FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN
The little girl stood still a moment as if transfixed. There came the
passionate desire to run and hide. She gave the door-bell a sharp pull.
Martha Stimis answered it.
"Goodness sakes, is it you, ringin' as if the world wouldn't stand
another minnit? Next time you want to get in, Haneran, you jest come
down the _aree_! And me a-mouldin' up the biscuit!"
The little girl walked through the hall with a swelling heart. She
couldn't be allowed to ring the door-bell when her own father's name was
on the door!
The ell part was her mother's sleeping chamber and sitting-room. No one
was in it. Hannah Ann walked down to the end. There was a beautiful old
dressing-case that had been brought over with the French great, great
grandmother. It had a tall glass coming down to the floor. At the sides
were several small drawers that went up about four feet, and the top had
some handsome carved work. It was one of Mrs. Underhill's choicest
possessions. In the mirror you could see yourself from "top to toe."
The little girl stood before it. She had on a brown woollen frock and a
gingham high apron. Her skirt _was_ straight and long. Her laced shoes
only came to her ankles. Her stockings were black, and she remembered
how she had watched these little girls coming down the street, their
stockings were snowy white. Of course she wore white yarn ones on
Sundays. A great piece of their pantalets was visible, ruffled, too.
Yes, she did look queer! And the starch was mostly out of her
sun-bonnet. It wasn't her best one, either.
She sat down on a little bench and cried as if her heart would break.
"Oh, Hanny dear, what is the matter?"
Margaret had entered the room unheard. She knelt by her little sister,
took off her sun-bonnet and pressed the child in her arms. "What is it,
dear?" in a soft, persuasive voice. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"No. I--I----" Then she put her little arms around Margaret's neck. "Oh,
Peggy, am I very, very queer?"
"You're a little darling. Did Martha scold you?"
"No. It wasn't--some girls came along----" She tried very hard to stop
her sobbing.
"There, dear, let me wash your face. Don't cry any more." She laid aside
the bonnet and bathed the small face, then she began to brush the soft
hair. It had not been cut all winter and was quite a curly mop. Stephen
had bought her a round comb of which she was very proud.
"It was two girls. They went by and they laughed----"
Her voice was all of a quaver again, but she did not mean to cry if she
could help it.
"Did they call you 'country'?"
Margaret smiled and kissed the little girl, who tried to smile also.
Then she repeated the ill-bred comment.
"We are not quite citified," said Margaret cheerfully. "And it isn't
pleasant to be laughed at for something you cannot well help. But all
the little girls _are_ wearing short dresses, and you are to have some
new ones. Mother has gone out shopping, and next week cousin Cynthia
Blackfan is coming to fix us all up. But I _do_ hope, Hanny, you will
have better manners and a kinder heart than to laugh at strangers, no
matter if they are rather old-fashioned."
"I don't believe I ever will," said the little girl soberly.
"Now come up in my room. Mother said I might rip up her pretty blue
plaid silk and have it made over. I came down to hunt up the waist."
She found it in one of the drawers, pinned up in a linen pillow-case.
"And you can have on a white apron," the elder said when they reached
the room.
This had long sleeves and a ruffle round the neck. The little girl was
ever so much improved.
And I think she would have felt comforted if she could have heard the
rest of the talk between the two girls.
"I do wonder if she belongs to the new people," said the girl who
laughed. "They can't be much. They came from the country somewhere."
"But they've bought all the way through to the other street. And ma said
she meant to call on them. Some one told her they owned a big farm in
Yonkers, and one of the young men is to be a doctor. Maybe the little
girl doesn't really belong to them. I wish you hadn't spoken quite so
loud. I'm sure she heard."
"Oh, I don't care!" with an airy toss of the head. "Mother said the
other day she shouldn't bother about new neighbors. Calling on them is
out of style."
Hanny looked out of the window a long while. Then she said gravely:
"Margaret, are all those old Dutch people dead that were in the history?
And where was their Bowery?"
"It is the Bowery out here, but it has changed. That was a long, long
time ago."
"If I'd lived then no one would have laughed about my long frock. I
almost wish I'd been a little girl then."
"Perhaps there were other things to laugh about."
"I don't mind the laughing _now_. But they must have had lovely gardens
full of tulips and roses. There doesn't seem any room about for such
things. And lanes, you know. Did the new people drive the Dutch away?"
