering what they would say at home. Of course he knew
now he ought not have stayed. But nothing _had_ happened, and Hanny was
all right, and--well, he would face the music whatever it was. If Dele
could be trusted, why not he?

There had been a good deal of anxiety. Mrs. Underhill had expected them
home by six, but their father said: "Oh, give them a little grace." But
when seven o'clock came she went down to Whitney's to inquire. The
table was still standing. Mrs. Whitney sat at the head with a book in
her hand; Dave, the second son, was smoking and reading his paper. Both
girls had gone out.

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill, don't feel a bit worried! They'll come home all
safe. I shouldn't wonder if Dele had taken them over to her aunt's, and
she'll never let them come home without their supper. She's the greatest
hand for children I ever saw. And Dele's so used to going about. Then
everybody's out on Saturday night. Dear me! I haven't given it an
anxious thought," declared Mrs. Whitney.

But Mrs. Underhill could not take it so comfortably.

"There's so many of them we should hear if anything had happened," said
John. "And there is no use looking, for we shouldn't know where they
are; Jim's pretty good stuff too, for a country boy. Now, mother, don't
be foolish."

But she grew more and more uneasy. If she had not let Hanny go! What
could she have been thinking of to do such a thing?

After nine Mr. Underhill walked out to the Bowery, and watched every
stage that halted at the corner. Men, women, and children alighted, but
no little girl. Oh, where could she be? He felt almost as if the world
was coming to an end.

Then a familiar group all talking at the same time stepped out on the
sidewalk. A big girl and two little ones.

"O father, father!" cried Hanny.

He wanted to hug her there in the street. It seemed to him he had never
been so glad and relieved in all his life, or loved her half so well.

"Where _have_ you stayed so long?"

"We went to two museums," said Hanny, before the elders could find their
tongues. "And oh, father, we saw Tom Thumb and he's just as little and
cunning as a baby! And he shook hands with me. A gentleman held me up.
It was beautiful, but I'm awful tired."

"Oh, _were_ you troubled?" cried Delia. "Why didn't you just go in to ma
and she would have told you that I always come up right, and that
nothing ever happens to me, I'm so used to taking care of children. Why,
when we lived down town I used to take out the neighbors' children--over
to Staten Island and to Williamsburg, and always brought them home
safely. Then we hadn't half seen the curiosities, and we should have
missed the nice time with that lovely little Tom Thumb. And we thought
it such capital fun!"

Mr. Underhill really could not say a word. Tired as she was, the little
girl was full of delight. Jim tried to make some explanations and take
part of the blame, but Delia talked them all down and was so fresh and
merry that you couldn't imagine she had gone without her supper.

Mrs. Underhill stood at the area gate with a shawl about her shoulders.
The little girl let go of her father's hand and ran to her.

"Dear Mrs. Underhill," began Dele, "I expect you'll almost want to kill
me, but I never thought about your being worried, for no one ever
worries about me. I suppose it is because I never do get into any
danger. And you must not scold any one, for I was the eldest, except
Cousin Walter, and it was my place to think, but I didn't one bit. It
seemed awful funny, you know, to have it all over for the same money,
and we not paying anything at all! And I did take good care of Hanny.
She's had a lovely time--we all have. And please don't scold Jim. He's
been a perfect gentleman. We didn't do anything rude nor coarse, and
everybody was as polite to us as if we'd been Queen Victoria's children.
And so good-night."

"Jim, your father ought to give you a good thrashing. The idea! I
wouldn't have believed any child of mine could have had such a little
sense," his mother declared.

I don't know what might have happened, but just then Steve and Margaret
returned. And when Steve caught sight of Jim's sober face and heard the
story, he thought it very boylike and rather amusing. Besides, it seemed
a pity to spoil the good time. So he laughed, and told Jim he had
cheated Mr. Barnum out of a quarter, and that he would have to save up
his money to make it good.

"And he owes me nine cents toward the omnibus ride. He must pay me that
first," said his mother sharply.

"I wasn't admitted _twice_" rejoined Jim. "It is the admittance. I
didn't see any notice about not staying, and I don't believe I really
owe Mr. Barnum another quarter."

"Jim, I think I'll educate you for a lawyer. You have such a way of
squirming out of tight places."

They all laughed.

"Mother, do give the children some supper," said their father.

"Here, Jim, pay your mother." Steve laid him down sixpence and three
pennies. We had Mexican sixpences and shillings in those days. "You'll
have enough on your mind without that debt. And next time think of the
folks at home."

"Why didn't the Whitneys feel worried? Oh, thank you, Steve."

"It did beat all," said Mrs. Underhill. "There Mrs. Whitney sat reading
a novel----"

"Perhaps it was her French exercise," interrupted Steve, with a twinkle
in his eye.

