"Hurrah, old pussy gray!Hurrah, old pussy gray!We've got the President and all,And Polk has won the day."
"Hurrah, old pussy gray!Hurrah, old pussy gray!We've got the President and all,And Polk has won the day."
Then the Democrats hadtheirgrand procession. The houses were illuminated, the streets were full of shouting children. Even the boys had a small brigade that marched up and down the street. And oh, grief, Jim marched with them!
"I wouldn't be such a turn-coat!" declared the little girl angrily. "I'm ashamed of you, James Underhill. I shall always feel as if you wasn't my brother any more."
"Sho!" returned Jim. "Half the boys turning out have Whig fathers! There wouldn't have been enough for any sort of procession without us. And they promised to cry quits if we would turn out. It don't mean anything but fun!"
She took her trouble to her father. "You are sorry we have been beaten?" she said excitedly.
"Yes, pussy, very sorry. I still think we shall be sorry that Clay isn't President."
"I'm sorry all the time. And when he was so good and splendid, why didn't they put him in?"
"Well, a great many people think Mr. Polk just as splendid."
"Oh, the Democrats!" she commented disdainfully.
"More than half the votes of the country went against our Harry of the West. One side always has to be beaten. It's hard not to belong to the winning side. But we won four years ago, and we did a big lot of crowing, I remember. We shouted ourselves hoarse over the announcement that:
'Tippecanoe and Tyler too!Were bound to rule the country through.'
'Tippecanoe and Tyler too!Were bound to rule the country through.'
We drove our enemies out of sight and erected Log Cabins on their ruins. We had a grand, good time. And then our brave and loyal Tippecanoe died, and some of us have been rather disappointed in Mr. Tyler. We will all hope for the best. There are a good many excellent men on both sides. I guess the country will come out all right."
There really were tears in her eyes.
"You see, my little girl, we must make up our minds to occasional defeat, especially when we go into politics," and there was the shrewd laughing twinkle in his eye. "It is supposed to be better for the country to have the parties about evenly divided. They stand more on their good behavior. And we will hope for better luck next time."
"Butyoucouldn't turn round and be a Democrat, could you?" she asked, with a sad entreaty.
"No, dear," he replied gravely.
"I'm glad we have Mayor Harper left. Can the new President put him out?"
"No, my dear."
They kissed each other in half-sorrowful consolation. But alas! next year even Mayor Harper had to go out.
The little girl would have felt a great deal better if Lily Ludlow had not been on the other side. Lily was growing into a very pretty girl. They were wearing pantalets shorter now, and she noticed that Lily wore hers very short. Then aprons were made without bibs or shoulder bands, and had ruffles on the bottom. They were beginning to go farther around, almost like another skirt. Lily had two white ones. She walked up and down the block with a very grand air. Then Miss Chrissy met Margaret at the house of a mutual acquaintance, and invited her very cordially to call on her, and Margaret did the same. Miss Chrissy lost no time, but came card-case in hand, and made herself very agreeable.
"Would you like to go down and call on Jim's girl?" Margaret asked smilingly. Ben always called her that.
"No," replied Hanny, with much dignity. "I don't like her. She called me 'queer' the first time she saw me, and I shouldn't think of calling Nora queer, no matter how she looked. If Jim wants her he may have her, but Idohope they won't live in New York."
The temper was so unusual and so funny that Margaret let it go without a word.
Everything came back to its normal state. Mr. Theodore and her father and Steve remained the same good friends. The party transparencies and emblems were taken down. It seemed to her that people had not been as deeply disappointed as they ought to be. She was very loyal and faithful in her attachments, and no doubt you think quite obstinate in her dislikes.
But something else happened that aroused her interest. Indeed, there were things happening all the time. Miss Jane Underhill, up at Harlem, was dead and buried, and Margaret had taken a great interest in Miss Lois. Cousins had been going and coming. Mrs. Retty Finch had a little son, and Aunt Crete had come down and spent a week with her sister-in-law. But this distanced them all—Steve and Dolly Beekman were going to be married! The Beekmans had been staying up in the country house. All the girls had been married there.
There were to be five bridesmaids. Annette and Margaret were among them. Joe was to be best man and stand with Miss Annette. Doctor Hoffman was to stand with Margaret. There was a Gessner cousin, a Vandam cousin, and Dolly's dear friend, Miss Stuyvesant. All the bridesmaids were to be gowned in white India mull, and Dolly was to have a white brocaded silk, and a long veil that her grandmother had worn. Hosts and hosts of friends were invited. The house would be big enough to take them all in.
Miss Cynthia made the little girl a lovely dress. First she took her pink merino for a slip. Then there were lace puffs divided by insertion, a short baby waist, short sleeves, pink satin bows on her shoulders, with the long ends floating almost like wings, and a narrow pink ribbon around her waist with a great cluster of bows and ends. She was to have her hair curled all around, and to stand and hold Dolly's bouquet while she was being married. I suppose now we would call her a maid of honor.
No one could say that Mr. Peter Beekman had ever given a mean wedding. He liked Stephen very much, and Dolly could almost have wheedled the moon out of him if she had tried. He teased Annette by telling her she would have to be an old maid, and stay home to take care of her father and mother.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt came down. She laid off her mourning and wore her black velvet gown with its English crown point lace. Grandmother Underhill came too, but she wore black silk with her pretty fine lace fichu that she had been married in herself. Uncle David, and Aunt Eunice, who wore a gray satin that had been made for her eldest son's wedding. There were Underhill cousins by the score, some Bounetts from New Rochelle, some Vermilyeas, for no one really worth while was to be slighted.
The day had been very fine and sunny. That was a sign the bride would be merry and happy and pleasant to live with. And when the evening fell the great lawn was all alight with Chinese lanterns that a second cousin in the tea trade had sent Dolly. All the front of the big old house was illuminated. It was square, with a great cupola on top of the second story, and that was in a blaze of light as well.
The Underhills all went up early. Steve was very proud of his mother, who had a pretty changeable silk, lilac and gray, and Joe had given her a collar and cuffs of Honiton lace, to wear at his wedding, he said.
They went in to see the bride when she was dressed. Of course she was beautiful, a pretty girl couldn't look otherwise in her wedding gear. Her veil was put on with orange blossoms and buds, and delicately scented. There was a wreath of the same over one shoulder and across her bosom. Her hair was done in a marvellous fashion, and looked like a golden crown.
