GIRLS AND GIRLS
A week or so after Mrs. Underhill's return, one of the neighbors called
one afternoon and brought her two little girls, Josie and Tudie Dean.
Tudie stood for Susan. The little girl was summoned, and the three,
after the fashion of little girls, sat very stiff on their chairs and
looked at each other, then cast their eyes down on the carpet, fidgeted
a little with the corners of their white aprons, and then gave another
furtive glance.
"Hanny, you might take the little girls out in the yard and gather a
nosegay for them." Flower roots and shrubs had been brought down from
the "old place," and there was quite a showing of bloom.
The mothers talked meanwhile of the street, and Mrs. Dean spoke of the
wonderful strides the city was making up-town. A few objectionable
people had come in the old frame houses at the lower end of the street.
When Mr. Dean built, some seven years ago, it was all that could be
desired, but already immigrants were forcing their way up Houston
Street. If something wasn't done to control immigration, we should soon
be overrun. The Croton water had been such a great and wonderful
blessing. And did her little girl go to school anywhere? Josie and Tudie
went up First Avenue by Third Street to a Mrs. Craven, a rather youngish
widow lady, who had two daughters of her own to educate, and who was
very genteel and accomplished. Little girls needed some one who had
gentle and pretty manners. There was a sewing-class, and all through the
winter a dancing-class, and Mrs. Craven gave lessons on the piano.
Public schools were well enough for boys, but they were too rude and
rough for little girls.
Mrs. Underhill assented. "She wouldn't think of sending Hannah Ann to a
public school."
"She looks like a very delicate child," commented Mrs. Dean.
"She's always been very well," said the mother, "but she _is_ small for
her age. And all of my children have grown up so rapidly."
"I couldn't believe those young men belonged to you. And that tall,
pretty young girl."
Mrs. Underhill smiled and flushed and betrayed her pride in her eight
nice healthy children.
"I envy you some of your sons," Mrs. Dean went on. "I never had but the
two little girls."
They came in now, each with the promised nosegay, and full of delight.
They were round and rosy, and looked more like one's idea of a country
girl than little lilybud Hannah. But they were all eager now, and even
her cheeks were pink. They had talked themselves into friendship. And
Josie wanted to know if Hanny couldn't come and see them, and if they
couldn't have their dishes out and have tea all by themselves?
Mrs. Dean looked up at Mrs. Underhill, and replied: "Why, yes, if her
mother is willing. Saturday would be best, as you are not in school."
That was only two days off. Hanny's eyes entreated so wistfully. And the
Deans lived only three doors away.
"Why, yes," answered her mother with a touch of becoming hesitation.
Hanny was telling this eventful interview over to Jim as they sat on the
stoop that evening. Ben was reading a book, Jim was trying the toes of
his shoes against the iron railing and secretly wishing he could go
barefoot.
"And they have a real play-house up-stairs in one room. There's two beds
in it and two bureaus, and oh, lots of things! Josie has seven dolls and
Tudie four. Tudie gave two of hers away, and Josie has a lovely big wax
doll that her aunt sent from Paris. And a table, and their mother lets
them play tea with bread and cake and real things. And I'm to go on
Saturday."
Hanny uttered this in a rapid breath.
"Sho!" ejaculated Jim rather disdainfully. "They're not much if they
play with dolls. Now _I_ know some girls----"
The boys had been at Houston Street public school not quite a week. Jim
knew half the boys at least, already, and all the boys that lived on the
block. He wasn't a bit afraid of girls, either, though he generally
called them "gals."
"There's some living down the street, and Jiminy! if they haven't got
names! You'd just die of envy! Rosabelle May, think of it! And Lilian
Alice Ludlow. Lily's an awful pretty girl, too. And they wanted to know
all about you and Peggy."
"Did you tell her my name?" asked the little girl timidly.
"Well--don't you know you said you wished it was Anna?" Jim answered
slowly. "I just said it so it sounded like Anna. And Lily said she'd
seen you riding with father. I wish you'd walk down there," coaxingly.
"I'll see if mother will let me." Hanny sprang up.
"And put on a nice white apron," said Jim.
"They're too old for Hanny," began Ben, looking up from his book.
