The nursery was very small, and Walter's two little sisters cried a great deal—sometimes from pain, and sometimes because Betty, the nurse, got cross and shook them roughly, and took no pains to amuse them when their mother staid away such a long, long while. So, little Walter didn't fancy staying in the nursery much, and as he was not allowed to go into the drawing-room, for fear his shirt-collar might be tumbled, or his jacket on awry, or his boots have a mud speck on them, the poor child had nothing left to do but wander round the hall and lobbies, and see the chambermaids sweep the rooms, and hear the waiters swear at each other, and watch the stages and trunks and passengers come and go.
When Walter wearied of this, he'd creep into the "bar-room," and watch the clerk pour out brandy, and wine and whiskey for the gentlemen to drink. Walter liked to see them drink it, because it made them laugh so hard, and clap each other on the back, and tell such funny stories; and then, sometimes, they would call to him and feed him with the sugar and brandy in the bottom of the tumbler; and Walter thought it very sweet and nice, and made up his mind that whenhegrew to be a man, he'd have just as much brandy as ever he could drink.
Walter's mamma didn't think, as she sat there in the drawing-room, dressed like a French doll, that her little curly headed Walter was learning how to be a drunkard; no, she was a careless young mamma, and didn't think, (perhaps she didn't know,) how closely little children must be watched, to make them grow good men and women.
Sometimes Walter went down to peep into the kitchen. There is always a great deal going on in a hotel kitchen,—so many turkeys and chickens and birds and fish to fix for dinner. Walter liked to see them roast a little pig whole, and then put an ear of corn in his mouth and lay him on a plate—or make a lobster salad look like a turtle, or a boiled ham like apork-upine! Then Pietro, the cook, was worth looking at, himself. He was a great six-footer of an Italian; with eyes—(my senses, how big and how black they were!) Walter thought he must look like the robbers that his uncle John, who had been across the seas, used to tell about. Then, Pietro had such big, fierce whiskers, too, and always wore a bright scarlet cap, with a long gilt tassel, and altogether, for a cook, he looked very picturesque—(Aunt Fanny knows that's a long word, but you must look it out in the dictionary.) When Pietro got angry with any of the waiters, I promise you he'd make his frying-pan fly across the kitchen as if it were bewitched, and then poor little Walter would fly up stairs as fast as his little fat legs could carry him.
But Pietro was not always cross, for all he looked as though he had been fed on thunder; no—he often tossed Walter a bunch of raisins, or a rosy apple; and it was quite beautiful when hedidsmile, to see his white teeth glitter. Sometimes, when he was waiting for some dish to cook, he would take Walter on his knee, and tell him of his own beautiful bright Italy, where the skies were as soft and blue as Walter's eyes, and where (if we might believe Pietro) one might dance and sing and eat grapes forever, without working for them; but when Walter looked up innocently and said, "then why didn't you stay there, Pietro?" Pietro would drop him as if he had been a red-hot potatoe, and hiss something in Italian from between his teeth, that poor little Walter could not begin to understand; but as he was a pretty sensible little boy, he always took himself off till Pietro felt better natured, and asked him no more questions.
One rainy day Walter had wandered all over the hotel, trying to get amused. The nurse had a friend call to see her, and she had given his little sisters all Walter's playthings, to keep them quiet, that they need not troubleher; and Walter's mamma told him, when he put his little head into the drawing-room, that "she didn't care what he did, if he didn't botherher;" so the poor little fellow was quite at his wits' ends to know what to do with himself. Finally it struck him that it would be fine fun to "play fish." So he went to one of his mother's drawers and got a long string, on the end of which he fastened a crooked pin; then he went way up—up—up—somanyflights of stairs, to the very highest entry he could find, way to the top of the house; from there the stair-case wound round, and round, and round, like a cork-screw, down into the front entry, far enough to make you dizzy to look over.
Well, Walter let down his line, and then he reached over his little curly head to see how far it went. Poor, merry, bright-eyed little Walter!—how can I tell the rest? Over he went, beating and bruising his little head—down—down—till he reached the marble floor in the lower entry, where he was taken up—dead!
His young mamma cried very hard,—but that didn't bring back her poor, neglected little boy; but it made her a better mother. She loves to stay in the nursery now, with Walter's little sisters nestled in her lap; and sometimes when they smile, she will part the sunny curls from their little foreheads, and the tears will fall like rain drops on their rosy faces, as she remembers her poor, darling, mangled, little Walter.
CHILDREN, DID YOU EVER HEAR OF MR. "THEY SAY?"
I shan't ask you if you ever saw him, because I know that, like other cowards, he generally skulks out of sight; but I'm very sure if you could get a peep at him, you would find that he had a "cloven foot." But if I can't tell youwhoMr. "They Say" is, I can tell youwhathe is.
It quite drives him frantic to see any person happier than himself, or more fortunate; and as sure as any one gets more love, or more money, than he has, he will knit his ugly brows to contrive somehow to give them the heart-ache. Sometimes he will do it in one way, and sometimes in another; sometimes he will do it by shrugging his shoulders, shaking his head, and looking as if hecouldsay something dreadful bad about a person, if he only had a mind to. He has made many a poor woman, who had no brave arm to strike the coward down, weep her bright eyes dim, till she longed to lay her aching head with the silent company in the quiet church-yard.
You'd suppose that nobody who owned a heart, would ever choose the society of such a wicked villain. You'd suppose nobody who loved God, would ever listen to him, or repeat his false sayings; but, alas! people are so fond of hearing "something new," that they can't make up their minds to turn their backs upon him; so they sit, and smile, and listen, till he has nothing more to tell, and then they draw down their faces, and tell him he "ought not to talk so!"—just as if Mr. "They Say" didn't see that they were perfectly delighted with him? Certainly, he goes off laughing in his sleeve to think they suppose him such a fool.
Mr. "They Say" is a very great traveler. It is astonishing how much ground he can get over without the help of steamboats, cars, stages, or telegraph wires. He may be found in a thousand places at once—in every little village in the United States—in every house and shop and hotel and office.Editorsare very fond of Mr. "They Say." They always give him the best chair in the office, for he is an amazing help to them. In fact, it is Aunt Fanny's opinion, that their newspapers would die a natural death without him. To be sure, he sometimes gets them into shocking scrapes with his big fibs; but they know how to twist and turn out of it.
Yes, Mr. "They Say" is a cowardly liar! He couldn't look an honest man straight in the eye, any more than he could face a cannon ball. He would turn as pale as a snow-wreath, and melt into nothing just about as quick.
Oh! Aunt Fanny knows all about him. So when he comes onhertrack, she looks straight at her inkstand, and minds her own business. She knows that nothing plagues the old fellow like being treated with perfect indifference.That'sthe way to kill him off!
THE LITTLE MARTYR.
How brightly the silver moon shines in that little bow window! Let us peep in. What do you see? A little girl lies there sleeping. She is very fair—tears are upon her cheeks—she sighs heavily, and clasps a letter tightly to her little bosom.
She is young to know sorrow. Life's morning should be all sunshine;—clouds come at its noon and eve.
Listen! some one glides gently into Nettie's room. It is a very old lady, but her form is drawn up as straight as your own, though her face is seamed with wrinkles and her hand trembles with age. She is stern and hard-featured. Should you meet her anywhere you would feel a chill come over you, as if the bright sun were clouded. You never would dare to lay your head upon her lap, and you would not think of kissing her, any more than you would a stone post.