How the carriages rolled around and the silks rustled up and down the stairs. There were gay voices and soft laughs, and presently word was sent that the Reverend Dr. De Witt had arrived. Then the immediate family went down. Dolly stooped and kissed Hanny and told her she must not feel a mite afraid. The young men filed out. Stephen took Dolly, just putting her white-gloved hand on his arm as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Joe, smiling and really much handsomer than Stephen, though you couldn't persuade Dolly to any such heresy; then Doctor Hoffman and the others. They seemed to float down the broad stairs. The rooms were very large, but oh, how full they were! The procession walked through the back parlor; Stephen and Dolly and the little girl went straight up to Dr. De Witt, who stood there in his gown and bands, a sweet, reverential old man. The bridesmaids and groomsmen made a half-circle around. There was some soft beautiful music, then a silence. Dr. De Witt began. Dorothea Beekman and Stephen Decatur Underhill promised each other and all the world, to love and cherish, and live together according to God's holy ordinance all their lives.
The little girl held the flowers and listened attentively. She had an idea there must be a great deal more to it and was almost disappointed, for she could not understand that it included all one's life. Dr. De Witt bent over and kissed the bride with solemn reverence. Then Stephen kissed his wife. There was a great deal of kissing afterward, for the new husband kissed the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen had a right to kiss the bride. The mothers had their turn next, and afterward all was laughing confusion.
In the midst of this Philip Hoffman leaned over Margaret.
"I believe you kiss the bridesmaid, too," he said, in a serious fashion, and touched her soft red lips with his. Margaret's face was scarlet, and her breath seemed taken away.
They made a pretty semicircle afterward, and all the guests came up with good wishes. There were so many elegantly dressed people that the little girl was half dazed. I forgot to tell you that she wore her string of gold beads, and they always had a wedding flavor after that.
Presently the procession re-formed and went out to the dining-room, where the table ought to have groaned, if tables ever do. There were some immaculate black waiters who handed one thing after another. The bride cut the cake of both kinds—pound cake like gold, and fruit cake rich enough to give you indigestion. And this wasn't the regular supper.
The bride had to grace the head of every table. What merry quips and jests there were! People were really gay and happy in those days. No one thought of being bored, they had better manners and kindlier hearts, and enjoyment was a duty as well as pleasure. The musicians were playing softly in the hall. By and by the elder people, who had a long drive to take and who had passed their dancing days long ago, began to say good-by to the bridal couple. In the upper hall a table was piled with white boxes tied with narrow white ribbon, containing a bit of the bride's cake, and a maid stood there handing them to the guests. You put some under your pillow and dreamed on it. If the dream was delightful you might look for it to come true. If it was disagreeable you felt sure you didn't believe in such nonsense.
Then the dancing commenced. There were three large rooms devoted to this. Several of the old men went up-stairs to Mr. Beekman's special room to have a smoke and a good game of cards. But oh, how merry they were down-stairs! They danced with the utmost zest because they really liked to.
The little girl danced, too. Steve took her out first, and she went through a quadrille very prettily. Then it was Joe, and after that Doctor Hoffman begged her mother to let her dance just once with him, and though she was a little afraid, she enjoyed it very much. Dolly introduced her to ever so many people, and said she was her little sister.
"Am I really?" said Hanny, a little confused.
"Why, yes," laughingly. "And one reason why I wanted to marry Stephen was because he had so many brothers. Now they are all mine, five of them."
The little girl studied a moment. "It's queer," she said with a smile, "but I have one more than you. And are you going to have Margaret, too?"
"Yes, and your mother and father. But I am going to be very good and not take them away. Instead, I shall come to see you and have my little piece. I'm quite in love with Benny Frank. And Jim's a regular mischief."
Jim did wish, when he saw all the pretty girls, that he was a grown man and could dance. Ben found some men to talk to, and Mr. Bond, who was in a large jewelry establishment, told him about some rare and precious stones. Old Mrs. Beekman made much of them and said she envied Mrs. Underhill her fine boys.
There was supper about midnight. Cold meats of all kinds, salads, fruits, and ice cream, to say nothing of the wonderful jellies. Tea and coffee, and in an anteroom a great bowl of punch.
After that Mrs. Underhill gathered her old people and her young people, and said they must go home. Joe promised he would look out for George, and Margaret was to stay to the bridesmaid's breakfast the next morning.
Dolly slipped a ring on the little girl's finger.
"That's a sign you aremylittle sister for ever and ever," she said, with a kiss.
"Can't I ever grow big?" asked Hanny seriously.
Mr. Beekman laughed at that.
"You must comedownand see me," he exclaimed. "We're going to move next week, and we always take Katchina. Come and have a good time with us."
The little girl was asleep in grandmother's arms when they reached home. And the old lady gently took off her pretty clothes and laid her in the bed.
"She's by far the sweetest child you've got, Marg'ret," she said to Mrs. Underhill.
That was not the end of the gayeties. Relatives kept giving parties, and the bridesmaids were asked. Margaret began to feel as if she knew Doctor Hoffman very well. He liked Annette, too. Perhaps he would marry Annette. They had all been saying, "One wedding makes many."
It seemed so queer to be without Stephen. The little girl began to realize that they had somehow given him away, and she did not quite enjoy the thought. He and Dolly came down and stayed two days, and, oh, dear! Dolly was the sweetest and merriest and funniest being alive. She played such jolly tunes, she sang like a bird, and whistled like a bobolink, could play checkers and chess and fox and geese, and she brought Jim a backgammon board.
They talked a good deal about building a house way up-town. Mr. Beekman had offered Dolly a lot. John said it was going to be the finest part of the city. Stephen couldn't really afford to build, but they would like to begin in their own home. Property was getting so high down-town that young people like them, just beginning life, must look around and consider.
"You just go up-town, you can't miss it. And Mayor Harper is going to make a beautiful place of Madison Square. The firm I am with count on that being the fine residential part," declared John.
"We can't afford much grandeur on the start," says Dolly, with charming frankness. "When we get to be middle-aged people, perhaps——"
Mrs. Underhill is very glad to have her so prudent. She will make a fine wife for Stephen.
Stephen took his new wife up to Yonkers to spend a Sunday, so that Aunt Crete would not feel slighted. She seemed quite an old lady. And though it was cold and blustering they walked up on the hill where father's new house was to be built, by and by, a lovely place for the children and grandchildren to cluster around a hearthstone.
Meanwhile Margaret was learning to cook and bake and keep house. She practised her music diligently, she kept on with her French, and she began to read some books Dr. Hoffman had recommended. There were calls to make and invitations to tea, and a Christmas Eve party at one of her schoolmate's. Joe said she must let him know when she wanted an escort, and John was ready to go for her at any time.
It did not seem possible that Christmascouldcome around so soon. Santa Claus was not quite such a real thing this year, so many gifts came to the little girl by the way of the hall door. But she hung up her stocking all the same, and had it full to the topmost round. There was a beautiful set of dishes, and they came with best love from "Dolly and Stephen." There was cloth for a pretty new winter coat, blue-and-black plaid, some squirrel fur to trim it with, and a squirrel muff.