"Why, Lily's only eleven. And anyhow----"
Jim didn't know just how to explain it. Lily had begged him that
afternoon to bring his little sister down. To tell the truth she was
very ambitious to know the Underhills. They must be somebody, for they
kept horses and a carriage, and owned their house.
"Do you know," said Belle May as they watched Jim going up the street,
"I half believe the little girl who stood on the stoop that day is Jim's
sister."
"That little country thing! I never thought of it. But I don't suppose
she really heard."
"If she _did_--what will you do?"
"Do?" Lily tossed her head. "Why, I shall act just as if I never said it
or had seen her before or anything. You don't suppose I'm a goose in
pin-feathers, do you? I want to get acquainted with them. Of course I
shall ask both boys to my birthday party. I should only ask the nice
people in the street."
Margaret threw her pretty pink fascinator round Hanny's shoulders. She
didn't need any hat this warm summer night. Hanny was very proud to walk
down the street with her brother, who knew so many girls already. Jim
wasn't a bit afraid of being called a "girl boy." Quite a number of
people were sitting out on their stoops. It was the fashion then. Some
of the ladies were knitting lace on two little needles that had sealing
wax on one end, so the stitches could not drop off. There was much
pleasant chatting. The country ways of sociability had not all gone out
of date.
They walked down to the lower end, where the houses were rather
irregular and getting old. Two or three had a small grass door-yard in
front. Two girls were walking up and down with their arms around each.
Jim knew in a moment who they were, but he loitered behind them until
they turned.
"Oh!" exclaimed Lily Ludlow in well-acted surprise. "Are you out taking
a walk?"
"Yes," answered Jim, quite as innocently as if the matter had not been
arranged a few hours ago. "And this is my sister. And this is Lily
Ludlow, and this Belle May."
Alas for Hanny! Lily Ludlow was the girl who had called her "queer" and
laughed. The child's face flushed and there was a lump in her throat.
"You don't go to school, do you?" asked Lily with the utmost
nonchalance. She was quite ready for anything.
The little girl made an effort, but no words would come. She could never
like this girl with the pretty name, she felt very sure.
"No," said Jim. "She's so small for her size that mother would be
afraid of her getting lost."
They all giggled but the little girl, who wanted to run away.
"But you like New York, don't you? Jim thinks he wouldn't go back to the
country for anything."
We had not come to "Bet your life," and "There's where your head's
level," in those days. But Jim answered for his sister--"You just guess
I wouldn't," with a deal of gusto.
They all walked up a short distance. The girls and Jim had all the talk,
and they chaffed each other merrily. Hanny was silent. She really was
too young for their fun.
Belle May's mother called her presently, and the little girl said in a
whisper: "Oh, Jim, we must go home."
Jim wondered if he might ask Lily to walk with them, so he could come
back with her. But she settled it with a gay toss of the head.
"Good-night," she said. "Come down again some evening."
"What a little stupid you are, Hanny!" Jim began, vexed enough. "Why
didn't you ask them to walk up our way! And you never said a word! I
could have given you an awful shake!"
"I--I don't like them."
"You don't know anything about them. Ben and I see them half a dozen
times a day, and walk to school with them, and they're nice and pretty
and have some manners. You're awful country, Hanny!"
The little girl began to cry.
"Oh, what a baby you are! Well, I s'pose you can't help it! You're only
eight, and I'm almost thirteen. And Lily Ludlow's nearly eleven. I
suppose you _do_ feel strange among girls so much older."
"It isn't that," sobbed the little girl. How could she get courage to
tell him?
"Oh, Hanny, dear, don't cry." Jim's voice softened--they were nearing
home. "See here, I'll ask father to take us to Tompkins Square on
Sunday, and you shall paint out of my new box. There! and don't tell any
one--don't say a word to Ben."
He kissed her and wiped her eyes with the end of her starchy apron. Jim
was very coaxing and sweet when he tried.
"Joe's here," said Ben. "And he thought the wolves would eat you up if
you went too far. He wants to see you."
Jim dropped down on the step. Hanny ran through the hall. They were
using the back parlor as a sitting-room, and everybody seemed talking at
once. Joe held out his arms and the little girl flew to them.
Then it came out that Joe had taken one of the prizes for a thesis, and
he would shortly be a full fledged M.D. He was so jubilant and the rest
were so happy that the little girl forgot all about her discomfort.