"The English came afterward. You will read all about it in history. And
then came the war----"
"That grandmother knows about? Margaret, I think New York is a great,
strange, queer place. There are a good many queernesses, aren't there?"
Margaret assented with a smile.
"Oh, there's father in the wagon!" The little girl was all a tremor of
gladness. He caught her eyes and beckoned, and she ran down. But she
couldn't manage the night-latch, and so Margaret had to follow her.
"Bundle up my little girl," he said. "I've got to drive up to Harlem and
I'll take her along."
Hanny almost danced for joy. Margaret found her red merino coat. The
collar was trimmed with swan's down, and her red silk hood had an edge
of the same. True, some ultra-fashionables had come out in spring
attire, but it was rather cool so early in the season. Hanny looked
very pretty in her winter hood. And as they drove down the street the
same girls were standing on a stoop; one was evidently going away from
her friend. The one who laughed lived there then. But neither of them
would have guessed it was the "queer" girl, and they almost envied her.
"I've never been down to this corner," said Hanny. "And the streets run
together."
"Yes, First Street ends and Houston goes on over to the East River."
The little girl looked about. There was a great sign on the house at the
junction--"Monticello Hotel,"--and on the edge of the sidewalk a pump,
which the little girl thought funny. They dipped the water out of the
spring at home--they had not given up saying that about the old place.
There was no need of a pump, and at grandmother's they had a well-sweep
and bucket.
Then they turned up Avenue A, where he had an errand, and soon they were
going over rough country ways where "squatters" had begun to come in
with pigs and geese. They seemed so familiar that the little girl
laughed. And if some one had told her that she would one day be driving
in a beautiful park over yonder it would have sounded like a fairy tale.
It was rough and wild now. Dobbin spun along, for the sun was hurrying
over westward.
"We have some old cousins living beyond there on Harlem Heights," he
said, "but it's too late to hunt them up. And it'll be dark by the time
we get home. There was a big battle fought here. Their brother was
killed in it. Why, they must be most eighty years old."
The little girl drew a long breath at the thought.
"We'll look them up some day." Then he stopped before a hotel where
there was a long row of horse sheds, and sprang out to tie Dobbin.
"I had better take you out. Something might happen." He carried her in
his arms clear up the steps. A lady came around the corner of the wide
porch.
"I'll leave my little girl in the waiting-room a few moments. I have
some business with Mr. Brockner," he said.
"I will take her through to my sitting-room," the lady replied, and
holding out her hand she led Hanny thither. She insisted on taking off
her hood and loosening her coat, and in a few moments she seemed well
acquainted. The lady asked her father's name and she told it.
"There are some old ladies of that name living half a mile or so from
here," she said. Then remembering they were very poor, and that poor
relations were not always cordially accepted, she hesitated.
"Father spoke of some cousins," cried the little girl eagerly. "He said
sometime we would hunt them up. We only came to New York to live two
weeks ago."
"Then you have hardly had time to look up any one. They would be glad to
see your father, I know. He looks so wholesome and good-natured."
The little girl was not an effusive child, but she and the lady fell
into a delightful talk. Then her hostess brought in a plate of seed
cookies, and she was eating them very delicately when her father
entered.
"We have had such a nice time," she said, "that I'd like you to bring
your little girl up again. Indeed, I have half a mind to keep her."
"We couldn't spare her," said her father, with a fond smile, which Hanny
returned.
"I suppose not. But it will soon be beautiful around here, and when she
longs for a breath of the country you must bring her up."
"Thank you, madam."
"And oh, father, the cousins really are here. Two old, old ladies----"
Mr. Underhill inquired about them, and learned their circumstances were
quite straitened. He promised to come up soon and see them.
Mrs. Brockner kissed Hanny, quite charmed with her simplicity and pretty
manner. And she had never once thought about the length of her old
brown skirt.
It was supper time when they reached home. Steve and Joe and John were
there. The three younger boys had been left at Yonkers. Indeed, George
had declared his intention of being a farmer. Mrs. Underhill said she
didn't want any more boys until she had a place to put them.
Afterward Joe coaxed the little girl to come and sit on his knee. They
were talking about schools.