See! she creeps up to Nettie's bed, and a heavy frown gathers on her wrinkled face as she spies the letter on her bosom. Now she draws it from between the child's fingers, reads it, mutters something between her closed teeth, and then burns it to cinders in the candle; then she shakes her head, and frowning darkly at little Nettie, glides, spectre-like, out of the room.
The same bright moon shines in at a window in the city. It is past midnight, but a lady sits there, toiling, toiling, toiling, though her lids long ago drooped heavily, and the candle is nearly burned to the socket.Whydoes she toil? Why does she sigh? Why does she get up and walk the floor as if afraid that sleep may overtake her?
Ah! a mother's love never dies out. That lady is Nettie's mother. She has something to workfor;—she is trying to earn money enough (cent by cent) to bring home, and clothe and feed that poor little weeping, home-sick Nettie, who cried herself to sleep, with her mother's letter hugged to her bosom.
The old lady whom you saw burning Nettie's letter, was her grandmother. She was very jealous of Nettie's mother, because her son (Nettie's father,) loved her so well; and after he died she revenged herself upon her, by giving her all the pain she could. She promised if Nettie would come and live with her to be kind to her; and as Nettie's mother and little sister Ida hadn't enough to eat, Nettie had to go and live with the old lady. She cried very hard, and her mother cried too, and so did Nettie's little sister Ida; but the old lady promised that Nettie should come often and see them, and that they should come and see her. But she only said so to get Nettie away. After she got her she was very unkind to her, and used to tell her that her mother "was a foolish woman—not fit to bring her up"—and when Nettie got up to leave the room, because she couldn't bear to hear her talk against her dear mother, the old lady would shake her, and bring her back, and sit her down on the chair so hard as to make her cry with pain, and then force her to hear all she had to say.
You may be sure that all this made poor little Nettie feel very miserable. She had nothing to amuse her; she wasn't allowed to drive hoop, because it was "boy's play;" she wasn't allowed to go to walk, for fear she would "wear her shoes out;" she wasn't allowed to read story-books, for fear she "wouldn't study;" she wasn't allowed to play with dolls, because "it was silly;" she mustn't go visiting, because "it wasn't proper;" she mustn't have a playmate come to see her, because "it made a disturbance;" she couldn't have a kitten, because "animals were a nuisance;" she mustn't talk to her grandmother, because "little girls must be seen and not heard." So she sat there, like a little automaton, and watched the clock tick, and counted the times her grandmother put on and took off her spectacles, and thought of her mother and little sister till she bit her finger nails so that they bled.
Once in a great while, when Nettie had worried her self nearly sick, she got leave to go and see her mother. Then her grandmother always put on her worst clothes, to try to make her ashamed to go, and when she found that Nettie didn't care for her clothes, if she could only see her mother, she scolded and fretted and worried her, and gave her so many charges to come home at a particular hour, else she should be punished, that poor Nettie didn't enjoy her visit at all, but would start and turn pale every time she heard a clock strike, and get so nervous as to bring on a bad headache; and then, when she got home, the old lady would say that it was just like her mother to make her sick, and that she shouldn't go again.
Perhaps you'll ask if Nettie's mother never went to see her. You know it costs money to go in the cars, and Nettie's mother had no money, though she tried hard to earn it. Once in a while she could save up cents enough to carry her there; but she always had to carry something in her pocket for little Ida and herself to eat, for the old lady wouldn't offer them even a glass of water, because she didn't want them to come and see Nettie.
When they got there poor little Nettie would meet them at the door, with a troubled, frightened look upon her face; and without speaking a word, would lead them through the entry by the hand into her own little room; then she'd close the door, and after looking timidly about the room, jump into her mother's lap and kiss her hands and face, and cry and laugh, and hug little Ida; and Ida and her mother would cry too, and then Nettie would ask, sobbing, "if her mother hadn't earned money enough yet to take her away," and say that she'd rather starve with her mother, than live there, she was so wretched. And Nettie's mother would kiss her, and soothe her, and tell her how late she sat up toiling to get money; and then Nettie would cry for fear her mother would get sick, and then they'd all kiss each other, and almostwishthat God would let them die (then) just as they were—together.
Again the silver harvest-moon shines down upon the silent city. Through a curtained window its rays fall softly upon a bed, where lies a lady sleeping. See! she smiles!What! Nettie's mother smile?Ah, yes; forNettie'sgolden head is pillowed on her breast. Nettie's loving arms are twined about her neck. God is good;—the "barrel of meal" does not fail, nor the "cruse of oil." Well may Nettie's mother smile, now that all she craves on earth is in her clasping arms.
SELFISH MATTHEW.
Such a selfish boy as Matthew was! You wouldn't have given a fig to play with him. He had carpenters' tools and books, and chequers and chess, and drawing materials, and balls and kites, and little ships and skates, and snow-shovels and sleds. Oh! I couldn't tell youallhe had, if I talked a week.
Well, if you went in of a Saturday afternoon to play with him, he'd watch all these things as closely as a cat would a mouse; and if you went within shooting distance of them, he'd sing out,—"D-o-n-'t; t-h-a-t-'s m-i-n-e!" Of course it wasn't much fun to go and see him. You'd got to play everything he wanted, or he'd pout and say he wouldn't play at all. He had slices of cake, that he had hoarded up till they were as hard as his heart; and cents, and dimes, and half dimes, that he used to handle and jingle and count over, like any little miser. All the beggars in the world couldn't have coaxed one out of his pocket had they been starving to death.
Then Matthew was such a cry-baby. I love abraveboy. He'd go screaming to his mother if he got a scratch, as if a wild tiger were after him; and if you said anything to him about it, he'd pout, and stick out his lips so far that you might have hung your hat on 'em! It was like drawing teeth to get him to go across the room to hand you a newspaper. He ought to have had a little world all to himself, hadn't he?
Well, I used to pity him—there was nothing child-like about him. He always seemed to me like a little wizzled-up, miserly old man. He never tossed his cap up in the air, and laughed a good hearty laugh; he never sprang or ran, or climbed or shouted; no—he crawled round as if he had lead weights on his heels, and talked without scarce moving his lips, and wore a face as long as the horse's in your father's barn.Sucha boy as he was! Had he been mine I should have tried to get some life into him somehow.
When his mother was told of his faults, she'd say, "Oh, he'll out-grow them by and by." I knew better. I knew that his selfishness would grow as fast as he did; and that when he came to be a man, he would be unfeeling to the poor, and make hard bargains with them, and wring the last penny out of their poor, threadbare pockets.
Poor Matthew! he'll never be happy; no—he never'll know the luxury of making a sad face bright, or of drying up the tear of the despairing; and when he dies he can't carry his moneywithhim—he has got to leave it at the tomb door,—and who, do you suppose, will come there to mourn for him?
Oh, dear children, begenerous—if you haven't but half a stick of candy, givesomebodya bite of it. Perhaps some child will say "But I haven't anythingto give." That's a mistake; that boy or girl isn't living who has nothing to give. Give your sympathy—give pleasant words and beaming smiles to the sad and weary-hearted. If a little child goes to your school who is poorly clad, patched, darned; nay, even ragged;—if the tear starts to his eye when your schoolmates laugh, and shun, and refuse to play with him—just you go right up and put your arms round his neck; ask him to play withyou.Love him;—love sometimes is meat and drink and clothing. You can all love the sad and sorrowful. Then never say you have "nothing to give."