Jim came rushing in. "Where's the hundred dollars?" he inquired.
Joe laughed. "I have not received the money yet. I thought the
announcement was enough for one night."
"You and Hanny'll be so stuck up there'll be no living with you," said
Jim.
Hanny glanced up with a smiling face. If she had only looked that way at
Lily Ludlow! But even his schoolmate was momentarily distanced by the
thought of such a prize. And he remembered later on with much
gratification that he could tell her to-morrow.
Miss Chrissy Ludlow had been sitting by the front window in her white
gown, half expecting a caller. When Lily entered, she inquired if that
little thing was the Underhill girl?
"Oh, that's the baby," and Lily giggled. "There's a young lady who goes
to Rutgers--well, I suppose she isn't quite grown up, for she doesn't
wear real-long dresses. And they have another brother in the
country--six brothers!"
Chrissy sighed. If she only knew some way to get acquainted with the
young woman. And all the brothers fairly made one green with envy.
"You keep in with them," she advised her sister. "You might as well look
up in the world for your friends."
There were not many people in the street who kept a carriage. Chrissy
longed ardently to know them. And she had been almost fighting for a
term at Rutgers. Mr. Ludlow was a common-place man, clerk in a
shoe-store round in Houston Street, and capable of doing repairs. They
rented out the second floor, as they could not afford to keep the whole
house. But since Chrissy had found out that they were distant
connections of some Ludlows quite well off and high up in the social
scale, she had felt extremely aristocratic. For a year she had been out
of school, and now her mother thought she better learn dressmaking,
since she was so "handy." She meant to get married at the first good
opportunity.
Mr. Thackeray in England was writing about snobs during this period. He
thought he found a great many in London. And even among the republican
simplicity of New York he could have found some.
Hanny's second attempt at social life was a much greater success. The
visit at the Deans' was utterly delightful. The play-house was
enchanting. They dressed and undressed the dolls, they gave Hanny two,
and called her Mrs. Hill, because Underhill was such a long name, and
they had an aunt by the name of Hill. They "made believe" days and
nights, and measles and whooping cough, and earache and sore throat.
Josie put on an old linen coat of her father's and "made believe" she
was the doctor. And oh, the solicitude when Victoria Arabella lay at the
point of death and they had to go round on tiptoe and speak in whispers,
and the poor mother said: "If Victoria Arabella dies, my heart will be
broken!" But the lovely child mended and was so weak for a while that
the greatest care had to be taken of her, for she couldn't sit up a bit.
And Hanny proposed they should take her up to Yonkers, where she could
recruit in the country air.
Mrs. Dean came up with a basket and said it was supper time. She
arranged a side table to hold some of the things. There was a nice white
tablecloth and Josie's pretty dishes. There was a pitcher of hot water
to make cambric tea, square lumps of sugar, dainty slices of bread
already spread, smoked beef, pot-cheese, raspberries, cherry-jam, and
two kinds of cake. Well, it was just splendid.
Then they went out on the sidewalk and skipped up and down. There was
quite an art in skipping gracefully without breaking step. When they
were warm and tired they came in, and Mr. Dean played on the piano for
them.
At seven o'clock Mr. Underhill walked up for his little girl, whose
cheeks were pink and her eyes shining like stars. He sat on the stoop
and talked a little while with Mr. Dean, and said most cordially the
other girls must come and take tea with Hanny. And if they liked he
would take them out driving some day. That was a most delightful
proposal.
Jim let the whole school know the next week that his "big brother" had
won a prize of one hundred dollars. And when Joseph passed with honor
and took his degree, they were all proud enough of him.
"Mother," said the little girl after much consideration, "if any of us
get sick will we have to pay Joe like a truly doctor?"
"Well--why not?" asked Mrs. Underhill. "That will be his way of earning
his living."
The little girl drew a long breath. "He might come and live with us
then. Where will he live, anyway?"
"He is to practise in the hospital awhile."
"Couldn't he doctor us at all?" she asked in surprise?
"Oh, yes, he might if we had faith in him," returned her mother
laughingly.
That puzzled the little girl a good deal, and when she had an
opportunity she asked her father if he had faith in Joe.
"Well," her father seemed to hesitate, "he might doctor Tabby, but I
wouldn't let him experiment on Dobbin or Prince."
