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A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
To
_DOROTHY MOORE_,
A LITTLE GIRL OF TO-DAY,
FROM
HER MAMMA'S FRIEND,
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
NEWARK, 1896.
CONTENTS
I. THE LITTLE GIRL
II. GOOD-BY TO AN OLD HOME
III. FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN
IV. A LOOK AT OLD NEW YORK
V. GIRLS AND GIRLS
VI. MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN
VII. MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO
VIII. THE END OF THE WORLD
IX. A WONDERFUL SCHEME
X. A MERRY CHRISTMAS
XI. THE LITTLE GIRL IN POLITICS
XII. A REAL PARTY
XIII. NEW RELATIONS
XIV. JOHN ROBERT CHARLES
XV. A PLAY IN THE BACKYARD
XVI. DAISY JASPER
XVII. SOME OF THE OLD LANDMARKS
XVIII. SUNDRY DISSIPATIONS
XIX. WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE GIRL
"How would you like to go to New York to live, little girl?"
The little girl looked up into her father's face to see if he was
"making fun." He did sometimes. He was beginning to go down the hill of
middle life, a rather stout personage with a fair, florid complexion,
brown hair, rough and curly, and a border of beard shaved well away from
his mouth. Both beard and hair were getting threads of white in them.
His jolly blue eyes were mostly in a twinkle, and his good-natured mouth
looked as if he might be laughing at you.
She studied him intently. Three months before she had been taken to the
city on a visit, and it was a great event. I suspect that her mother did
not like being separated from her a whole fortnight. She was such a
nice, quiet, well-behaved little girl. Children were trained in those
days. Some of them actually took pride in being as nice as possible and
obeying the first time they were spoken to, without even asking "Why?"
The little girl sat on a stool sewing patchwork. This particular pattern
was called a lemon star and had eight diamond-shaped pieces of two
colors, filled in with white around the edge, making a square. Her
grandmother was coming to "join" it for her, and have it quilted before
she was eight years old. She was doing her part with a good will.
"To New York?" she repeated very deliberately. Then she went on with her
sewing for she had no time to waste.
"Yes, Pussy." Her father pinched her cheek softly. The little girl was
the most precious thing in the world, he sometimes thought.
"What, all of us?" You see she had a mind to understand the case before
she committed herself.
"Oh, certainly! I don't know as we could leave any one behind."
Then he lifted her up in his lap and hugged her, scrubbing her face with
his beard which gave her pink cheeks. They both laughed. She held her
sewing out with one hand so that the needle should not scratch either of
them.
"I can't--hardly--tell;" and her face was serious.
I want to explain to you that the little girl had not begun with
grammar. You may find her making mistakes occasionally. Perhaps the
children of to-day do the same thing.
"Would we move everything?" raising her wondering eyes.
"Well, no--not quite;" and the humorous light crossed his face. "We
couldn't take the orchard nor the meadows nor the woods nor the creek."
(I think he said "medders" and "crick," and his "nor" sounded as if he
put an _e_ in it.) "There are a good many things we should have to leave
behind."
He sighed and the little girl sighed too. She drew up her patchwork and
began to sew.
"It is a great deal of trouble to move;" she began gravely. "I must
consider."
She had caught that from Great-Aunt Van Kortlandt, who never committed
herself to anything without considering.
Her father kissed her cheek. If it had been a little fatter she would
have had a dimple. Or perhaps he put so many kisses in the little dent
it was always filled up with love.
I don't know whether you would have thought this little girl of past
seven pretty or not. She was small and fair with a rather prim face and
thick light hair, parted in the middle, combed back of her ears, and cut
square across the neck, but the ends had some curly twists.
Certainly children are dressed prettier nowadays. The little girl's
frock was green with tiny rivulets of yellow meandering over it. They
made islands and peninsulas and isthmuses of green that were odd and
freaky. Mrs. Underhill had bought it to join her sashwork quilt, and
there was enough left to make the little girl a frock. It had the merit
of washing well, but it gave her a rather ghostly look. It had a short,
full waist with shoulder straps, making a square neck, a wide belt, and
a skirt that came down to the tops of her shoes, which were like Oxford
ties. Though she was not rosy she had never been really ill, and only
stayed at home two weeks the previous winter at the worst of the
whooping-cough, which nobody seemed to mind then. But it must have made
a sort of Wagner chorus if many children coughed at once.