"It was no such thing! It was a yellow-covered novel!" I don't know why
they persisted in putting novels in pronounced yellow covers to betray
people, unless it was that publishers wouldn't use false pretences. And
to put a story in the fatal color made it as reprehensible to most
people as a yellow aster. "And such a table!" Mrs. Underhill caught her
breath. "Everything at sixes and sevens, and the cloth looking as if it
had been used a month, and Mrs. Whitney as unconcerned as if the
children had only gone down to the corner. I declare I couldn't be
so--so----"

"But they're a jolly lot. They save a great deal of strength in not
worrying. And they know Dele is trusty. She's a smart girl, too."

"Well, I wouldn't want any of my sons to marry girls brought up as those
Whitneys."

"Hear that, Jim. You are fairly warned."

Jim turned scarlet.

"Jim will have to be in better business many a year than thinking of
girls," subjoined his mother decisively.

The little girl didn't seem very hungry. She ate her bread-and-milk and
talked over the delights of the afternoon, and her enjoyment mollified
her mother a good deal. Jim considered at first whether it wouldn't
rather even up things if he went without his supper, but the biscuits
and the boiled beef were so tempting, and in those days boys could eat
the twenty-four hours round. People were wont to say they had the
digestion of an ostrich. But I think if you had tried them on nails and
old shoes the ostrich would have gone up head.

"Oh, do you see how late it is? I know Hanny will be sick to-morrow! And
Jim, you'll have the doctor's bill to pay."

"Oh, no," said Hanny with a smile, "Joe has promised to doctor me for
nothing."

Mrs. Underhill lost her point. Jim wanted a good laugh, but he thought
it would hardly be prudent.

Of course something ought to have happened to impress their wrong-doing
on the children. But it didn't. They were all well and bright the next
morning. Mr. Theodore Whitney took occasion to say that he hoped the
Underhills wouldn't feel offended. It was just a young people's caper,
and he thought it rather amusing.

Mrs. Whitney said in the bosom of her household: "Well, I wonder that
Mrs. Underhill has an ounce of fat on her bones if she's worried that
way about her eight children! I always felt to trust mine to
Providence."

Jim "gave away" the thing at school, and was quite a hero. But some of
the boys had crawled under a circus tent. And a circus was simply
immense!

Lily Ludlow said, out of her bitterest envy, "I shouldn't have thought
you would let a girl take you out, Jim Underhill!"

"She didn't take me! I bought my own ticket. And there was her
cousin----"

"Well--if you like _that_ style of people--and red hair--and Dele
Whitney has no more figure than a post! I wouldn't be such a fat chunk
for anything! And her clothes are just wild."

"Of course you're ever so much the prettiest. And I wish _we_ could go
to the Museum together, just us two." Jim thought it would be fine to
take out _one_ girl.

That mollified Lily a little.

"And I just wish you lived up by our house. It seems so easy then to
come in. And when you once get real well acquainted--intimate
like--well, you know I like you better than any girl in school;" though
Jim wondered a little if it was absolutely true.

"Do you, really?" The eyes and the smile always conquered him. She made
good use of both.

"Oh, you know I do."

Chris didn't see why she couldn't get acquainted with Margaret. She
wanted her mother to call, but Mrs. Ludlow said, "I've more friends now
than I can attend to." And Miss Margaret seemed to hold up her head so
high. Then Mr. Stephen was going to marry in the Beekman family. And
Chris wondered why Mr. John didn't go in some store business instead of
learning a carpenter's trade.

Hester Brown was out of school a week. Mrs. Craven had begged the girls
not to tease her, but after a few days she announced that a mistake had
been made in the calculation--some people thought three years--but the
end was sure. However three years seems a lifetime to children.




CHAPTER X

A MERRY CHRISTMAS


George Underhill came down and made a nice long visit. He felt he liked
his own home people a little the best, but his heart was still set on
farming. Thanksgiving came after a lovely Indian summer, such as one
rarely sees now. Then each State appointed its own Thanksgiving, and
there were people who boasted of partaking of three separate dinners.

After that it was cold. The little girl had a good warm cloak and hood
and mittens, and it was nothing to run to school. She studied and
played, and knew two pretty exercises on the piano. Jim and Benny Frank
grew like weeds. But Benny somehow "gave in" to the boys, and two or
three of the school bullies did torment him.

"I'd just give it to them!" declared Jim. "I wouldn't be put upon and
called baby and a mollycoddle and have that Perkins crowding me off the
line and losing marks. I'd give him such a right-hander his head would
hum like a swarm of bees."

It was not because Benny was afraid. But he was a peace-loving boy and
he thought fighting brutal and vulgar. His books were such a delight. He
liked to go in and talk to Mr. Theodore, as they all called the eldest
Whitney son. Mr. Theodore in his newspaper capacity had found out so
many queer things about old New York, they really called New York that
in early 1800. He had such wonderful p

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