"Seems to me, Margaret better be studying housekeeping and learning how
to make her clothes instead of going to school," said Mrs. Underhill
shortly. "She can write a nice letter and she's good at figures, and,
really, I don't see----"
"She wants to be finished," returned Steve, with a laugh. "She's a city
girl now. I've been looking schools over. There are several
establishments where they burnish up young ladies. There's Madame
Chegary's----"
"I won't have her going to any French school and reading wretched French
novels!"
Steve threw back his head and laughed. He had such splendid, strong,
white teeth.
"My choice would be Rutgers Institute. It's going to be the school of
the day," declared Joe.
"Exactly. I was coming to that. There would be one term before
vacation."
"I call it all foolishness. And she'll be eighteen on her next
birthday," said her mother. "If she wasn't a good scholar already--and
what more _do_ you expect her to learn?"
They all laughed at their mother's little ebullition of temper.
"The world grows wiser every day," said Joe sententiously.
"And what are you going to do, Pussy?"
Steve reached over and gave the little girl's ear a soft pinch.
"I am going to look up a nice school for her myself. Don't begin to
worry about a child not yet eight years old," said their mother sharply.
"Eight years. She'll soon be that," remarked her father with a soft
sigh. And he wished he could keep her a little girl always.
They went on discussing Rutgers Institute, that was one of the most
highly esteemed schools of the day for young ladies. Steve looked over
at his fair sister--she was _almost_ as pretty as Dolly Beekman. Dolly
had some dainty, attractive ways, played on the piano and sang, and
Peggy had a voice blithe as a bird. Steve was beginning to be quite a
judge of young ladies and social life, and there was no reason why they
should not all aim at something. They had good family names to back
them. Family counted, but so did education and accomplishments.
Mrs. Underhill gave in. Steve would have his way. But then he was such a
good, upright, affectionate son. So when he announced that he had
registered his sister, Margaret's pulses gave a great thrill of delight.
There was so much to do. True, Martha was a good cook and capable, and
there was no milk to look after, no churning, no poultry, and the
countless things of country life. Miss Cynthia Blackfan came the next
week and remodeled the feminine part of the household. She was a tall,
slim, airy-looking person, with large dark eyes and dark hair that she
wore in long ringlets on either side of her face. She always looped them
up when she was sewing. She had all the latest quips of fashion at her
tongue's end--what Margaret must have for school dresses, what for
Sunday best, what lawns and ginghams and prints for summer.
But when she went at the little girl she quite metamorphosed her.
"You must begin to plait the child's hair and tie it with ribbons
[people generally used the word instead of 'braid']. And her frocks must
be made ever so much shorter. And, Cousin Underhill, _do_ put white
stockings on the child. Nobody wears colored ones. Unbleached do wear
stronger and answer for real every day."
"They'll be forever in the wash-tub," said the mother grimly.
"Well, when you're in Rome you must do as the Romans do," with emphasis.
"It looks queer to be so out of date. Everybody dresses so much more in
the city. It's natural. There's so much going and coming."
Even then people had begun to discuss and condemn the extravagance of
the day. The old residents of the Bowling Green were sure Bond Street
and the lower part of Fifth Avenue were stupendous follies and would
ruin the city. Foreign artistic upholsterers came over, carpets and
furniture of the most elegant sort were imported, and even then some
people ordered their gowns and cloaks in Paris. Miss Blackfan's best
customer had gone over for the whole summer, otherwise she would not
have the fortnight for Cousin Underhill. She uttered her dictum with a
certain authority from which there was no appeal. And she charged a
dollar and a half a day, while most dressmakers were satisfied with a
dollar.
So the little girl had her hair braided in two tails--they were quite
short, though, and her father liked the curly mop better. Little girls'
dresses were cut off the shoulder, and made with a yoke or band and a
belt. In warm weather they wore short sleeves, though a pair of long
sleeves were made for cool days. There were some tucks in the skirt to
be let down as the child grew.
The little girl was most proud, I think, of her pantalets. There were
some nankin ones made for every day. And she had a real nankin frock
that Margaret embroidered just above the hem. It was used a great deal
for aprons, too. Aprons, let me tell you, were no longer "high-ups" with
a plain armhole. They were sometimes gathered on a belt and had Bertha
capes over the shoulders trimmed with edging or ruffles. And every
well-conditioned little girl had one of black silk.