CITY CHILDREN.
I wonder where all the little children are? I can't find any here in New-York. There are plenty of young gentlemen and ladies, with little high-heeled boots, and ruffled shirts, who step gingerly, carry perfumed handkerchiefs, use big words, talk about parties, but who would be quite at a loss how to use a hoop or a jump rope—little pale, candy-fed creatures, with lustreless eyes, flabby limbs, and no more life than a toad imbedded in a rock,—little tailor and milliner "lay figures," stiff, fine and artificial.
No; there are no littlechildrenhere. I'm very sorry;—I love little children. I used to know some once, with broad, full chests; plump, round limbs; feet that knew how to run, and hands that could venture to go through an entry without drawing on a kid glove,—blithe, merry little children, who got up and went to bed with the sun; who fed on fresh, new milk, and stepped on daisies, and knew more about butter-cups and clover blossoms, than parties and fashions,—little guileless children, who danced and jumped and laughed for the same reason the birds sing—because they couldn't help it,—who didn't care any more than the birds, whether their plumage was red, green, yellow or brown, so that they could dart and skim and hop where they liked, warble when they had a mind, and fold their wings where they pleased, when weary. Buttheselittle city hot-house plants, shivering, shrinking, drooping—I had almost saiddying, every time the wind blows—it quite makes my heart ache.
I think I must go hunt up their mammas, and beg them to give their little sensitive plants more air and sunshine, to make them hardy. Dear me! the mammas here are never at home. Some are in the great ladies' saloon (bright with gilding and mirrors,) in Broadway, sipping red "cordial," eating sugared wine drops and French cakes, and chattering with the gentlemen; some are at Madam Modeste's, planning a new ball dress, and talking about feathers and fashions; some are looking at a set of diamonds at the jewellers; and some are still in bed, although it is high noon, because they danced themselves so weary last night. So, poor little things, I suppose you must stay in your heated nurseries, bleaching like potato sprouts in a dark cellar, till Molly or Betty think best to let you out. Well, Aunt Fanny would besoglad to tie a little sun-bonnet on your head, put on a dress loose enough to run in, and take you off into the country a while. She'd show you little cups and saucers, made of acorns, that would beat all they have in the Broadway toy-shops, (and cost you nothing, either); and soft, green seats of moss, embroidered with little golden flowers, much handsomer than any the upholsterer could put in your mamma's drawing room, (and which never fade in the sunlight); then she'd show you a pretty picture of bright green fields, where a silver stream goes dancing through, where little fish dart beneath, where the heated cattle come to drink, and the little birds dip their wings, then are off and away!
Oh, such merry times as we'd have! I know where the purple geranium grows; where the bright scarlet columbine blushes, and where the pale wax plant hides under its glossy green leaf. I know where the blue eyed anemone blossoms; I know where the bright lobelia nods its royal scarlet head; (I know how to pull off my shoes and wade in after it, too); and I know how to make a wreath of it for your pretty little head. Oh, I know how to make your eyes shine—and your little heart happy. So tie on your sun-bonnet, and come with me,—the more the merrier. I don't believe your mammas will ever know you, when I bring you back.
ROSALIE AND BETTY.
Everybody called Rosalie a beauty. Everybody was right. Her cheeks looked like a ripe peach; her hair waved over as fair a forehead as ever a zephyr kissed; her eyes and mouth were as perfect as eyes and mouth could be; no violet was softer or bluer than the one, no rose-bud sweeter than the other. All colors became Rosalie, and whatever she did was gracefully done.
Yes, everybody thought Rosalie was "a beauty."Rosalie thought so herself.So, she took no pains to be good, or amiable, or obliging. She never cared about learning anything, for she said to herself, I can afford to have my own way; I can afford to be a dunce if I like; I shall be always sought and admired for my pretty face.
So, Rosalie dressed as tastefully as she and the dress-maker knew how, and lookedupto show her fine eyes, anddownto show her long eye-lashes, and held up her dress and hopped over little imaginary puddles, to show her pretty feet; and smiled to show her white teeth; and danced to show her fine form—and was as brilliant and as brainless as a butterfly.
Now, I suppose you think that Rosalie was very happy. Not at all! She was in a perfect fidget lest she should not get all the admiration she wanted. She was torturing herself all the while, for fear some prettier face would come along, and eclipse hers. If she went to a party and every person in the room (but one) admired her, she would fret herself sick, becausethat onedidn't bow down and worship her.
Never having studied or read anything, Rosalie could talk nothing but nonsense; so, everybody who conversed with her, talked nonsense, too, and paid her silly compliments, and made her believe that all she needed to make herquitean angel was a pair of wings; and then she would hold her pretty head on one side, and simper; and they would go away laughing in their sleeves, and saying, "What a vain little fool Rosalie is!"
Now, Rosalie's cousin Hetty was as plain as a chestnut-bur. She had not a single pretty feature in her face. Nobody ever thought of calling Hetty a beauty, andshe knew it! She was used to being overlooked; but she didn't go whining round and making herself unhappy about it,—not she. She just put her mind on something else. She studied, and read books, and learned a great many useful things; so, she had a great deal in her mind to think of, and went singing about as happy as could be, without minding whether anybody noticed her or not.
So she grew up sweet-tempered, amiable, generous and happy. When she went into company, strangers would say, "What a plain little body Hetty is." If they could not find anybody else to talk to, they'd go speak to her. Then Hetty would look up at them with one of her quiet smiles, and commence talking. She would say a great many very sensible things, and some queer ones, and they would listen—and listen—and listen—and by and by look at their watch and wonder whathadmade time fly so; and then go home, wondering to themselveshow they could ever call such an agreeable girl as Hetty "homely."
So you see, everybody learned to love her when they found out what abeautiful soulshe had; and while Rosalie was pining and fretting herself sick because her beauty was fading, and her admirers were dropping off one by one, to flatter prettier faces, Hetty went quietly on her way, winning hearts and——keeping them, too.
THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
How many of my little readers have seen the Crystal Palace, in New-York? Those of you who have, can skip these pages, while I talk to some of your little bright-eyed country cousins, who have never been there.
You know, my dear little daisies, that poor city children, who have to walk on brick pavements, and breathe bad air, ought to have something by way of a sugar plum, now and then, to make up for it. So, you mustn't pout becausetheyhave seen the Crystal Palace, andyouhave not.
You know John Bull got up a Crystal Palace in England, some time since, to which people of all nations sent articles of their own making,—not to sell, but to show the great crowd who came to look at them what they could do when they tried. It was a grand thing, because it made them anxious to finish off everything in the best possible manner; and as many of the articles were very useful, it did a great deal of good. Then, it brought thousands of people to see it, and that made Adam's sons and daughters better acquainted, and more sociable, and happier; so, it was a very excellent thing on that account.
Well, you know that we Americans are a very smart people, (ask your grandfather if we are not,) and we made up our minds that we would show John Bull, and Sandy, and Pat, a Crystal Palace of our own; and when an American says he will do a thing—it is done!