Among the gifts bestowed on Margaret was a box of lovely hothouse flowers. There was only "Merry Christmas" on the card.
Stephen and Dolly came to the Christmas dinner, but they strenuously denied any knowledge of it. Mrs. Underhill had all her family together, and she was a happy woman. In truth she was very proud of Stephen's wife.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt had come to make a visit. Aunt Katrina was down also staying with her son, as the two old ladies found it rather lonesome now that there were no active duties demanding their attention. And Grandmother Underhill had sent the little girl her Irish chain bedquilt, finished and quilted.
The Dean children came in during the afternoon to exchange notes and tell a grand secret. Their aunt and two cousins were coming from Baltimore. Bessy was quite a big girl, fourteen, and Ada was ten. Their mother had said they might have a real party of boys and girls, not just a little tea party and playing with dolls; but real plays with forfeits.
"You know I've just studied with all my might and main, and mother said if I had all my lessons and a good record that I could have the thing I wanted most, if it didn't cost too very much. And I said I wanted a real party."
"It will be just splendid!" declared Hanny.
"And we've been counting up. We have seven cousins to ask. And the girls at school—some of them. I wish we knew some more boys. Oh, do you think Jim would come?"
"I'll ask him if you would like."
"Oh, just coax him. I suppose Benny Frank will feel that he's too old. But he's so nice. Oh, do you s'pose John Robert Charles' mother would let him come? Oh, there! I promised to call him Charles, but I think Robert's prettier, don't you? And mother said she'd write the invitations on note-paper. And she has some lovely little envelopes."
That did look like a party.
"I think John Robert Charles is real nice," said Hanny timidly. "But I am afraid of his mother."
"Oh, so is he, awful! Yet she isn't real ugly to him, only cross, and so dreadful particular. She makes him go out and wipe his feet twice, and wear that queer long cloak when it rains, and that red woollen tippet. She bought red because it was healthy; he said so. He wanted blue-and-gray. She lets him come over to our house sometimes, and he can sing just splendid. But the boys do make fun of him."
Poor John Robert Charles often thought his life was a burden on account of his name and his mother's great virtue of cleanliness. He was not allowed to play with the boys. Ball and marbles and hopscotch were tabooed. He could walk up and down and do errands, and that with going to school was surely enough. Then she exaggerated him. His white collars were always broader; if trousers were a little wide, his were regular sailor's. She bought his Sunday suit to grow into, so by the second winter it just fitted him. His every-day clothes she made. And oh, she cut his hair!
It is very hard to be the daughter of such a mother, a rigid, uncompromising woman with no sense of the fitness of things, of harmony or beauty, or indulgence in little fancies that are so much to a child. Quite as hard to be the son. Charles had everything needful to keep him warm, in good health, and books for study. When it rained hard he had six cents to ride in the omnibus. And he did have the cleanest house, and the cleanest clothes, and, his mother thought, a very nice time.
Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out:
"John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal."
"What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal."
"How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal."
Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage.
"Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?"
His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is aftermyfather, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name."
Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys.
He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read.
"And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim."
The cousins came. Hanny saw them on Sunday, and on Monday two little girls went round with a pretty basket and left pale-green missives at the houses of friends. There was one for Ben also.
"H-m-m," ejaculated Jim. "A baby party. Will they play with dolls?"
"Oh, Jim! it's going to be a real party with refreshments. Of course there won't be dolls."
"Washington pie and round hearts."
The tears rushed to Hanny's eyes.
"Never mind about him," said Ben, "I'll go. I'll be your beau. And see here, Hanny, it's polite to answer an invitation. Now you write yours and I'll write mine, and I'll leave them at the door."
Hanny smiled and went up-stairs for her box of paper.
Jim gave a whistle and marched off; but when he saw the pretty Baltimore cousin, he reconsidered, though he was afraid Lily Ludlow would laugh at him when she heard of it.
Margaret dressed the little girl in her pretty blue cashmere, and she felt very nice with her two brothers. Most of the children were ten and twelve, but the two cousins were older. Bessie Ritter was quite used to parties and took the lead, though the children were rather shy at first.
They played "Stage-coach," to begin with. When the driver, who stood in the middle of the room, said, "Passengers change for Boston," every one had to get up and run to another seat, and of course there was one who could not find a seat, and he or she had to be driver. That broke up the stiffness. Then they had "Cross Questions," where you answered for your neighbor, and he answered for you, and you were always forgetting and had to pay a forfeit. Of course they had to be redeemed.
Charles Reed came, though his mother couldn't decide until the last moment. He looked very nice, too. He had to sing a song, and really, he did it in a manly fashion.
But the little girl thought "Oats, peas, beans," the prettiest of all. It nearly foreshadowed kindergarten songs. The children stood in a ring with one in the middle, and as they moved slowly around, sang:
"Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows,'Tis you nor I nor nobody knowsHow oats, peas, beans, and barley grows.Thus the farmer sows his seeds,Thus he stands and takes his ease,Stamps his foot and claps his handsAnd turns around to view his lands;A-waiting for a partner,A-waiting for a partner,So open the ring and take one in,And kiss her when you get her in."
"Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows,'Tis you nor I nor nobody knowsHow oats, peas, beans, and barley grows.Thus the farmer sows his seeds,Thus he stands and takes his ease,Stamps his foot and claps his handsAnd turns around to view his lands;A-waiting for a partner,A-waiting for a partner,So open the ring and take one in,And kiss her when you get her in."
The children had acted it all, sowing the seed, taking his ease, stamping, clapping hands, and whirling around. They looked very pretty doing it. Bessy Ritter had asked Ben to stand in first and he had obligingly consented. Of course he chose her. Then the children sang again:
"Now you're married you must obey,You must be true to all you say,You must be kind, you must be good,And keep your wife in kindling-wood.The oats are gathered in the barn,The best produce upon the farm,Gold and silver must be paid,And on the lips a kiss is laid."
"Now you're married you must obey,You must be true to all you say,You must be kind, you must be good,And keep your wife in kindling-wood.The oats are gathered in the barn,The best produce upon the farm,Gold and silver must be paid,And on the lips a kiss is laid."
The two took their places in the ring, and Jim next sacrificed himself for the evening's good and chose another of Josie's cousins. Then John Robert Charles manfully took his place and chose Josie Dean. So they went on until nearly all had been chosen. Then Mrs. Dean asked them out to have some refreshments. They were all very merry indeed. Mr. Dean sang some amusing songs afterward, and they all joined in several school songs.
