A LOOK AT OLD NEW YORK
On a Sunday toward the end of April, Stephen took his two sisters down
to the Battery for a walk. It was very warm and springlike. The
cherry-tree in their yard had come out in bloom. Buds were swelling
everywhere, and the gray spots were all green and shining in the soft
golden atmosphere. There was the wide, magnificent expanse of the bay,
the edge of Brooklyn, the hazy outline of Staten Island, the vague
Narrows that seemed to lead to some unknown world. And there was the
great round Castle Garden, the Castle Clinton of earlier times, where a
few years later the little girl was to hear some of the world's most
famous singers. And when she looked out of that weird, narrow waterway
and wondered just where Europe was, and how foreign countries must look,
she could not by the most vivid stretch of imagination fancy herself
sailing out to that unknown country.
The short grass was so lovely and green, and the waves came lapping up
with a silvery melody. There were people lounging on the seats, ladies
with sunshades in their hands, mothers with some little children,
fathers with a son or two, or a little girl like herself in pantalets
and white stockings and low shoes. The clothes she thought were
beautiful. The hats were full of flowers. She had a new straw gypsy with
a wreath of buttercups, and soft yellow strings tied under her chin. Her
_challi de laine_ had small blue flowers on a white ground, with
yellow-brown centres, and there was a blue ribbon tied about her waist,
with a bow at the back. She had a white cape of some soft cotton goods
with a satiny finish, warranted to wash as good as new. She would have
liked a sunshade, but she had so many new things.
She thought quite a good deal about her pretty clothes, and how glad she
should be to learn more geography. Stephen was talking about Hudson's
expedition up the river to which he gave his name, and a few months
later when some hovels were built to shelter the sailors, the beginning
of a settlement. And how in 1614 the Dutch erected a rude fort and gave
the place the name of New Amsterdam. Then the Dutch West India Company
bought Manhattoes Island from the natives for goods of various kinds,
amounting to sixty guilders.
"You see the Dutch were thrifty traders even then, more than two hundred
years ago," says Stephen with a pleasant laugh.
"How much are sixty guilders?" asks the little girl. It sounds an
immense sum to her. And to buy a whole city!
"It was about twenty-four dollars at that time," replies Stephen.
The little girl's face is amusing in its surprise.
"Only twenty-four dollars! And father had three hundred a few days ago.
Why, he could have bought"--well, the limitless area takes away her
breath.
"I don't believe we should have wanted to live in such a wilderness as
it was then."
"But when Walter the Testy came--he was really here?" It is rather
chaotic in her mind.
"He was here. Wouter van Twiller was his real name. Then a line of Dutch
governers, after which the island was ceded to the British. It became
quite a Royalist town until the Revolutionary War. We had a 'scrap'
about tea, too," and Stephen laughs. "Old Castle Clinton was a famous
spot. And when General Lafayette, who had helped us fight our battles,
came over in 1824, he had a magnificent ovation as he sailed up the bay.
It's a splendid old place."
Everybody seemed to think so then. The birds were singing in the
sunshine, and the rural aspect was dear to the hearts of the older
people. They rose and walked about in the fragrant air. Now and then
some one bowed gravely to Stephen. There was a Sunday decorum over all.
They rambled up to the Bowling Green. Some quaintly attired elderly
people who had the _entree_ of the place were sitting about enjoying the
loveliness. One old Frenchman had a ruffled shirt-front and a very high
coat-collar that made him look like a picture, and knee-breeches.
Some one sprang up, and coming to the gate said: "Oh, Mr. Underhill, and
Miss Margaret! Is this your little sister? Do walk in and chat with us.
My sister Jane and I have come down to dine with the Morrises, and it
was so lovely out here. Isn't it a charming day?"
There was Miss Jane Barclay very fashionably attired, Miss Morris, and
her brother, who was very attentive to Miss Barclay, and a little
farther on Mrs. Morris, fat, fair, and matronly. She was reading "The
Lady of the Manor," and when the little girl found it afterward in a
Sunday-school library, Mrs. Morris seemed curiously mixed up with it.