So, I was not at all astonished at what I saw last night;—such a beautiful building,—such a splendid glass roof—such a blaze of light, (for it was evening) my eyes were almost put out! I couldn't begin to tell you all the pretty things there were in it, but if you wish to know what I wanted more than anything else, it was a little marble statue (I suppose you would call it "an image") of a sleeping child. It had the prettiest, plumpest little dimpled limbs, you ever saw, and such an innocent little cherub face; I wanted to catch it up and run away with it.
There were a great many very beautiful statues there, some of which would have made you cuddle very close up to your mother, and hold her hand very tight; for instance, one statue representing a dead mother with a live baby lying on her breast, and a great, strong eagle fastening its claws in the little baby to carry it off. And then, there was a statue of an enormous bear, giving a poor mansucha hugging—squeezing the very life out of him; he wouldn't have had to squeeze you at all to kill you, for the very sight of such a grizzly monster would have scared you to death in an instant.
Then there was a glass case full of swords, and dirks, and daggers, and all sorts of instruments to kill people; and you would have been as glad as I was, had you seen them hanging up there so harmlessly, instead of making widows and orphans, on the battlefield.
Then, there were beautiful pianos with silver keys, and rich sofas, and bedsteads, and chairs, and tables, and bureaus; and pretty, tempting work-boxes, full of all sorts of knick-knacks to tempt ladies to be industrious; and such dainty little writing desks!—oh, I can tell you, it was very hard work not to covet those.
Then the diamonds, and amethysts, and emeralds, and pearls, and rubies, fit for a queen's diadem;—they flashed in my eyes till I was almost blind—but I would rather have had that little image of the sleeping baby than the whole of them.
Then there were silks, and satins, and gauzes, and embroideries, and worsted jackets, and tippets, and gloves, and shoes fit for Cinderella.
Then there were dolls, (boys and girls) dressed up to show off the fashions. I should be sorry to see you finified up so. Then, there was a beautiful baby's cradle, lined with soft, white satin, with a rich lace curtain, fit for Queen Victoria's baby, or your mother's; and a tiny little robe and cap lying near it, delicate as a lily leaf.
Then there was a tall wax lady dressed in deep black, (black eyes too) to show off the mourning goods; and between you and me, I think shemournedquite as much as a great many persons who put on black.
Then there was a pyramid of perfumery—done up in bottles—enough to sweeten the handkerchiefs and dispositions of all the young ladies in New-York.
Then there were silver and gold tea-sets, and dishes and trays, and knives and forks, for rich ladies who like to be tied to a bunch of keys, and sleep with one eye open.
Then there were beautiful pictures, which many a poor artist had toiled and sighed over, and which I should like to give him a good bag of money for, and then hang them up in my parlor. Pictures are such pleasant, quiet company.
Then there were a great many machines, and instruments, and engines, of much importance, which grown up people would be interested in, but which I will not describe to you.
Well, these pretty things I have told you about were not all on the lower floor of the Palace. No; part of them were in the galleries. You could sit there and look down below upon the great statue of General Washington on horseback; upon Daniel Webster; and then, upon the Lilliputians that were walking around looking at them; then, you could shut your eyes and listen to the music, and fancy you were in some enchanted region, for it was quite like a fairy tale, the whole of it.
KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY.
I am an old maid. Perhaps I might have been married. Perhaps not. I don't know as that is anybody's business.
I have a little room I call my own. There's a bedstead in it covered with a patched quilt, made of as many colors as "Joseph's coat," and an old-fashioned bureau with great claw feet, and a chair whose cushion is stuffed with cotton batting; a wash-stand, a table, and a looking-glass over it. At the side of the looking-glass is a picture of Daniel Webster, which I look at oftener than in the looking-glass—for I am an ugly old maid, and Daniel was one of a thousand.
Old maids like to have a good time, as well as other folks; so, I don't shut myself up moping in my little salt-box of a room. When the four walls close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,) sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all three;—sometimes I stay all night.
Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to me and slips a dicky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say nothing.
I have lately made the acquaintance of a new family, by the name of Tompkins; and very pleasant people they are, too. They have a whole house full of children,—not one too many, according to my way of thinking. Louisas and Jennys, and Marthas and Marys, and Tommys and Johnnys, besides a little baby that its mother has never had time to name.
I love to watch little children. I love to hear them talk when they don't think I am listening. I love to read to them and watch their eyes sparkle. I love to play with them, and walk with them. They are often much pleasanter company than grown people—at least, so Kizzy thinks. But that is only an old maid's opinion.
I hadn't visited at the Tompkins' long, before I noticed that little "Luly," as they called her, was one by herself; that is, she was not a favorite with the rest of the family. At first I didn't understand how it was, and I felt very much like saying I didn't like it; for Luly seemed to be a nice little girl, and playful as a little kitty. She was always laughing, singing, and dancing—now in at one door, and now out at the other, like a will-o'-the-wisp, or a jack-o'-lantern. Why on earth they didn't like Luly, I couldn't see. Being an old maid, of course I couldn't rest easy till I found out the reason of this; and I soon did it, as you'll see, if you read on to the end of my story.
One day Luly came to me saying, "Tell me a story, there's a good Kizzy, I am tired of running round."
Well, I knit to my seam needle, and then I took her up on my lap and began:
Once there was a little girl whose name was Violetta. She had never kept still five minutes since she was born, and I suppose the shoemakers were very glad of it. She was as much like a little squirrel as a little girl could be—nibbling and scampering, scampering and nibbling, from sunrise to sunset.
When Violetta came into the room, everybody looked uneasy. If her papa was writing, he'd lay one hand over his papers, and push his ink-stand as far as possible into the middle of the table; mamma would catch up her work-basket and put it in her lap; her little brothers and sisters would all scrabble up their playthings, and run; even the little baby would crawl on its hands and knees as fast as it could, and catch hold of its mother's gown.
You might be sure if you laid a thing out of your hand, you never would find it in the same spot where you left it, if Violetta were in the room. She would run off with your scissors, your bodkin, your needlebook, and your spool of cotton; she would stuff your handkerchief in her pocket by mistake; she'd break the strings of your bag, trying to open it; she'd try your spectacles on to her kitten, and tie your new tippet on the dog Ponto's neck.
Then she would run into the kitchen and dip her fingers into the preserves, and upset the egg-basket, and open the oven door and let the heat all out when the pies were baking, and leave the cover off the sugar bucket, and dip into the milk to feed her kitty, and disturb the cream, and nibble round a loaf of fresh cake, just like a little mouse.
Well, of course everybody disliked her, and hated to see her come where they were. She never got invited anywhere, because nothing was safe from her little Paul Pry fingers; and when company came she generally got sent out of the room. It was a great pity, because she was really a pretty little girl, and a very bright one, too.
"Oh, Miss Kizzy," said Luly, "I never will do so any more, I——"
Why, Luly, I didn't sayyoudid so; I was talking about Violetta.
"Oh, but it is just likeme," said the honest little girl; "I have done all those things, Miss Kizzy—every one of them; but I didn't think it would make everybody hate me. I want to be loved, Miss Kizzy; but you don't know how dreadful hard it is for a little girl to 'keep still.'"
Yes I do, Luly; and you needn't "keep still," as you call it, but you mustn't meddle with what don't belong to you. I see how it is: you are a very active little girl, and want something to do all the time. I'll ask your mother to let you go to school—(Luly frowned)—to me, Luly!