"I've just been happy through and through," admitted Charles. "I wish I could give a party. You should come and plan everything," he whispered to Josie.
It was time to go home then. There was a Babel of talk as the little girls were finding their wraps, mingled with pleasant outbursts of laughter. Mr. Dean was to take some of the small people home, and Jim obligingly offered his escort. It had not been soverybabyish.
Ben wrapped his little sister up "head and ears," and ran home with her. How the stars sparkled!
"It's been just splendid!" she said to her mother. "Don't you think I might have a party some time, and Ben and all of us?"
"Next winter, may be."
Her father looked up from his paper and smiled. She seemed to have grown taller. What if, some day, he should lose his little girl!
The very next day Mr. Whitney announced that he was going to take the Deans and their cousins and Nora to the Museum. He wanted the little girl to go with them. Delia was visiting in Philadelphia. He promised, laughingly, to have them all home in good season.
New Year's Day was gayer than ever. The streets were full of throngs of men in twos up to any number, and carriages went whirling by. There were no ladies out, of course. Margaret had two of her school friends receiving with her, one a beautiful Southern girl whose father was in Congress, and who was staying on in New York, taking what we should call a post-graduate course now, perfecting herself in music and languages. Margaret was a real young lady now. Joe had taken her to several parties, and there had been quite a grand reception at the Beekmans'.
The little girl was dressed in her blue cashmere and a dainty white Swiss apron ornamented with little bows like butterflies. Miss Butler thought she was a charming child. She stood by the window a good deal, delighted with the stir and movement in the street, and she looked very picturesque. Her hair, which was still light, had been curled all round and tied with a blue ribbon instead of a comb. Her mother said "it was foolishness, and they would make the child as vain as a peacock." But I think she was rather proud of the sweet, pretty-mannered little girl.
There was one great diversion for her. About the middle of the afternoon two gentlemen called for her father. One was quite as old, with a handsome white beard and iron-gray hair, very stylishly dressed. He wore a high-standing collar with points, and what was called a neckcloth of black silk with dark-blue brocaded figures running over it, and a handsome brocaded-velvet vest, double-breasted, the fashion of the times, with gilt buttons that looked as if they were set with diamonds, they sparkled so. Over all he had worn a long Spanish circular which he dropped in the hall. The younger man might have been eighteen or twenty.
Ben was waiting on the door. He announced "Mr. Bounett and Mr. Eugene Bounett."
"We hardly expected to find any of the gentlemen at home," began the elder guest. "We are cousins, in a fashion, and my son has met the doctor——"
"Father is at home," said Margaret in the pause. "Hanny, run down-stairs and call him."
"Miss Underhill, I presume," exclaimed the young man. "I have seen your brother quite often of late. And do you know his chum, Phil Hoffman? Doctor, I ought to say," laughingly.
"Oh, yes," and Margaret colored a little.
Then her father came up. These were some of the Bounetts from New Rochelle, originally farther back from England and France in the time of the Huguenot persecution. Mr. Bounett's father had come to New York a young man seventy odd years ago. Mr. Bounett himself had married for his first wife a Miss Vermilye, whose mother had been an Underhill from White Plains. And she was Father Underhill's own cousin. She had been dead more than twenty years, and her children, five living ones, were all married and settled about, and he had five by his second marriage. This was the eldest son.
They talked family quite a while, and Mrs. Underhill was summoned. The young man went out in the back parlor where the table stood in its pretty holiday array, and was introduced to Margaret's friends. They hunted mottoes, which was often quite amusing, ate candies and almonds and bits of cake while the elder people were talking themselves into relationship. Eugene explained that his next younger brother was Louis; then a slip of a girl of fifteen and two young cubs completed the second family. But the older brothers and sisters were just like own folks; indeed he thought one sister, Mrs. French, was one of the most charming women he knew, only she did live in the wilds of Williamsburg. Francesca was married in the Livingston family and lived up in Manhattanville. How any one could bear to be out of the city—that meant below Tenth Street—he couldn't see!
"Is that little fairy your sister?" he asked. "Isn't she lovely!"
Margaret smiled. She thought Mr. Eugene very flattering. Then the others came out, and Mr. Bounett took a cup of black coffee and a very dainty sandwich. He left sweets to the young people. And now that they had broken the ice, he hoped the Underhills would be social. They, the Bounetts, lived over in Hammersley Street, which was really a continuation of Houston. And they might like to see grandfather, who was in his ninetieth year and still kept to his old French ways and fashions.
Miss Butler was very enthusiastic about the callers. "Why, you are quite French," she said, "onlytheyshow it in their looks."
"We have had so much English admixture," and Father Underhill laughed with a mellow sound. "But I've heard that my great grandmother was a useless fine lady when they came to this country, and had never dressed herself or brushed her hair, and had to have a lady's maid until she died. She never learned to speak English, or only a few words, but she could play beautifully on a harp and recite the French poets so well that people came from a distance to see her. But her daughters had a great many other things to learn, and were very smart women. My own grandmother could spin on the big wheel and the little wheel equal to any girl when she was seventy years old."
"How delightfully romantic!" cried Miss Butler.
"There's a big wheel in the garret at Yonkers, and a little wheel, and a funny reel," said Hanny, who was sitting on Miss Butler's lap, "and we used to play the reel was a mill, and make believe we ground corn."
"I've done many a day's spinning!" exclaimed Mrs. Underhill. "The Hunters raised no end of flax, and we spun the thread for our bed and table linen. One of our neighbors had a loom and did weaving. Cotton goods were so high we were glad to keep to linen. Ah, well, the world's changed a deal since my young days."
They were disturbed by an influx of guests. The fashionable young men came late in the afternoon and evening. The gilt candelabrum on the mantel was lighted up, and it had so many branches and prisms it was quite brilliant. Then there were sconces at the side of the wall to light up corners, and these have come around again, since people realize what a soft, suggestive light candles give. The Underhills had no gas in their house, it was esteemed one of the luxuries. Even the outskirts of the city streets were still lighted with oil.
Steve came in and teased the girls and begged them to eat philopenas with him. He seemed to find so many. And he said the best wish he could give them for 1845 was that they might all find a good husband, as good as he was making, and if they didn't like to take his word they were at liberty to go and ask his wife.
Quite in the evening the two doctors called, and Joe announced that he was going to have a Christian supper and a cup of tea, so that he would be able to attend to business to-morrow, as half the city would be ill from eating all manner of sweet stuff. After he had chaffed the girls a while he took Doctor Hoffman down-stairs, "out of the crowd," he said, and Mrs. Underhill gave them a cup of delicious tea. She and Martha were kept quite busy with washing dishes and making tea and coffee. Joe had requested last year that they should not offer wine to the callers.