"I had a very nice time in New York," she began, with grave approbation,
when she had considered for some seconds. "The museum was splendid! And
the houses seem sociable-like. Don't you suppose they nod to each other
when the folks are asleep? And the stores are so--so--" she tried to
think of the longest word she knew--"so magnificent? Aunt Patience and
Aunt Nancy were so nice. And the cat was perfectly white and sat in Aunt
Nancy's lap. There was a little girl next door who had a big doll and a
cradle and a set of dishes, and we had tea together. I'd like to have
some dishes. Do you think Uncle Faid is coming back?" she asked
suddenly.
"I believe he is, this time. And if we get very homesick we shall have
to come back and live with him."
"I shouldn't be homesick with you and mother and the boys, and Steve and
Joe. It would be nice to have Dobbin and Prince, but the stores are on
the corners instead of going to the village, and its nice and queer to
ride in the omnibuses and hand your money up through the roof. The
drivers must have an awful sight when night comes."
They even said "awful" in those far-back days, they truly did.
Father Underhill laughed and squeezed the little girl with a fondness
she understood very well.
Just then a voice called rather sharply: "'Milyer! 'Milyer!" and he sat
the little girl down on the stool as carefully as if she had been china.
He put another kiss in the little dent, and she gave him a tender smile.
His whole name was Vermilye Fowler Underhill. Everybody called him
Familiar, but Mrs. Underhill shortened it to 'Milyer.
The little girl's name was Hannah Ann. The school children called her
Han and Hanny. One grandmother always said Hanneran. But being the
youngest, the most natural name seemed "little girl."
There were three sons to lead off, Stephen Decatur, Joseph Bennett, and
John Fowler. Then a daughter was most welcome, and she was called
Margaret Hunter after her mother, and shortened to Peggy. They used
nicknames and diminutives, if they were not as fanciful as ours.
After Margaret came George Horton, Benny Franklin, and James Odell. The
poor mother gave a sigh of disappointment, she had so longed for another
girl. When Jim had outgrown babyhood altogether and was nearly five, the
desired blessing came.
There was a great discussion about her name. Grandmother Hunter had
married a second time and was a Van Kortlandt now. She had named her
only daughter after her mother and was a bit offended that Margaret was
not named for her. Now she came with a fairy god-mother's insistence,
and declared she would put a hundred dollars in the bank at once, and
remember the child in her will, besides giving her the old Hunter
tablespoons made in London more than a hundred years ago, with the crown
mark on them.
Grandmother Underhill's name was Ann. She lived with her eldest son at
White Plains, who had fallen heir to his grandfather's farm. When a
widow she had gone back to her girlhood's home and taken care of her old
father. David, her eldest son, had come to work the farm. She had a
"wing" in the house, but she never lived by herself, for her son and the
grandchildren adored her.
Now she said to the baby's mother: "You put in Ann for a middle name and
I'll give her a hundred dollars as well, and my string of gold beads
that came from Paris. And I'll make her a nice down bed and pillows."
So Hannah Ann it was, and the little girl began life with a bank
account. She was a grave, sweet, dainty sort of baby, with wondering
eyes of bluish violet, bordering on gray. I think myself that she should
have had a prettier name, but people were not throwing away even
two-hundred-dollar chances in those days. Neither had they come to
Ediths and Ethels and Mays and Gladys. And they barbarously shortened
some of their most beautiful names to Peggy and Betsey and Polly and
Sukey.
Left to herself the little girl went on with her patchwork, and recalled
her visit to the city. There were so many aunts and cousins and so many
wonderful things to see. She must find out whether there would be any
snow and sleighrides in the winter. As for fruit and vegetables and eggs
and poultry the farmers were always sending them in to the city, she
knew that.
The prospect of a removal from Yonkers, where they had always lived, was
not so new to the elders. Stephen was in New York nearly all the week
now. Joseph was studying for a doctor. John was not in love with farming
and had a great taste for mechanical pursuits. Margaret, a tall, fair
girl of seventeen, was begging to be sent away to school another year,
and learn some of the higher branches people were talking about. Joe
thought she should. Her father was quite sure she knew enough, for she
could do all the puzzling sums in "Perkins' Higher Arithmetic," and you
couldn't trip her up on the hardest words. She went to a very good
school in the village. And the village was quite primitive in those
days. The steamboat-landing was the great focus of interest. It was all
rock and hills and a few factories were plodding along. The farm was two
good miles away.