Sunday papers at that period would have horrified most people.
"What a dear little girl!" said Mrs. Morris. "Come here and tell me your
name. Why, you look like a lily astray in a bed of buttercups. Is it
possible Mr. Stephen Underhill is your brother?"
"The eldest and the youngest," explained Stephen. "And this is my
sister, Miss Underhill."
Mrs. Morris bowed and shook hands. Then she made room on the settee for
the child.
"You haven't told me your name, my dear."
Mrs. Morris' voice was so soft, almost pleading. The little girl glanced
up and colored, and if the bank could have broken and let her money down
in the ocean, or some one could have stolen it and bought a new
Manhattan Island in the South Seas,--so that she could have had a new
name, she wouldn't have minded a bit. But she said with brave sweetness:
"Hannah Ann. I was named after both grandmothers."
"That's a long name for such a little girl. I believe I should call you
Nannie or Nansie. And Mr. Morris would call you Nan at once. I never
knew such a man for short names. We've always called our Elizabeth Bess,
and half the time her father calls her Bet, to save one letter."
The little girl laughed. The economy of the thing seemed funny.
"What does your father call you?"
"'Little girl,' most always. Margaret was grown into quite a big girl
when I was born, so I was the little girl."
"Well--that's pretty, too. And where are you living?"
"In First Street."
"Why, that's way up-town! And--let me see--you did live at Yonkers? I've
never been there. Is it a town?"
"We lived on a great big farm. And oh, the Croton water pipe came right
across one corner of it."
"Ah, you should have seen the celebration! Such a wonderful,
indescribable thing!"
"Margaret came down and most of the boys. Mother said I would be crushed
to death."
"And she couldn't spare her little girl! Well, I don't blame her. Do you
go to school?"
"No, ma'am, not yet." All the children but the very rough ones said "no,
ma'am," and "yes, ma'am," in those days. "But I did go at Yonkers."
"And what did you learn."
She was quite astonished at the little girl's attainments, and her
simplicity she thought charming. When Stephen came for her, Mrs. Morris
said:
"I have really fallen in love with your little sister. You must bring
her down again. _We_ think there's nothing to compare with our Bowling
Green and the Battery."
They bade each other a pleasant adieu. It was time to go home, indeed.
The little girl felt very happy and joyous, and she thought her pretty
clothes had helped. Perhaps they had.
She sat on her father's knee that night telling him about Mrs. Morris.
And she suddenly said:
"Father, what was the Reign of Terror?"
"The Reign of Terror? Oh, it was a horrible time of war in France. Where
did you pick up that?"
"There was an old man in the Green who had on a queer sort of
dress--knee-breeches and buckles on his shoes like those of
grandfather's. And ruffles all down his shirt-bosom and long, curly,
white hair. And Mrs. Morris said he was in prison in the Reign of
Terror, and then came to America with his daughter, and that his mind
had something the matter with it. Do you suppose he got awfully
frightened?"
"I dare say he did, my dear. When you are a big girl you will learn all
about it in history. But you needn't hurry. There are a great many
pleasanter things to learn."
She leaned her head down on her father's shoulder and thought how sad it
must be to lose one's mind. Was that the part of you always thinking?
How curious it was to always think of something! Your feet didn't always
walk, your hands didn't always work, but that strange thing inside of
you never stopped. Oh, yes, it had to when you were asleep. But then you
sometimes dreamed. And the little girl fell fast asleep over psychology
that she didn't know a word about.
Early in the next week Mrs. Underhill took the little girl and went up
to Yonkers. She said she was homesick to see the boys. And oh, how glad
they were to see her! Aunt Crete was laid up with the _tic douloureux_.
Retty was full of work and house-cleaning, and her lover had come on. He
was a Vermonter by birth, and an uncle in the Mohawk valley had brought
him up. Then he had gone West, but not taken especial root anywhere. He
was tall and thin, with reddish hair and beard, but the kindliest blue
eyes and a pleasant voice. He and George had struck up a friendship
already. And Retty confided to Aunt Margaret "that she was going to be
married without any fuss, and Bart was goin' to turn in and help run the
farm."