He went out in the kitchen to have a talk with his mother about the Bounetts. Dr. Hoffman played with his spoon and would not have another cup of tea. Mr. Underhill wondered why he did not go up-stairs and have a good time with the girls. They could hear the merry laughter.
"Mr. Underhill——" he began presently.
"Eh—what?" said that gentleman, rather amazed at the pause.
Doctor Hoffman cleared his throat. There was nothing at all in it, the trouble was a sort of bounding pulsation that interfered with his breath, and flushed his face.
"Mr. Underhill, I have a great favor to ask." He rose and came near so that he could lower his voice. "I—I admire your daughter extremely. I should choose her out of all the world if I could——"
Father Underhill glanced up in consternation. He wanted to stop the young man from uttering another word, but before he could collect his scattered wits, the young man had said it all.
"I want permission to visit her, to see—if she cannot like me well enough to some day take me for a husband. I have really fallen in love with her. Joe will tell you all you want to know about me. I'm steady, thank Heaven, and have a start in the world beside my profession. I wanted you to know what my intentions were, and to give me the opportunity of winning her——"
"I never once thought——" The father was confused, and the lover now self-possessed.
"No, I suppose not. Of course, we are both young and do not need to be in a hurry. I wanted the privilege of visiting her."
"Yes, yes," in embarrassed surprise. "I mean——"
"Thank you," said the lover, grasping his hand. "I hope to win your respect and approval. Joe and I are like brothers already. I admire you all so much."
Hanny came flying in with pink cheeks and eager eyes.
"Where is Joe? Margaret wants him—she said I must ask them if they wouldn't please to like to dance a quadrille, and come up-stairs when they had finished their tea."
Joe was sitting astride a chair, tilting it up and down and talking to his mother.
"Oh, yes, your royal highness. Phil, if you have finished your tea——" and Joe laughed, inwardly knowing some other business had been concluded as well.
They had a delightful quadrille. Then Miss Butler sang a fascinating song—"The Mocking-Bird." Two of the gentlemen sang several of the popular airs of the day, and the party broke up. The little girl had gone to bed some time before, though she declared she wasn't a bit tired, and her eyes shone like stars.
The very next day it snowed, so the ladies could have no day at all. There was sleigh-riding and merry-making of all sorts. One day Dr. Hoffman came and took Margaret and her little sister out in a dainty cutter. Then he used to drop in St. Thomas' Church and walk home with her evenings. Father Underhill felt quite guilty in not forewarning his wife of the conspiracy, but one evening she mistrusted.
"Margaret is altogether too young to keep company," she declared in an authoritative way.
"Margaret is nineteen," said her father. "And you were only twenty when I married you."
"That's too young."
"Seems to me we were far from miserable. As I remember it was a very happy year."
"Don't be silly, 'Milyer. And you're so soft about the children. You haven't a bit of sense about them."
In her heart she knew she would not give up one year of her married life for anything the world could offer.
"Margaret knows no more about housekeeping than a cat," she continued.
"Well, there's time for her to learn. And perhaps she will not really like the young man."
"She likes him already. 'Milyer, you're blind as a bat."
"Well, if they like each other—it's the way of the world. It's been going on since Adam."
"It's simply ridiculous to have Margaret perking herself up for beaux."
"I guess you'll have to let the matter go Hoffman is well connected and a nice young fellow."
Yes, she had to let the matter go on. She was unnecessarily sharp with Margaret and pretended not to see; she was extremely ceremonious with the young man at first. She didn't mean to have him coming to tea on Sunday evenings, a fashion that still lingered. But Dolly was very good to the young lovers, and they had so many mutual friends. Then Margaret was quite shy, she hardly knew what to make of the attentions that were so reverent and sweet. She couldn't have discussed them with a single human being.
Mr. and Mrs. Underhill had called on their new cousins in Hammersley Street. And on Washington's Birthday he took the little girl and Ben over.
The street was still considered in the quality part of the town. The row was quite imposing, the stoops being high, the houses three stories and a half, with short windows just below the roof. The railing of the stoop was very ornate, the work around the front door and the fanlight at the top being of the old-fashioned decorative sort. They were ushered into the parlor by a young colored lad.
It was a very splendid room, the little girl thought, with a high, frescoed ceiling and a heavy cornice of flowers and leaves. The side walls were a light gray, but they were nearly covered with pictures. The curtains were a dull blue and what we should call old gold, and swept the floor. There was a mirror from floor to ceiling with an extremely ornamental frame, the top forming a curtain cornice over the windows. At the end of the room was the same kind of cornice and curtains, but no glass. The carpet had a great medallion in the center and all kinds of arabesques and scrolls and flowers about it. The furniture was rather odd, divans, chairs, ottomans and queer-looking tables, and the little girl came to know afterward that two or three pieces had been in the royal palace of Versailles.
A very sweet, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman came through the curtain.
"I am Mrs. French," she said, in a soft tone, "and I am very glad to see you. Is this the little girl of whom I have heard so much? Be seated, please. Father is out, and he will be very sorry to miss you."
She dropped on an ottoman and drew the little girl toward her.
"Let me take off your hat and coat. There are some children who will be glad to see you. Mother will be up in a few moments. Do you know that I have been seriously considering a visit to you? Father and Eugene have talked so much about you."
"And your grandfather——"
"He is very well to-day. I was in his room reading to him. He will be pleased you have come."
Mrs. Bounett came in with her daughter, a rather tall, lanky girl of fifteen, very dark, and with a great mop of black hair that was tied at the back without being braided. She looked as if she had outgrown her dress.
This was Miss Luella. After a moment she came over to Ben, and asked him where he went to school, and if he had any pets. They had a squirrel and some guinea-pigs and a parrot that could talk everything. Didn't he want to see them?
Hanny looked eager as well.
"Can I take her?" asked Lu.
"The boys are down-stairs. Don't be rough."
It was rather dark. Lu caught Hanny in her arms and whisked her down to the dining-room. The boys were thirteen and eleven, and were playing checkers on the large dining-table. Everything looked so immensely big to Hanny. The shelves of the sideboard were full of glass and silver and queer old blue china; the chairs had great high backs and were leather-covered.
"We want to see the guinea-pigs," said Lu. "But I'll take her out to see the parrots first."
There was a fat colored woman in the kitchen who suggested Aunt Mary. They went through to a little room under the great back porch, made in the end of the area.
There were two parrots and a beautiful white paroquet. Polly was sulky. "Mind your business!" was all she would say. Dan soon began to be quite sociable, declaring "He was glad to see them, and would like to have some grapes."
"You shut up!" screamed Polly.
"I'll talk as much as I like."
"No, you won't. I'll come and choke you."