"Oh, that's so nice," said Luly. "Don't get a bench—will you? Don't make me set up straight. Don't make me fold up my hands and keep my toes still, will you, Miss Kizzy?"
Well, Luly came to my school, and stood up or sat down, just as she liked. She was the only scholar I had, so I was not particular about that; but after she had learned to read, she would "keep still" for hours together without minding it, if you'd only give her a book.
Poor little Luly; she didn'tmeanto be naughty; she only wanted something to do. She is one of the best little girls now that ever carried a satchel.
NEW-YORK IN SHADOW.
My dear little readers: But a step or two from the famous Broadway, in New-York, where one sees so much riches and splendor, is a place called the "Five Points," where the wicked poor live, huddled together in garrets and cellars, half starved, half naked, and dirty, and wretched, beyond whatyou, in your pure and happy homes, ever could dream of. They were recently so numerous, so strong, and so cunning, that even the police were afraid to go among them, for fear they should get killed.
A good man by the name of Mr. Pease heard of this dreadful place, and went down there to see what he could do to make the people better. I had heard how much good he had done, and to-day I went down to the Five Points to see for myself.
Oh, I couldn't tell you half the misery that stared me in the face, as I passed through those streets. Slatternly women, huddled round cellar doors; dirty children, half naked, playing in the muddy gutters, and hearing words that may never, never be written for you to read.
Then, there were drinking shops, with such shocking odors issuing from doors and windows; and red-faced, blear-eyed men, half drunk, leaning against the barrels, and sitting on the side-walks; and decayed fruit, in windows so thick with dirt that one could scarcely see through them; and second-hand, faded dresses and bonnets for sale, swinging from out the doorways; and girls with uncombed hair and bare feet and bold faces, fighting and swearing; and old, gray-haired men, smoking pipes and drinking. I was quite sick at heart, and was glad to get into Mr. Pease's house, and findsomethingdoing to make things better.
Mr. Pease is a very sensible man, as well as a kind hearted one. Some people who had always had enough to eat, drink, and wear themselves, wished him only to pray for, and talk to these poor creatures, and give them tracts; but Mr. Pease knew that many of them were willing to work, and only stole because they could not get work to do, and must either steal or starve. So he knew it was no use to talk and tell them they must be good, so long as he didn't show them any way by which they could earn their living honestly.
So, like a sensible man, in the first place he took a shop, and got a great many coarse shirts to make, and told these poor women if they would come in and make them, he would pay them money, and then they needn't steal. And they came, too; for many of them were weary enough of such a wretched life. Nobody likes to be dirty, instead of clean; nobody likes to be despised, instead of loved; nobody likes a police-man's hand on his throat, instead of the twining arms of the good and pure.
No, indeed! Nobodylikesto be afraid to look up at the holy stars, lest their bright eyes should see into their dark souls; nobody likes to drink till they are senseless as a beast, to stifle the sweet voice of conscience; nobody likes to be hungry, or thirsty, or sick and diseased, or so miserable that death would be a blessing.
No, no—no, no! my dear children. So, these poor creatures came flocking to Mr. Pease's shop,gladto work,—glad of achance to be honest,—glad to see somebody, like Mr. Pease, who would reach out his hand andpullthem out of thissea of sin, instead of standing on shore, with his hands folded, while they were drowning, reading them a tract. They saw that he wasin earnest,—they saw that he didn't think himself too good to come right down andlivein that dreadful neighborhood, if he only could help them. And then, when he had shown them how to put honest bread in their mouths,—when he had found the way to their hearts, (for these wretched creatureshavehearts,)—thenhe talked to them of God and Heaven, till the tears rained down their cheeks,—then he asked them to promise him to "go and sin no more;" and they have kept their word, too. Isn't that good?
Another good thing Mr. Pease has done: he opened a school in this house of his, for the children in the neighborhood, and I asked him to take me in to see them. So, he opened a door, and there sat the little creatures on low benches;—some black as "Topsy;" some white as you are; some barefoot; some with shoes; some so small that their little feet didn't touch the floor from the low benches; some sickly looking and pallid; some rosy and bright; but all with clean hands and clean faces.
At a signal from the lady teacher, they all began to sing, "A brighter day will dawn to-morrow." I had to cry. I couldn't help it.
Some of the children had such pure, sweet faces, that as they sat there singing, with their soft eyes looking upwards, I felt as if I had almost rather they would die there, than go home through those dreadful streets, into those wretched cellars, and hear the shocking words I had heard, as I passed along through them.
I was so glad to learn from Mr. Pease, that some of these little children, who had no parents, lived there in the house with him, and that he kept the others in theday time, giving them their dinners at noon. Poor, little innocent children! I looked at one little face after another, and Icouldn't make it rightthat they should have to live where they can't help sinning,—where they aretaughtto be wicked,—where they are whipped and beaten fornotbeing wicked,—because rich people love silks and jewels too well, to give Mr. Pease money to find them bread and shelter, and take them away.
Oh, if the rich ladies and gentlemen who live in fine houses, had only seen those poor children asIdid, and heard their sweet voices, I can't believe that they would suffer them to remain in such a sinful and wretched condition. Some of themhavesent money, which has helped Mr. Pease to buy a place in the country, where he means to carry all the children he can get, away from that vile neighborhood.
Is not that nice? How I should like to see them running over the fields, when work is done; tumbling about under the trees, growing brown and rosy and healthy; listening, not to curses and oaths, but to the warble of some dear little bird, praising God in his own sweet way, forhisshare of light and air and sunshine!
And now, as you sit in your happy homes, where you hear only kind, good, pure words,—where you never tremble at your father's footfall, or creep under the bedfor fear of your own mother,—where you are never hungry, or thirsty, or cold,—where you meet only loving smiles, and go to sleep with the hand of blessing on your bright young head,—oh, remember the poor little outcast ones still forced to live at the Five Points; and if you cannot give them money to help them away, fold your hands and pray God every night to "keep them from the evil that is in the world."
HATTY'S MISTAKE.
"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"—and little Hatty tossed off her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who sat making the baby's new red frock,—"I am glad it is Saturday; I don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time, into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.
Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and Hatty saidsheshould like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of "helping" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her pocket: then she looked up and said,
"Bridget! I wish I wereyou; I should have such a good time tasting the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."
Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her draw a great long sigh.
"What is the matter, Bridget?" said Hatty. "Is your crust heavy?"
"No," said Bridget,—"but myheart is. I was thinking how I wished I knew how to read and write. There's Patrick, my brother, way over in Ireland—the last time I saw him I wasn't taller than that butter firkin. Father and mother are dead, and Pat is just the pulse of my heart, Hatty! Well, when he writes me a letter, it's me that can't for the life of me read a word of it; and if I get Honora Donahue to read it, I'm not sure whether she gets the right sense of it; and then a body wants to read a letter more than once, you know; and so I take it up, my darlin', and turn it over and over, and it's nothing but Greek and Latin to poor Bridget. And so many's the time, Hatty, I've cried hours over Pat's letters, for reason of that. Then I can't answer them—cause you know I can't write—and in course I don't want to turn my heart inside out for anybody else to write it to Pat for me; and so you see, my darlin', it's a bother all round entirely,"—and Bridget shut to the oven door, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her check apron.