The young people thought it a most auspicious turn in affairs that Uncle
Faid was coming back. His real name was Frederic. Since David had his
grandfather's farm, this had been divided between the two remaining
sons, but Frederic had been seized with the Western fever and gone out
to what was called the new countries. His sons had married and settled
in different places, one daughter had married and come East to live, and
Uncle Faid was homesick for the land of his youth.
Mrs. Underhill had declared at first, "She wouldn't stir a step. 'Milyer
could buy out his brother's part in the house"--the two hundred acres
had been already divided. But people had begun to complain even then
that farming did not pay, and John wanted to learn a trade. And if three
or four went out of the old home nest! Steve wanted his father in New
York. If they were not satisfied they could come back and build a new
house. And presently she began to think it best even if she didn't like
it.
The little girl finished her block of patchwork, pinched and patted down
the seams, and laid it on the pile. Her "stent" for that day was done.
There were nine more blocks to make.
There was a wide half closet beside the chimney and she had the top
shelf for her own. It was so neat that it looked like a doll's house.
Her only doll had been a "rag baby," and Gip, the dog, had demolished
that.
"Never mind," said her mother, "you are too big to play with dolls." But
the little girl in New York was almost a year older, and she had a large
wax doll with "truly" clothes that could be taken off and washed. If she
went to the city she might have one.
She piled up her patchwork with a sense of exultation. She was extremely
neat. There was a tiny, hair-covered trunk grandmother Van Kortland had
given her full of pretty chintz and calico pieces. She kept her baby
shoes of blue kid that were outgrown before they were half worn out, so
choice had her mother been of them. There were some gift-books and
mementos and a beautiful Shaker basket Stephen had given her at
Christmas. It was round, so she imagined you put something in it and
shook it, for she had no idea the Shakers were a community and made
dainty articles for sale, even if they discarded all personal vanities.
She went through to the next room, which was the kitchen in winter and
dining-room in summer. She took down her blue-and-white gingham
sun-bonnet, and skipped along a narrow path through the grass to the
summer kitchen. This was a short distance from the house, a big, square
room with a door at each side, and smoky rafters overhead. The brick and
stone chimney was built inside, very wide at the bottom and tapering up
to the peak in the roof. There was a great black crane across it, with
two sets of trammels suspended from it, on which you could hang two
kettles at the same time. If you have never seen one, get Longfellow's
beautiful illustrated poem, "The Hanging of the Crane." A great many old
country houses had them, and they were considered extremely handy.
The presiding genius of the kitchen was a fat old black woman, so old
that her hair was all grizzled. When she braided it up in little tails
on Saturday afternoon Hannah Ann watched with a kind of fascination. She
always wore a plaid Madras turban with a bow tied in front. She had been
grandmother Underhill's slave woman. I suppose very few of you know
there were slaves in New York State in the early part of the century.
Aunt Mary had sons married, and grandchildren doing well. They begged
her now and then to give up work, but she clung to her old home.
"Aunt Mary," inquired the little girl, "is the chicken feed mixed?"
"Laws, yaas, honey, lem me scoop it in de pail. You's got such little
claws o' han's. Don't seem 's if dey ever grow big ernough fer nothin'."
She ladled out the scalded meal, mixed with bits of broken bread. The
little girl laughed and nodded and crossed the small bridge that spanned
the creek. The spring, or rather the series of them, ran around the
house and down past the kitchen, then widened out into quite a pond
where the ducks and geese disported themselves, and the cows always
paused to drink on their way to the barn.
She went down to the barn. On the carriage-house side in the sun were
some chicken-coops. Pretty little chicks whose mothers had "stolen
their nests;" thirty-two of various sizes, and they belonged to the
little girl. She rarely forgot them.
There were plenty of chores for Ben and Jim. They drove the cows to
pasture, chopped wood, picked apples, and dug potatoes. You wondered how
they found any time for play or study.
Jim "tagged" the little girl as she came back with her pail. She could
run like a deer.
"Here you, Jim!" called Aunt Mary, "you jes' take dis pail an' git some
of dem big blackbre'es fer supper steder gallopin' roun' like a wild
palakin ob de desert!" and she held out the shining pail.
A "palakin of the desert" was Aunt Mary's favorite simile. In vain had
Margaret explained that the pelican was a bird and couldn't gallop.