"Do if you dare!"
Then they shrieked at each other with the vigor of fighting cats. Polly rustled around her cage as if she would be out the next moment. Hanny clung to Lu and was pale with fright.
"They can't get out. They'd tear each other to pieces when they're mad, and sometimes they're sweet as honey. Pa's going to sell one of them, but we can't decide which must go. Polly talks a lot when she's in the mood. I don't know what's ruffled her so. Polly, my pretty Polly, sing for me, and the first time I go out I'll buy you some candy with lots of peanuts in it—lots—of—peanuts," lingeringly.
"Polly sing! Oh, ho! ho! Polly can't sing no more'n a crow," squeaked out Dan.
"Can too, can too!"
"Pretty Polly! Polly want a cracker. Polly sing for her dear Dan. Oh, boo hoo!"
Polly screamed in a tearing rage.
The young colored lad entered. "Miss Lu, de birds disturb yer gramper. Lemme take Polly. You bad bird, you're goin' in a dungeon."
With that he whisked Polly off. Dan laughed gleefully. The boys came, and Dan went through his stock accomplishments, much to their delight.
"But Polly's a sight the funniest," declared Lu. "Only she has such a horrid temper and it just grows worse. We had a monkey and that got to be so awful bad. Now let's go and see the guinea-pigs."
They were up on the top floor. "We had them down cellar," explained one of the boys, "but some of them died. 'Gene said 'twas too dark and damp."
The children trudged up-stairs. There was a pen in a small room which seemed a receptacle for all sorts of broken toys. Ah, how pretty the little things were; black-and-yellow-spotted, bright-eyed, and soft-coated, with a tiny sort of squeak, and tame enough to be caught. Lu offered one to Hanny, but she drew back in half fear. Then they brought in the squirrel, and he was a handsome fellow with beady eyes and a bushy tail, and when they let him out he ran up on any one's shoulder.
"If it was only warm, we'd go out and have a swing. Oh, don't you want a ride? Here's our horse. We don't care much for it now, though in summer we have it out-of-doors."
Hanny was speechless with amaze. She had never seen so large a one in the stores. He was covered with real hair, had a splendid mane and tail and beautiful eyes. His silver-mounted red trappings were extremely gorgeous.
"He's magnificent!" declared Ben. "Hanny, just try him. Don't be a little 'fraid-cat!" as she hung back.
"See here!" Lu sprang on and took an inspiriting gallop. The horse worked with springs and seemed fairly alive. Afterward Hanny ventured and found it exhilarating. Oh, if she could only have one!
"I suppose it cost a good deal," she questioned timidly.
Jeffrey laughed. "'Gene picked it up at an auction where people were being sold out, and he got it for a song," he said. "But we've outgrown it. I'd like a real pony. I wish pa'd keep a horse."
"We have two," said the little girl.
"Pshaw now! you're joking."
"No," rejoined Ben quietly. "We brought them down from the farm. Father and Steve needed them."
"Do you own a farm, too?" Jeffrey asked in amaze. "Why, you must be all-fired rich!"
"No, we're not so very rich," said Ben soberly. "Our house in First Street isn't nearly as big and as handsome as this. But we did have a big one in the country. Uncle lives there now, and we have a hundred acres of land."
"Jiminy!" ejaculated the young boy.
"Chillen! Chillen, please bring de company down to your gramper."
"Oh, I'm 'fraid you're going away," said Lu. "You're awful sweet! I just wish I had a little sister. I wish you'd come and stay a week. But I s'pose you'd feel like a cat in a strange garret. I'd be real good to you, though."
She caught Hanny in her arms and fairly ran down-stairs with her.
"You're the littlest mite of a thing! Why, you're never nine years old! You're just like a doll!"
"Oh, please let me walk," entreated Hanny.
Their mother stood in the lower hall.
"You boys go down-stairs or in the parlor. So many children confuse grandpa. Lu, you look too utterly harum-scarum. Do go and brush your hair."
Between the parlor and the back room was a space made into a library on one side and some closets on the other. Sliding doors shut this from the back room. This was large, with a splendid, high-post bedstead that had yellow silk curtains around it, a velvet sofa, and over by the window some arm-chairs and a table. And out of one chair rose a curious little old man, who seemed somehow to have shrunken up, and yet he was a gentleman from head to foot. His hair was long and curled at the ends, but it looked like floss silk. His eyes were dark and bright, his face was wrinkled, and his beard thin. Hanny thought of the old man at the Bowling Green who had been in the Bastille. His velvet coat, very much cut away, was faced with plum-colored satin, his long waistcoat was of flowered damask, his knee-breeches were fastened with silver buckles, and his slippers had much larger ones. There really were some diamonds in them. His shirt frill was crimped in the most beautiful manner, and the diamond pin sparkled with every turn.
"This is grandpa," said Mrs. French. "We are all very proud of him that he has kept his faculties, and we want him to live an even hundred years."
The old man smiled and shook his head slowly. He took Hanny's hand, and his was as soft as a baby's. He said he was very glad to see them both; he and their father had been talking over old times and relationships.
His voice had a pretty foreign sound. It was a soft, trained voice, but the accent was discernible.
"And you were here through the War of the Revolution," said Ben, who had been counting back.
"Yes. My father had just died and left nine children. I was the oldest, and there were two girls. So I couldn't be spared to go. The British so soon took possession of New York. But in 1812 I was free to fight for liberty and the country of my adoption. We were never molested nor badly treated, but of course we could give no aid to our countrymen. It was a long, weary struggle. No one supposed at first the rebels could conquer. And all that is seventy years ago, seventy years."
He leaned back and looked weary.
"You must come down some Saturday morning when he feels fresh and he will tell you all about it," said Mrs. French. "His memory is excellent, but he does get fatigued."
"I wonder if you ever saw the statue of King George that was in Bowling Green," Hanny asked, with a little hesitation. "They made bullets of it."
"Ah, you know that much?" He smiled and leaned over on the arm of the chair. "Yes, my child. The soldiers met to hear the Declaration of Independence read for the first time. Washington was on horseback with his aides around him. The applause was like a mighty shout from one throat. Then they rushed to the City Hall and tore the picture of the king from its frame, and then they dragged the statue through the streets. Yes, its final end was bullets for the rebels, as they were called. As my daughter says, come and see me again, and I will tell you all you want to hear. You are a pretty little girl," and he pressed Hanny's hand caressingly.
Then they said good-by to him and went back to the parlor.
"He always dresses up on holidays," said Mrs. French smilingly, "though he continues to wear the old-fashioned costume. He has had a number of calls to-day. People are still interested in the old times. And believe me, I shall take a great deal of pleasure in continuing the acquaintance. You may expect me very soon."