Hatty was a very warm-hearted little girl, and she couldn't bear to see Bridget cry, so she threw down the bit of paste in her hand; then starting to her feet, as if a sudden thought had struck her, ran quickly up stairs into the parlor, where her mother was sitting, talking with two ladies.
Hatty forgot that her face, and hands, and check apron, and even her curls, were all over flour, when she burst into the room, saying,
"Oh, Mamma!—Bridget and I have been talking, and Bridget—(great bigBridget!)—don't know how to read and write! and she has nobody to love but Pat—and Pat is in Ireland; and when he writes her a letter she can't read it, and she can't answer him, because she don't know how to write; and she hasn't seen Pat since—since he was as little as a butter firkin—and she is so unhappy—and, Mamma, mayn't I have an A-B-C book, and teach Bridget how to read and how to write?" And little Hatty stopped—not because she had no more to say, but because she was out of breath.
Hatty's mamma smiled, and said, "There was a little girl just your size, in here about an hour ago, who 'didn't see the use of going to school, and wished she might never look into another book so long as she lived.' Have you seen anything of her?"
HATTY'S MISTAKE.
HATTY'S MISTAKE.
Hatty blushed and said, "Oh, Mamma, I never will be so foolish again. I see now how bad it is not to learn when one is a little girl."
Well, the A-B-C book was bought, and very funny it was to see little Miss Hatty looking so wise from under her curls, and pointing out the letters to Bridget with a long knitting needle. It was very slow work, to be sure; but then Hatty was patient, for she had a good, kind heart; and how proud she was when Bridget was able to read Pat's letters! and prouder yet when she learned to answer them! and you may be sure that Hatty never was heard to say again that "she didn't seethe use of going to school."
MIN-YUNG.
Did you ever see a China-man? I used to know one. His head was quite shaved, except a long braid, which hung down below his waist behind. I suppose it wasn't all his own hair; but that's none of my business. He had as much right to tie on a false tail, if he liked, as the gentlemen in Broadway have to wear false whiskers, and false moustaches.
Perched on the top of his head was a little skull-cap, just about big enough to fit your little baby brother. On his feet were wooden shoes, curled up at the toes like the end of an Indian canoe. He also wore blue and white stockings, and a blue Canton-crape wrapper.
Min-Yung (that was his name) had not been a great while in the United States. He was coaxed away from China, with many others of his countrymen, by some Americans, who imagined that they could make money by exhibiting them over here, in their different Chinese dresses, and making them play tricks, like so many monkeys. When they got them here, they found "it didn't pay"; that is, people didn't care to give money to go to see them. So they ran off, and left the poor Chinese, without a cent, to take care of themselves in a strange country. Was not that very mean?
Poor Min-Yung had pawned one of his dresses after another to pay for things he needed, till they were all gone, and he looked quite worn out and miserable. He couldn't speak but a word or two of our language, and I couldn't speak Chinese; but I saw that he was sick and unhappy. So I shook hands with him, and pointed to his forehead, and looked as pitiful as I knew how; and then he nodded his head, and pulled up his sleeve, that I might feel his pulse, and leaned his head on one side, to show me how forlorn and weary he felt.
I thought that, perhaps, he might be faint, and need something to eat, or drink; so I said "Tea?" for I knew that a China-man would be sure to understand that word.
You should have seen what a horrid grimace he made, and how he lifted up both his hands, as if to wave off an imaginary cup of tea! I always thought that the tea sent over to this country from China was a miserable humbug; so poor Min-Yung's horror at being asked to drink a cup of it, quite upset me, and I laughed immoderately. Min-Yung laughed, too; and understood by the way I shook my fore-finger at him, just as well as if I had said, "You know very well, my dear Min-Yung, that your countrymen make us swallow and pay for any sort of a mess which they choose to baptize by the name of 'tea.'"
However, Min-Yung ate some nice jelly, without being poisoned, and pocketed some money which was given him by a gentleman present, and then he dropped on one knee very gracefully, and kissed first the gentleman's hand, and then mine; and his little huckleberry eyes twinkled, as much as to say, "You see, I'm very grateful."
With good, careful nursing, Min-Yung got better. I think it made him almost well to speak kindly to him, for he had a good, affectionate heart. When he got quite well and strong, he wanted to "be my servant." I liked Min-Yung, but I had nothing for him to do; beside, I like to be my own servant. It would make me as nervous as a cat in a china closet, to have anybody always standing behind my chair. So, the gentleman who gave him the money, said he was going to California soon, and would like to have Min-Yung go with him, to wait upon him. Wasn't that kind?
It did not take the poor China-man long to pack his trunk, for the very good reason that he had nothing to put in it. So, in less than a week's time, his wooden shoes walked on board the ship "Dolphin," and away he went to California, and I didn't hear of him again for many a long day.
It seems that after his master had got through all his business in California, he asked Min-Yung if he would like to go back to his own country and see his old father and mother, and his sisters, with the twinkling little feet;—and Min-Yung said yes. So the gentleman gave him some money, and he started off, in his little skull cap, for the "Celestial City."
I often used to think of him, and wonder if he found his old father and mother alive; and if they were glad to see him; and often, when I turned out a cup of tea, I laughed aloud to think of poor Min-Yung's horrid grimace, when I offeredhimsome.
One day a huge box came for me, directed "United States of America." I couldn't imagine what was in it. I thought of mummies, and stuffed monkeys, and "infernal machines;" and walked round the box at a respectful distance, with one eye on the door.
By and by the lid was knocked off; and now, what do you think I found in it?—a chest of "tea;" none of your sham doses, but tea that a Chinese Mandarin wouldn't have turned up his celestial nose at, and a lovely little Chinese work-box, and a pretty scarlet, Canton-crape scarf, all from that comical, good, affectionate Min-Yung.
Won't you and I call on him, when we go to China?
TOM, THE TAILOR.
Tell you another story, Charley? Bless your blue eyes, how many stories high do you suppose I am?
Who made that jacket for you, hey?
"A tailor."
Do you like to see amansewing, Charley? I don't. I don't believe that their great muscular arms were intended to wield a needle, especially when so many feminine fingers are forced to be idle for want of employment; so I never like to see a tailor.—Oh, yes, I do, too. I came very near forgetting Tom Willcut.
Who washe? I don't know, any more than you do. The first time I saw him, was in an old tumble-down building, where the wind played hide and go seek through the timbers; and where more men, women, dogs and children were huddled together, than four walls of the like size ever held before.
In one of the smallest of these rooms, I first saw Tom; sitting, with a white cotton cap upon his head, cross-legged on the floor, stitching away by the dim light of a tallow candle. A line stretched across the room, on which hung some coarse pea-jackets and trousers which he had finished, while at his side stood a rough table, with the remains of some supper, and two unwashed cups and saucers.
Twocups and saucers, thought I: pray, who shares this little room with that poor, pale tailor?
Ah, I see! In yonder bed, which I had not noticed, lies a woman, and on her breast a little wee baby. Well may Tom sit drawing out his thread, hour after hour, by that dim candle.
1 coughed a little bit. Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, looked up, and invited me in. That was just what I wanted, you know. Then, he dusted off a chair with the tail of his coat, and I sat down.
"Is that your baby?" said I.
"It isours," said he, looking over, with a proud smile, at his wife.
I liked Tom from that very minute. Of course, his wife wanted to own half of such a nice little baby—and the first one, too—and it was very gallant of tailor Tom, to say "ours," instead of "mine:" it showed he had a soul above buttons. Ask your mother if it didn't.
Then I asked Tom if he got good pay for making those jackets. He clipped off his thread with his great shears, and, shaking his head, said, "My boss is a Jew, Missis."
What did he mean by that? Why, "boss" means master, and Jew, I am sorry to say, is but another name for a person who gets all the work he can out of poor people, and pays them as little for it as possible.
Tom's answer made me feel very bad,—he said it in such a quiet, uncomplaining way, as if, hard as it was, he had quite made up his mind to it, for the sake of that new baby and its mother.
I wanted to jump right up and take him by the hand, and say, "Tom, you are a hero!" but, I dare say he wouldn't have understood that. Your father, Charley, would probably call him a "philosopher," but you and I, who can't afford to use up the dictionary that way, will say he is a clever, good-hearted fellow.
When Tom was first married, he had a little shop of his own, and was "quite before-hand," as he called it; but one unlucky night it caught on fire, and burned up all his coats, and trousers, and jackets, and all the stuff he had laid in to make them of; and then his wife was taken sick; and, what with doctoring, and one trouble and another, although poor Tom was honest, temperate and industrious, he came down to that poor, miserable little room, after all.
But Tom was not a man to whine about his bad luck. No; he looked at that new baby, and made his fingers fly faster than ever, and wore a cheerful smile for his sick wife, beside. That's why I called him "a hero;" for, Charley, anybody can be courageous and endure a great deal when all the world are looking on and clapping their hands, and admiring them; but it is another thing, in an obscure corner, without food, without friends, without hope, to struggle—struggle—struggle on, fighting off Temptation, fighting off grim Want, day after day, with none to say, "God speed you."
That's why I said the poor tailor had a good,braveheart; that's why I honored him; that's why I prayed God a brighter day might dawn for him.
Did it? Yes! I tell you, Charley,never despair!no matter how dark the cloud is overhead, work on, and look up; the sun will shine through, by and by;—it did for poor Tom.
One day a gentleman called to see him, and asked him to go with him and look at some cloth for making jackets. Tom thought it was very odd;—he didn't remember that anybody ever asked his opinion before;—he didn't know what to make of it. However, he dropped his shears, pulled off his cotton cap, kissed his little baby, and followed the gentleman.
They went along through a great many streets, till they came to the business part of the town. The gentleman opened the door of a small shop, and Tom followed him in. There were cloths of all kinds on the shelves, and the gentleman took some down and asked Tom if they were the right sort for such jackets as he had been making; and Tom said it was "prime cloth."
And then the gentleman showed him a little room, divided off at the end of the shop, and asked Tom if it was light enough to work in, and Tom said it could not be better; and then the gentleman clapped him on the shoulder, and told him to go to work in it as soon as he pleased, for these were his goods, and that was his shop!
Poor Tom looked as if he were dreaming. He tried to speak two or three times, but failed. Then, great tears dropped over his cheeks, and he said, "God bless you, sir, but I don't know what to say."
"I'm very glad of it," said the gentleman, smiling; "because I don't want you to say anything; only go home and bring your wife and baby, because there is a nice parlor and bed-room overhead, and I want to see how they look in it."
Well, the amount of it was, that the poor tailor's wife was as crazy as the tailor himself; the baby crowed, and the little terrier dog barked; and, altogether, they had amovingtime of it, that day.
I can't tell you the kind gentleman's name, because he never does a charity to have it published; but, sure I am, the recording angel has written it in the "Book of Life."
BETSEY'S DREAM.
It was very weary, lying there so long. Betsey had counted all the squares, and three-cornered pieces, and circles, in the patch-work quilt upon her bed; she knew there were six more red than green ones, and that one of the circles was pieced seven times.
Yes, poor lame Betsey was very tired; not that she was unused to lying there, day after day, while her mother went out washing; but, somehow,thisday had seemed longer and more tedious than any which had gone before. To be sure she had last year's almanac, and a torn newspaper, but she knew them both by heart. Betsey wished she "only had a little book," but she knew mother couldn't buy books, when she had not money enough for bread; so she twisted and turned, and rubbed her lame foot, and lay and looked at the mantel with its pewter lamp, and the shelf with its two earthen bowls, and its wooden spoons and platters, and the bench with her mother's wash tub on it and a square of brown soap, and the brown jug full of starch, and the old worn-out broom and mop. Betsey could have seen them just as well had her eyes been shut, she had looked at them so many times.
Did I tell you Betsey was "alone?" Oh no—there were four or five families in the some entry. There was Mrs. O'Flanigan with her six red-headed, quarrelsome children and a drunken husband, who beat her everyday till she screamed with pain; and then the six little Flanigans all screamed, too, till Betsey would put her fingers in her ears to shut out the dreadful sounds.
Then, there was Mrs. Doherty, who had twin babies and one room, and took boarders in the corners. Then, there was black Dinah, who got her living by scraping the gutters, and came home every night with a great tow-cloth bag upon her back, and emptied the old bones and rugs and papers on the floor of her room, and kept a broom handle to whip the little Flanigans, who ran in to steal them, when she went to the pump in the alley to get a drink of water.
Then, there was little Pat Rourke, who lived up the alley, and kept a little black dog named Pompey. When Pat didn't know what else to do, he would open Betsey's door, and put the dog in to worry her cat, and enjoy Betsey's fright.
Pompey would chase Pussy all round the room, and then Pussy would spit at him, and hump up her back and hide behind the wash-tub; and then Pompey would turn over the wash-tub, and seize Pussy by the neck; and then her eyes would turn all green; and then Betsey would scream and beg Pat to drive Pompey off; and then Pat would point to her lame foot and say, "Let's see you do ityourself, honey;" and then Betsey would hide her face under the coverlid and cry; and then Pat would run off, leaving the door wide open, and the cold air blowing right upon the bed. Yes, Betsey had all this to amuse her, besides the torn newspaper and the old almanac.
But whydidn'ther mother come home?—that was the question. It must be late in the afternoon;—Betsey knewthat, for the sun had crept round to the west window long since. They must have a great wash to do up at the big house. Betsey hoped the lady wouldn't go out to ride in her carriage, and forget, as she sometimes did, to pay her mother; and she hoped the cook would give her some cold tea to warm for their supper, and perhaps a bit of meat, or some potatoes. The lady herself never gave Betsey's mother anything, except an old gauze ball dress "to make over for her little girl," which Betsey's mother sold for twenty-five cents, to buy some tea.
And then Betsey wondered if rich people were always born without hearts, and if her foot wouldalwaysbe lame, and she should never be able to help her mother, but must always be a burden; and then she thought it would be better if she died; and then she thoughtnot, because when her mother came home at night ever so weary, she remembered that she always kissed her cheek, and called her "a little darling," and divided her piece of bread with her, and smiled just as sweetly as if she hadn't worked ever since the sun rose, for a mere penny.
Then Betsey was so weary that she fell asleep, and dreamed she was an angel. She was not lame any longer; she had bright wings, and a pure white robe, and a golden harp. There was no misery there, and night and day she sang, "Worthy, worthy, worthy the Lamb!" and thousands of bright winged angels echoed it back; and then—poor little Betsey woke, crying because it was only a dream, and found herself again in the little old room all alone,—all but Pussy, who was rubbing her lank sides against the bed post and the wicker chair, and looking wistfully up into Betsey's face, as much as to say, aint youveryhungry, Betsey?