Everything wore a different aspect even in this brief while. Mrs.
Underhill had some things to pack up, that she was going to leave, a
while at least, in the garret. Her sister-in-law was very glad to take
anything she wanted to dispose of, since they had sold their furniture
at the West.
Oh, how wonderful the world was to the little girl! The trees were
coming out in bloom, there were great bunches of yellow daffodils, and
the May pinks were full of buds. And then the chickens, the ducks' nests
full of eggs, the pretty little dark-eyed calf that the boys had tamed
already! And the children at school! Everybody was wild over Hanny and
glad to get her back.
But it was queer she should miss her father so much when it came night.
She went out on the old stoop and felt strangely lonesome. Then the boys
came round, having done up their share of the chores.
"Do you _reely_ like it, Hanny?" asked Jim.
She knew he meant the city.
"Well--father and Steve and Joe and John are there"--yet her tone was a
little uncertain.
"Are there any boys about?"
"I don't know any. I haven't had time to find any girls. But there is a
big public school round in Houston Street, and I guess there's a
thousand children. You should see them coming out of the gate."
"Hm'n! I don't believe there's a thousand children in all New York.
That's ten hundred, Miss Hanny!"
Hanny was sobered by the immensity of her statement, for she was a very
truthful little girl.
"What have you been doing all this time?" Jim asked impatiently.
"Well--there was the house to get to rights. And we had to have some new
clothes made. A girl laughed at me one day and said I looked queer."
"If I'd been there I'd punched her head. Yes--I see you're mighty fine.
Would _I_ look queer?"
"Oh, boys always look alike," returned Hanny reflectively. "We had a
beautiful walk one Sunday on the Battery, and I think," hesitatingly,
"that all the boys had on roundabouts."
"Are you sure they didn't have on overcoats?"
"Don't plague her, Jim. Tell us about the Battery, Hanny."
Hanny could describe that quite vividly. Jim soon became interested.
When she paused he said, "What else?" She told them of her ride up to
Harlem, and a walk down the Bowery to Chatham Square.
"But there ain't any real bowers in it any more, only stores and such
things."
"What a pity," commented Benny Frank.
"Well, I think I'd like to go as soon as mammy can get ready. It isn't
as much fun here without you all."
"Oh, Jim, don't say mammy. They don't do it in the city," said the
little girl beseechingly.
"If you think I'm going to put on French airs, you're much mistaken,
Miss Hanny! I'll say pop and mammy when I like. I'm not going to dress
up in Sunday best manners because you wear ruffled pantalets. It makes
you look like a feather-legged chicken!"
"Don't mind him, Hanny," said Ben tenderly. "I wish I had seen that old
man at the Bowling Green----"
"Do they make bowls there?" interrupted teasing Jim.
"Because I've been reading about France and the Reign of Terror," Benny
Frank went on, not heeding his brother. "It was in about 1794.
Robespierre was at the head of it. And there was a dreadful prison into
which they threw everybody they suspected, and only brought them out for
execution. It must have been terrible! And the poor old man must have
been quite young then. I should think he would have lost his mind."
"Bother about such stuff! You'd rather be in New York, wouldn't you,
Hanny? And mother said we might come as soon as she was settled. I'm not
going to stay here and be ordered about by this Finch fellow. Retty's
soft as mush over him. Say, Ben, you _would_ like to go, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I think I would," answered Ben slowly. "There would be such a
splendid chance to learn about everything."
Their mother had been walking around the familiar paths with George, who
had developed some ideas of his own in this brief space. And his mother
had not realized before how tall and stout he was getting.
"I'd like to see father and Steve and make some plans. I'd like to work
part of father's ground on shares or some way. I'm glad Dave Andrews is
staying on. I don't altogether like Uncle Faid's ideas, and oh, mother,
'tisn't any such jolly home as you had. Poor Aunt Crete is so miserable.
But you see if I really had some interest of my own I'd be learning all
the time."
"I'm sure your father will consent." His mother felt so proud, leaning
on his arm. And some time _they_ would come back. So they talked the
matter over with eager interest, and she quite forgot about the little
girl's bedtime. Retty had joined them and was rehearsing some of her
Western experiences, and the little girl sat with wide-open eyes,
looking at Retty in the moon-light, thinking what a great wonderful
world it was to have so many places and all so different. Did you have
two organs of thought? She was so puzzled about thought, anyhow. For
with one side of her that didn't see Retty, she could see her father so
plainly in this very corner, and she was in his arms, and with the
faculty that wasn't listening to her cousin she could hear her father's
voice. You see, she wasn't old enough to know about dual consciousness.
When Hanny went up-stairs with her mother the boys went also.
"Say, Ben," and his brother gave him a dig in the ribs with his elbow;
"say, Ben, don't you want to go back to New York with mother? If we just
push with all our might and main, together we can."
"Well, don't push me through the side of the house."
"You want to be pushed all the while. You're as slow as 'lasses in
winter time. Ben, you take after Uncle Faid. It takes him 'most all day
to make up his mind. Now I can look at a thing and tell in a minute."
"You seem ready enough to tell." Ben laughed a little provokingly.
"Well, you can go or not as you like. 'Taint half the fun here that it
used to be. I didn't think I cared so much for Hanny."
"Is it Hanny?" in a tone that irritated.
"It's Hanny and mother and John and father and New York, and just a
million things rolled into a bundle. And if you don't care I'll fight my
way through. There, Benjamin Franklin! You'd sit on a stone in the
middle of a field and fly your kite forever!"
Jim was losing his temper.
"Yes, I _think_ I'd like to go. There would be so much to see and
learn."
"Oh, hang it all! Simply go!"
Ben was thinking of the old man--he must have been quite young then--who
was in prison through that awful Reign of Terror. He undressed slowly.
He was not such a fly-away as Jim. But Jim was asleep before he was
ready for bed.
Mrs. Underhill had not really meant to take the boys home with her. She
was quite sure the city was a bad place for boys. And the country was so
much healthier in the summer. But they coaxed. And somehow, the old home
_had_ changed already. The air of brisk cheerfulness was gone. Aunt
Crete had her face tied up most of the time, or a little shawl over her
head. Retty was undeniably careless. Barton Finch played cards with the
hired man. Uncle Faid had some queer ideas about farming.
"I'd like wonderful well to have the boys stay," he said. "They're worth
their keep. A boy 'round's mighty handy. I'd have to hire one."
Somehow she wasn't quite willing to have her boys put in the place of a
hired one, or one bound out from the county house. And Jim had been her
baby for so long. The little girl pleaded also. She told them finally
they might come down and try. But if they were the least bit bad or
disobedient they would be sent back at once.
Mrs. Underhill was half-cured of her homesickness. She had thought she
could never be content in New York; why, she was almost content
already.
She and Hanny took a walk the last day of their stay up on the knoll
where the new house was to be built.
"When all the children are married and father and I get to be old
people, we will come back here. I shall want you, Hanny," and she held
the little girl's hand in a tight clasp.
Hanny wondered if she would be stout and have full red cheeks and look
like Retty? And oh, she did hope her mother wouldn't have _tic
douloureux_ and wear shawls over her head. When all the children were
married--oh, how lonesome it would be!
But she had been quite a little heroine and gone to school one day to
see the girls and boys. And one girl said: "I s'pose it's city fashion
to wear pantalets that way, but my! doesn't it look queer!"
She was very glad to get back to her father. The country was beautiful
with all its bloom and fragrance, but First Street had such a clean,
tidy look with its flagged sidewalks and the dirt all swept up to the
middle of the street, leaving the round faces of the cobble-stones
fairly shining. It was quite delightful to show the boys all over the
house and then go through the yard to the stables and greet Dobbin and
Prince. And Battle, the dog, called so because he had been such a
fighter, but commonly known as Bat, wagged his whole body with delight
at sight of the boys.