Luella kissed Hanny with frantic fervor and begged her to come again. She was so used to boys, she cared nothing about Ben.
The little girl had so much to tell Jim, who had been skating. The quarrelling parrots, the beautiful house, the queer little guinea-pigs, and the splendid hobby-horse that they didn't seem to care a bit about. "And Lu is a good deal like Dele, only not so nice or so funny, and her hair is awful black. She ran down-stairs with me in her arms and I was 'most frightened to death. I don't believe I would want to be her little sister. And the grandpa is like a picture of the old French people. And to think that he doesn't read English very well and always uses his French Bible. There were so many foreign people in New York at that time, I s'pose they couldn't all talk English."
"And they had preaching in Dutch after 1800 in the Middle Dutch Church," said Jim. "And even after the sermons were in English the singing had to be in Dutch. Aunt Nancy said the place used to be crowded just to hear the people sing."
"It's queer how they could understand each other. Do you suppose the children had to learn every language?"
Jim gave a great laugh at that.
The new President was inaugurated on the fourth of March. The little girl sighed to think how many Democratic people there were on her block. They put out flags and bunting, and illuminated in the evening. They had tremendous bonfires, and all the boys waived personal feeling and danced and whooped like wild Indians. No healthy, well-conditioned boy could resist the fragrance of a tar barrel.
Miss Lily Ludlow wore a red, white, and blue rosette with a tiny portrait of Mr. Polk in the centre. The public-school girls often walked up First Avenue and met Mrs. Craven's little girls going home. Lily used to stare at Hanny in an insolent manner. She and her sister could not forgive the fact that Miss Margaret had not called.
And now the talk was that Miss Margaret Underhill had a beau, a handsome young doctor.
"They do think they're awful grand," said Lily to some of her mates. "But they take up with that Dele Whitney, who sometimes does the washing on Saturdays. It's a fact, girls; and the sister works in an artificial-flower place down in Division Street. And the Underhills think they're good enough to company with."
But the fact remained that the Underhills kept a carriage, and that Mr. Stephen had married in the Beekman family, and Chris had heard that Dr. Hoffman was considered a great catch. She was almost twenty and had never kept company yet. Young men called at the house, to be sure, and attended her home from parties, but the most desirable ones seemed unattainable.
Her mother fretted a little that she didn't get to doing something. Here were girls earning five or six dollars a week, and her father's wages were so small it was a pinch all the time.
"I'm sure I make all our dresses and sew for father, and do lots of housework," replied Chris, half-crying.
There were people even then who considered it more genteel not to work out of the house. And since servants were not generally kept, a daughter's assistance was needed in the household.
And to crown the little girl's troubles her dear mayor was retired to private life and a Democrat ruled in his stead.
But there were the new discoveries to talk about, and the reduction of postage due to the old administration. Now you could send a letter three hundred miles for five cents. Hanny wrote several times a year to her grandmother Underhill, so this interested her. At the end of the century we are clamoring for penny postage, and our delivery is free. Then they had to pay the carrier.
The electro-magnetic telegraph was coming in for its share of attention. Scientific people were dropping into the old University of New York, where Mr. Morse was working it. The city had been connected with Washington. There were people who believed "there was a humbugging fellow at both ends," and that the scheme couldn't be made to work. It was cumbersome compared to modern methods. And Professor John W. Draper took the first daguerreotype from the roof of that famous building. That was the greatest wonder of the day. What was more remarkable, a picture or portrait could be copied in a few moments. Then there was a hint of war with Mexico, and the Oregon question was looming up with its cabalistic figures of "54, 40, or fight." Indeed, it seemed as if war was in the air.
Children too had trials, especially John Robert Charles. He had been allowed to go to Allen Street Sunday-school with the Dean children, and he went over on Saturday afternoon to study the lesson. Hanny used to come in, and occasionally they had a little tea. They played in the yard and the wide back area. The boys did tease him; the target was too good to miss. Hanny sympathized with him, for he was so nice and pleasant. They couldn't decide just what name to call him. Bob did well enough for the boys, but it was a little too rough for girls.
His mother still made him put on a long, checked pinafore to come to meals. His father used a white napkin. And he did wipe dishes for her, and help with the vegetables on Saturday. He could spread up a bed as neatly as a girl, but he kept these accomplishments to himself.
There was another excitement among the small people. Mr. Bradbury, who for years was destined to be the children's delight, was teaching singing classes and giving concerts with his best pupils. Mrs. Dean decided to let the girls go to the four o'clock class. Hanny would join them. They could study the Sunday lesson before or afterward.
"If I only could go," sighed the boy. The tears came into his eyes.
"And you can sing just lovely!" declared Tudie.
Josie stood up with a warmly flushing face.
"I do believe I'd raise an insurrection. It isn't as if you wanted to do anything wicked, like swearing or stealing. And my father said God gave beautiful voices to people to sing with."
"But if I asked mother she wouldn't let me go. And—I couldn't run away. You see that would be just for once. Perhaps then I wouldn't be let to come over here, afterward," the boy replied sadly.
"Couldn't you coax?" asked Hanny.
"I could just ask, and she'd say no."
Hanny felt so sorry for him. He was very fair and had pretty, but rather timid eyes.
"You can't raise an insurrection when you know for certain it'll be put down the next moment," the boy added.
"Well," Josie drew a long breath and studied.
"I'd ask my father," said Hanny.
"And he'd say, 'Ask your mother; it's as she says.' Most everythingisas mother says."
"Then I'd put my arms around his neck and coax. I'd tell him I wanted to be like other boys. They think it's queer——"
Hanny stopped, very red in the face.
"Oh, you needn't mind. I know they laugh at me and make fun of me. But mother's so nice and clean, only I wish she'd dress up as your mothers do, and take a walk sometimes and go to church. And she cooks such splendid things and makes puddings and pies, and she lets me sit and read when I'm done my lessons. I have all the Rollo books, and father has Sir Walter Scott, that he's letting me read now. It's only that mother thinks I'll get into bad things and meet bad boys and get my clothes soiled. Oh, sometimes I'm so tired of being nice! Only you wouldn't want me to come over here if I wasn't."
That was very true.
"But there are a great many nice boys. Ben's just lovely, only he is growing up so fast," said the little girl, with a sigh. "And though Jim teases, he is real good and jolly. He doesn't keep his hands clean, and mother scolds him a little for that."
They could not decide about the insurrection. Presently it was time for Charles to go home. He was always on the mark lest he should not be allowed the indulgence next time. The poor boy had been moulded into the straight line of duty.
The girls went out to swing. They could all three sit in at once. And they often talked all at once.
"It's just awful mean!"
"If we only could do something!"