"Rein up—rein up! Stop your horses, I say! It's no use—she's down." "Move your omnibus,"—"Get out of the way, there,"—"Go ahead"—"What do you block up the street, for?"—"What's to pay?"—"Who's killed?"
"Only a beggar woman," said the omnibus driver, gathering up his reins; "she slipped on the wet pavements, yonder, and the horses went over her, and killed her. Can't be helped, you know,—there's enough beggars left—everybody knowsthat," and he whipped up his horses, and drove on.
Then a police-man picked up Betsey's dead mother and carried her to the watch house; while some little Irish boys ran off with her basket and ate up Betsey's supper.
There was nobody to take care of lame Betsey, so she was carried to the poor-house. It didn't matter much to her, when she found her mother was dead, where they took her. She was used to seeing misery; so the groans of the poor creatures on the hospital cots about her was nothing new. But she grew very weak, day by day, and couldn't eat the food they brought her; and one morning the old nurse found her lying with her little cheek in her hand, and a smile upon her face. Betsey's dream had come true: she was an angel!
SCOTT FARM.
What a blessed thing it is to have a good grandmother! Sophy had one. Sophy loved to go and see her.
It was in the country where Grandmother Scott lived, just a pleasant ride from Sophy's home; in a good, old-fashioned farm-house, with green moss growing out of the sloping roof, shaded by trees that looked a century old. It is autumn there now; so you see on the cellar door and under the front windows, crooked necked squashes and round yellow pumpkins, mellowing in the warm sunbeams. Strings of dried apples are festooned from chamber windows; and paper bags of catnip and spearmint and thoroughwort and penny-royal and mullen hang drying on the garret walls.
On "the buttery" shelves are broad pans of fresh, new milk, crusted with cream that would make a New-Yorker stare; and great round cheeses, and little pats of golden butter, stamped with a rose, and jars of pickled cucumbers, and pots of preserved plums, and peaches, and barberries, tied down with tissue brandy papers; and loaves of "riz cake," and plates of doughnuts, and pans of apple dowdy, beside an earthen jar of rich English plum cake.
Then, there's the sitting room, where the bright sun shone in, on a picture of General Washington, and a sampler of Grandma Scott's, representing a woman crying over a tombstone shaded by a pea-green willow; and black profile likenesses of all the Scott family cut by a traveling artist, hanging in spots over the fire place; and an old-fashioned clock, standing guard in the corner, with the picture of the rising sun on it, and Grandpa's spectacles, and loose copies of the "Scott-town Daily Bulletin" tucked in round the wood work at the sides; and great, comfortable-looking arm-chairs, with patch cushions; and a sideboard with a silver pitcher on it, presented to Grandpa Scott by the Agricultural Society and a china mug with a gold rim round it, and "Betsey" on the side, given by the minister to Grandma Scott when she was a little girl, for learning her catechism right; and a great big china closet, with a glass door, to show off the rows of china cups and saucers and flowered plates, all ready if the minister or the President should come to tea.
Then, out of doors, wasn't there a great barn for the children to play in?—with piles of hay, and ladders reaching up to the roof; and old Dobbin nibbling and munching oats in his stall; and Brindle, and her little two-day old, red and white calf cuddled down in a straw bed in the corner; and the little field mice darting over the barn floor; and the swallows twittering overhead among the beams and rafters; and the old grindstone that the children liked to turn; and the scythe and pitchfork that Grandpa charged them "not even to look at;" and the yellow ears of corn peeping out of their dry husks, in a pile in the corner, and the old rooster strutting round it, (followed by his hen wives,) now and then stopping short, with one foot lifted up, and cocking his eye at them from under his red cap, as much as to say, "Stir if you dare, till I give the signal!" Oh, I can tell you, that barn was a grand old place to play in, to frolic in, or to read and think in.
Then, there was the pig-stye under it, with such lazy great pigs, and such frisky little ones, with their tails curled up so tight that they lifted their hind legs right up, jumping round and tumbling heels over head over their mother, who lay half-buried in a mud-puddle, winking her pink eyes at the bright sun, and looking just as happy as if there wasn't a butcher in the world, or as if "the Governor and council" wouldn't sign her little piggies' death warrant with the Thanksgiving proclamation.
Thanksgiving! Oh, wasn'tthatan affair? Grandma Scott would mount her silver-bowed spectacles, strip her arms to this elbows, tie on a check apron, pin up her cap strings, and stew pumpkins and squashes and apples and quinces, and pound spices, and chop meat and suet, and roll out pie-crust, and heat the oven, and turn out so many pies and tarts and "pan-dowdies," and loaves of cake, that it would make your apron strings grow tight just to look at them!
Then, the first thing the hens in the barn-yard knew,they didn't know anything! but lay on the kitchen table with their yellow boots kicked up in the air, waiting to be singed, stuffed, and skewered. Poor things, they had laid their last egg, and swallowed their last kernel of corn, every rooster's daughter of 'em!
What a party of horses stamped their iron shoes in Grandpa Scott's barn on Thanksgiving morning! What a party of little children in bright autumn-leaf dresses and white aprons, went scampering through the house! What a fuss they all made over the littlest baby! What a fire (big enough to roast an ox whole) blazed in the great, wide, sitting-room fireplace!
How Grandpa Scott walked round, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, patting this one on the head, chucking the other under the chin, and tossing a third up to the wall. How he looked all round, with his arms a-kimbo, and said if any grandpa in the United States had a prettier set of grandchildren than that, he'd like to see them; and how Grandma said, "Pshaw! Grandpa," because she was so proud of them herself that she didn't know what else to say!
And how Grandma looked as if she never would grow old, with her nice lace cap, and her own brown hair, with scarce a silver thread in it, curling round her happy face; and how Grandpa would whisper slily to the boys, "After all, your mother is handsomer than any child she ever had!"
How contented and satisfied Grandmamma looked, sitting at the head of her Thanksgiving table; plenty of chickens and turkeys boiled and roasted before her. What a time she had getting all the little Scott-ites seated to her mind, and napkins tucked properly under each chubby chin; how shewouldcarve the turkey herself, because, when Grandpa got busy talking, he cut off the wings before he did the legs!
How she insisted upon "all just tasting some of that chicken-pie," when it was quite impossible to stow away another mouthful, because "she had no idea of making it for nothing."
How she would give the little wee baby a "wish-bone," though it could not hold it one minute in its limpsy little fingers; and how she would keep on passing round nuts, and oranges, and grapes, and apples, and wonder whathadbecome of all their appetites.
And then how all the family would go back into the sitting-room after dinner; and how Tom, the family "Mozart," would sing "Home, Sweet Home;" and how Grandma Scott would rub her eyes with her handkerchief, and declare that the room smoked! And how all the grown-up boys and girls would begin to look hysterical; and how Maggie, who believed in "a time to dance," would jump up and seize sober Uncle Walter by the waist, and waltz round the room with him; and how Grandmamma would smile and say, "Will anythingevertame that girl?" Poor, merry Maggie! she's "tame" enough now, though Grandmamma didn't live to see the sorrow that it took to do it.