"She'll have to hem her own ruffles," declared Mother Underhill almost
sharply. "And how they're ever to get ironed----"
"There's hemstitching and fagoting, but I don't know as it's any less
work than ruffling. And all the little girls are knitting lace. I'm
doing some myself, oak-leaf pattern out of seventy cotton, and it's as
handsome as anything you ever see."
"I don't know how any one is going to find time for so much folderol!"
"Oh, pshaw, Cousin Underhill, we did lots of it in our day. I worked the
bottom of a party dress a good quarter up, and Vandyke capes, and those
great big collars. And we tucked up to the waist. There's always
something. And those old Jewish women had broidery and finery of every
sort, and 'pillows' in their sleeves as we wore years ago. See what a
little it takes to make a pair of sleeves now! We must have looked
funny, all sleeves and waists up under our arms."
When you consider that sewing-machines had not been invented, it was a
wonder how the women accomplished so much. But they always had some
"catch-work" handy. The little girl was provided with a pretty
work-basket, six spools of cotton, a pincushion, a needle-book, a bit of
white wax, and an emery, which was a strawberry-shaped cushion topped
off with some soft green stuff she knew afterward was chenille. This was
to keep her needles bright and smooth. Then she had three rolls of
ruffling, yards and yards in each piece. One was cambric, one was fine
lawn or nainsook, and one of dimity. She had done some over-seam in
sheets, she had hemmed towels and some handkerchiefs, and sewed a little
on the half-dozen shirts Margaret had made for father last winter. But
the stitches had to be so small, and oh, so close together! Then they
looked badly if they were not straight. She liked the dimity the best
because the stitches seemed to sink in, and it ruffled so of itself.
But the little girl didn't sew all the time. She wiped dishes for
Martha. And one day, when she saw a little girl up the street sweeping
the sidewalk, she begged to do that. She could dust a room very nicely.
There was much running up and down, and she was always glad to wait
upon Steve. Indeed, she ran errands cheerfully for anybody. But she
_did_ miss Benny Frank and Jim.
Margaret had felt quite diffident about her new school, and at first
rather shrank from the young ladies, much as she desired to be among
them. But she found herself quite advanced in some of the studies, and
in a week's time began to feel at home. Two girls were very friendly,
Mary Barclay and Annette Beekman.
Perhaps Steve hadn't been quite as disinterested as it seemed. He had
met Dolly Beekman at Miss Jane Barclay's party early in the winter. They
had taken a mutual fancy. Old Peter Beekman lived at the lower end of
Broadway, and had a farm "up the East River," about Ninety-sixth Street.
He had five girls, and the two last had been sore disappointments. But
Harriet, the eldest, had married her cousin and had four Beekman boys.
Two others were married. Dolly had graduated from Rutgers the year
before and was now nineteen. Annette, as the old Dutch name was spelled,
was not quite seventeen. Margaret had been put in her class in most
branches.
Steve _did_ want the Beekmans to think well of his people. He and Dolly
were not declared lovers, but they understood each other. Old Peter
made inquiries about the young man, and if they had not been
satisfactory Stephen would soon have known it. So he felt quite assured.
And though his mother talked of her sons marrying, he knew that just at
first it would come a little hard to find she had a rival.
"Well, Peggy," he said, Friday evening of the first week, "how does
school go? Seen any girls you like?"
"I've seen two that know you," and Margaret laughed. "Mary Barclay said
you had been at their house. And so did Annie Beekman."
"Yes, I was at Miss Beekman's party; quite a fine affair. And I've been
there to play whist. They're a jolly crowd. Next winter we must have a
few parties. And I'm going to get a piano."
"Oh, you lovely Steve!" She squeezed his arm rapturously.
"You have a very pretty voice, Peggy. Annie Beekman's sister sings
beautifully. How do you like Annie?"
"Why, you never can tell whether she is in earnest or quizzing you. But
she's ever so much prettier than Mary. Yes, on the whole I like her."
"You ought to see her sister Dolly. She has real flaxen hair and such a
complexion!"
"Annie has a lovely complexion, too. There are a great many pretty
girls in the world. I have a curious sort of pity for those who are not
a bit pretty," Margaret said sympathetically.
Steve laughed and nodded, as if the idea amused him.
If Margaret and Annie became friends, and if Dolly and Annie came to
call--well, he was sure they would all fall in love with Dolly. And then
the matter would go on smoothly. People thought more of being friendly
with their relations by marriage in those days.