"Girls!" Josie put her foot so firmly on the ground it almost tipped them out. "Girls, letussee Mr. Reed and ask him."
They all looked at each other with large eyes.
"It couldn't be wrong," began Josie; "because I've askedyourfather, Hanny, to let you come up to our stoop."
"No, it couldn't be," said the chorus in firm approval.
"Then let's do it. He always comes up First Avenue about half-past five on Saturdays. Now if we were to walk down——"
"Splendid!" ejaculated Tudie.
"And I'll ask mother if we can't go out for a little walk."
"We mustn't wait too late."
Tudie ran in to look at the kitchen clock. It was twenty minutes past five.
"I'll go and ask."
"Why, isn't your own sidewalk good enough?" was Mrs. Dean's inquiry. "Well—yes, you may do an errand for me down at the store. I want a pound of butter crackers. Don't go off the block."
They put on their bonnets. Hanny's was a pretty shirred and ruffled blue lawn. They twined their arms around each other's waists, with Hanny in the middle and walked slowly down to the store. Tudie kept watch while her sister was making the purchase. Then they walked up, then down, looking on the other side lest they should not see him. Up and down again—up with very slow steps. What if theyshouldmiss him!
They turned. "Hillo!" cried a familiar voice.
"Oh, Mr. Reed!" They blocked his way in a manner that amused him. He looked from one to the other, and smiled at the eager faces.
"Oh, Mr. Reed—we wanted to—to——"
"To ask you——" prompted Tudie.
Josie's face was very red. It was different asking about a boy. She had not thought of that.
"We want Charles to go to singing-school with us next Saturday. Mr. Bradbury said we might ask all thenicechildren we knew."
Hanny had crossed the Rubicon in a very lady-like manner.
Mr. Reed laughed pleasantly, but they knew he was not making fun of them.
"Why, yes; I haven't any objection. It will be as his mother says."
They all looked blank, disappointed.
"Ifyouwould say it," pleaded Josie. "Then we should be sure."
"Well, I will say it. He shall go next Saturday. He has a nice voice, and there is no reason why he should not be singing with the rest of you."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times."
"It's hardly worth that." Mr. Reed was a little nettled. Had Charles put them up to this?
They were at the corner and turned down their side of the street, nodding gayly.
"You see it was just as easy as nothing," remarked Josie complacently.
Mr. Reed entered his own area, wiped his feet, and hung up his hat. He went out in the back area and washed his hands. Every other day a clean towel was put on the roller. The house was immaculate. The supper-table was set. Mrs. Reed was finishing a block of patchwork, catch-up work, when she had to wait two minutes. She went out in the hall taking the last stitch, and called up the stairway:
"John Robert Charles!"
Meals were generally very quiet. Charles had been trained not to speak unless he was spoken to. Once or twice his father looked at him. A pinafore was rather ridiculous on such a big boy. How very large his white collar was! His hair looked too sleek. He was a regular Miss Nancy.
He helped his mother take out the dishes and wiped them for her.
"Come out on the stoop, Charles," said his father afterward, as he picked up his paper.
Mrs. Reed wondered if Charles had committed some overt act that she knew nothing about.Couldanything elude her sharp eyes?
Mr. Reed pretended to be busy with his paper, but he was thinking of his son. In his early years the child had been a bone of contention. His mother always knew just what to do with him, just what was proper, and would brook no interference. What with her cleanliness, her inordinate love of regularity and order, she had become a domestic tyrant. He had yielded because he loved peace. There was a good deal of comfort in his house. He went out two or three evenings in the week, to the lodge, to his whist club, and occasionally to call on a friend. Mrs. Reed never had any time to waste on such trifling matters. He had not thought much about his boy except to place him in a good school.
"Charles, couldn't you have asked me about the singing-school?" he said rather sharply.
"About—the singing-school?" Charles was dazed.
"Yes. It wasn't very manly to set a lot of little girls asking a favor for you. I'm ashamed of you!"
"Oh, father—who asked? We were talking of it over to Josie Dean's. I knew mother wouldn't let me go. I—I said so." Charles' fair face was very red.
"You put them up to ask!"
"No, I didn't. They never said a word about it. Why, I wouldn't have asked them to do it."
Mr. Reed looked suspiciously at his son.
"You don't care to go?"
"Yes, I do, very much." The boy's voice was tremulous.
"Why couldn'tyouask me?"
"Because you would leave it to mother, and she would say it was not worth while."
"Was that what you told them?" Mr. Reed was truly mortified. No man likes to be considered without power in his own household.
"I—I think it was," hesitated the boy. The girls had started an insurrection, sure enough. Well, the poor lad had no chance before. It was not a hope swept away, there had been no hope. But now he gave up.
"Don't be a fool nor a coward," exclaimed his father gruffly. "Here, get your hat and go straight over to the Deans'. Tell them yourfathersays you can go to singing-school next Saturday afternoon, that he will be very glad to have you go. And next time you want anything ask me."
If the boy had only dared clasp his father's hand and thank him, but he had been repressed and snipped off and kept in leading-strings too long to dare a spontaneous impulse. So he walked over as if he had been following some imaginary chalk line. The Deans were all up in the back parlor. He did his errand and came back at once, before Josie and Tudie had recovered from their surprise.
Nothing else happened. Mrs. Reed went out presently to do the Saturday-night marketing. She preferred to go alone. She could make better bargains. When she returned Mr. Reed lighted his cigar and took a stroll around the block. There was no smoking in the house, hardly in the back yard.
Saturday noon Mrs. Reed said to her son:
"You are to go to singing-school this afternoon. If I hear of your loitering with any bad boys, or misbehaving in any way, that will end it."
The poor lad had not felt sure for a moment. Oh, how delightful it was! though a boy nudged him and said, "Sissy, does your mother know you're out," and two or three others called him "Anna Maria Jemima Reed."
However, as Mr. Bradbury was trying voices by each row, the sweetness of Charles' struck him, and he asked him to remain when the others were dismissed. One other boy and several girls were in this favored class, and next week they had the seats of honor.
The next great thing for all the children was the May walk. All the Sunday-schools joined in a grand procession and marched down Broadway to Castle Garden. There was a standard-bearer with a large banner, and several smaller ones in every school. The teachers were with the classes, the parents and friends were to be at the Garden. Most of the little girls had their new white dresses, the boys their summer suits and caps. For May was May then, all but Quaker week, when it was sure to rain.
A pretty sight it was indeed. The bright, happy faces, the white-robed throng, and almost every girl had her hair curled for the occasion. There was a feeling among some of the older people that curls were vain and sinful, but they forgave them this day.
The audience was ranged around the outside. The little people marched in, and up the broad aisle, singing: