OLD AUNTY.The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.L. M. C.AAllthe children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her heart.Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like rest or comfort, likehomefor a tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside and a full house.But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn penny by penny, as the days go by.She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the Square.With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most splendid street in the world,—whole miles of palaces.“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty used to say.When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or poor?”“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only gives me the rheumatism; and that isallthe trouble I have. God be praised!”“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so old; it isn’t safe.”“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her away!”The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shallnotbe ruined. Aunty shall go back to her rightful place.”We did not know about Aunty’s having anyrightto her old seat; but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters, school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board, and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit of silver they tossed her.In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day of Aunty’sabsence, she had the grief of watching many old friends and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure, and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at her; all the rest passed on.No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old woman.”We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the strongest.“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children? that is all I ask.”We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought itwould soon pass away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”We asked, “What now, child?”“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are not in any mischief; we are attending tobusiness”; and off she ran.Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes burning like stars. “There, mother,—and all of you,—you must sign this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long list.”“And what then?”“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little pan and brushand swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her old seat.If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there at the aged woman on the sidewalk,—while they were in their gilded and cushioned houses,—they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled fast.At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!” said Aunty afterwards; by whichshe meant, it is notnames, butactions, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent faces, all went well.So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next morning there she was, in her own old corner!As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.B.
OLD AUNTY.
The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.L. M. C.
The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.
L. M. C.
Allthe children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her heart.
Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like rest or comfort, likehomefor a tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside and a full house.
But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn penny by penny, as the days go by.
She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the Square.
With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.
It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most splendid street in the world,—whole miles of palaces.
“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty used to say.
When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or poor?”
“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”
“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only gives me the rheumatism; and that isallthe trouble I have. God be praised!”
“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so old; it isn’t safe.”
“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”
But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.
But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.
One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her away!”
The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.
It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”
“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shallnotbe ruined. Aunty shall go back to her rightful place.”
We did not know about Aunty’s having anyrightto her old seat; but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters, school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board, and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit of silver they tossed her.
In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day of Aunty’sabsence, she had the grief of watching many old friends and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.
A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure, and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at her; all the rest passed on.
No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old woman.”
We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the strongest.
“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children? that is all I ask.”
We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought itwould soon pass away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”
We asked, “What now, child?”
“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are not in any mischief; we are attending tobusiness”; and off she ran.
Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes burning like stars. “There, mother,—and all of you,—you must sign this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long list.”
“And what then?”
“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”
Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little pan and brushand swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her old seat.
If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.
Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”
Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there at the aged woman on the sidewalk,—while they were in their gilded and cushioned houses,—they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled fast.
At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!” said Aunty afterwards; by whichshe meant, it is notnames, butactions, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.
So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent faces, all went well.
So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next morning there she was, in her own old corner!
As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.
Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.
B.