"Laws, honey," the old woman would reply, "I aint hankerin' arter any ob
dis new book larnin'. I's a heap too old fer 'rithmertic an' 'stology. I
jes' keeps to de plain Bible dat served de chillen of Isrul in de
wilderness. Some day, Miss Peggy, when you's waded tru seas o' trubble
an' come out on de good Lord's side an' made your callin' an' 'lection
sure, you'll know more 'bout it I done reckon."
"Come with me, do, Hanny," pleaded Jim. "You can walk along the stone
fence and pick the high ones and we'll fill the kittle in no time."
Jim thought if he had made a spelling-book, he would have spelled the
word that way. Jim would have been a master hand at phonetics.
The little girl crossed two of her fingers. That was a sign of truce in
the game.
"No play till we come back," said Jim.
The little girl nodded and ran for her mitts of strong muslin with the
thumb and finger ends out. The briars were so apt to tear your hands.
They ran a race down to the blackberry patch. Then they sat on the fence
and ate berries. It was really a broad, handsome wall. There were so
many stones on the ground that they built the walls as they "cleared
up." The blackberry lot was a wild tangle. There were some hickory-nut
trees in it and a splendid branching black walnut. Sometimes they found
a cluster of hazel-nuts.
The great blackberry canes grew six or seven feet high. They generally
cut one path through in the early summer. The long branches made arches
overhead.
The little girl pinned a big dock-leaf with a thorn and made a cup. When
it was full she emptied it into Jim's pail. They were such great,
luscious berries that they soon had it filled. Then they sat down and
rested. Everybody knows that it is harder work to pick berries than to
play "tag."
Jim had a piece to speak on Friday afternoon at school. They had these
exercises once a month, but this was to be a rather grand affair, as
then school closed for a fortnight. That was all the vacation they had.
Jim was rather proud of his elocutionary gift. He stood up on a big flat
stone and declaimed so that the little girl might see if he knew every
word. It was extremely patriotic, beginning:
"Columbia! Columbia! to glory arise,
The queen of the world and the child of the skies!"
"Oh, you say it just splendid!" declared the little girl
enthusiastically. She never laughed and teased him as Peggy did.
She was learning some verses herself, but she wondered if she would have
courage enough to face the whole school. They were in her "Child's
Reader" with the "Little Busy Bee," and "Let Dogs Delight to Bark and
Bite." She thought them beautiful:
"The rose had been washed, lately washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed."
It puzzled her small brain a good deal as to why the rose needed
washing. But Peggy showed her one day how dusty the leaves and flowers
grew in a dry time, and she learned that the whole world was the better
for an occasional washing. She asked Mary afterward why the clothes were
not put out in a hard rain to get them clean.
"Laws, honey, dey need elbow-grease," and the old woman laughed
heartily.
"I do wish my name was Anna," she said, with a sigh.
"Well, you just need to put another _a_ to the Ann," said her brother
confidently.
"And I don't like being called Han and Hanny."
"I'd a heap rather be called Jim than James. When pop calls me James I
think it's time to pick myself up mighty spry, I tell you!" and he
laughed.
"It's different with boys," she said, with a soft sigh. "Girls ought to
have pretty names, and Hanneran is dreadful."
"I'd stand a good deal for two hundred dollars. And it doubles in
fourteen years. And seven again! Why you'll have more than five hundred
dollars when you're grown up!"
She did not know the value of money and thought she would rather have
the pretty name. Yet she wasn't _quite_ sure she would choose Anna.
"You stay here while I run after the cows," said Jim. "It will save
another journey."
Boys are often economical of their steps, I have noticed. Perhaps this
is how they gain time for play. The little girl jumped down presently
and looked over at the wild flowers. There were clusters of yarrow in
bloom, spikes of yellow snap-dragons, and a great clump of thistles in
their purple glory. She must tell her father about them, and have them
rooted out. Would it hurt them to be killed? She felt suddenly sorry for
them.
A squirrel ran along and winked at her as he gave his tail an extra
perk. Nothing was ever afraid of the little girl. But she ran from the
old gobbler, and the big gander who believed he had pre-empted the farm
from the Indians. She generally climbed over the fence when she saw old
Red, who had an ominous fashion of brandishing her long horns. But she
didn't mind with Jim nor Benny.
Jim came now and took up the pail. The cows meandered along. She was
rather glad Jim did not see the thistle. She would not tell him about it
to-night.