Hanny's face was a study in gravity and disappointment. "And if _I_ was
sick?" she ventured with a very long sigh.
Then her father hugged her up in his arms until she was breathless, and
scrubbed her soft little face with his whiskers, and both of them
laughed. But Joe promised one day when he was home to doctor her for
nothing, so that point was settled.
They had a great time Fourth of July. Lamb and green peas were the
regulation dinner. Steve sent a wagon up every morning with the freshest
vegetables there were in market, and the meat for the day. Their milk
came from the Odells in West Farms, and their butter from Yonkers. To be
sure, it wasn't quite like country living, and Mrs. Underhill was
positive that no one gave such a flavor to butter as herself.
The Odells and some other relatives were down on Fourth of July. They
had the lamb and peas, as I said, and at that date one kind of meat was
considered enough. They had green-apple pie. There was a very early
pie-apple on the farm and George had brought some down for his mother.
He was well and happy as he could be "without the folks," and he shook
his head a little ambiguously about Uncle Faid's method, and those of
Mr. Finch.
They had some ice-cream and cake afterward. The little girl had never
eaten any, and she thought it very queer. It would have been delightful
but for the awful coldness of it! It froze the roof of her mouth and
made an ache in the middle of her forehead. Steve told her people
sometimes warmed it, and she ran out to the stove with her saucer.
"The land alive! What are you going to do with that cream?" almost
shrieked Martha, who was washing dishes at the sink.
"Warm it," replied the little girl. "It's so cold."
Martha almost fell into a chair with the dish-cloth in her hand, and
laughed as if she would have a fit. There was a suspicious sound from
the dining-room as well, and the fair little face grew very red.
Steve came out.
"Here, Nannie, is mine that the weather has warmed, and I'll trade it
for your peak of Greenland." He took the chunk out of her saucer, and
poured the soft in.
"It is nicer," she said. "And you needn't laugh, Martha. When I am a big
woman and make ice-cream I shall just boil it," and she walked back with
grave dignity.
She took the Odell girls to Mrs. Dean's, and some other children flocked
around the stoop. They had torpedoes and lady-crackers, that two
children pulled, when they went off with a loud explosion in the middle
and made you jump. There were real fire-crackers that the boys had, and
pin-wheels and various simple fireworks. But the great thing would be
going down to City Hall in the evening and seeing the fireworks there.
The Odells could not stay, to their sorrow. Mr. Underhill proposed to
take the business wagon and put three seats in it, and ask the Deans to
go with them. Mrs. Dean was very glad to accept for herself and the
children. There was a young lady next door, Miss Weir, that Margaret
liked very much, and she accompanied them. John had promised to take
charge of the boys. Steve had dressed himself in his new light summer
suit and gone off.
The little girl thought the display beyond any words at her command.
Such mysterious rockets falling to pieces in stars of every color. There
was a great dome of stars, and rays that presently shot up into heaven;
there was a ship on fire, which really frightened her. And, oh! the
noise and the people, the shouting and hurrahing, the houses trimmed
with flags, the brass band that played all the patriotic songs, and the
endless confusion! The little girl clung closely to her mother, glad
she was not down on the sidewalk, for the people would surely have
trodden on her.
They came home very tired. But the little girl had added to her stock of
historical knowledge and knew what Fourth of July stood for. It was a
very great day, the beginning of the Republic.
The boys were out early the next morning finding "cissers," crackers
that had failed to burn out entirely, and still had a little explosive
merit when touched by a piece of lighted punk. There was no school that
day, and Steve took them up to West Farms to expend the rest of their
hilarity. The little girl was pale and languid. Mrs. Underhill was quite
troubled at times when friends said:
"Isn't Hanny very small of her age? Is she real strong? She looks so
delicate."
This was why she had thought it best not to send her to school this
summer. She read aloud to her mother and said one column in a speller
and definer, and Margaret taught her a little geography and arithmetic.
She could hem very nicely now. She had learned to knit lace, and do some
fancy work that was then called lap stitching. You pulled out some
threads one way of the cloth, then took three and just lapped them over
the next three, drawing your needle and thread through. Now a machine
does it beautifully.
There was another fashion, "fads" we should call them nowadays. A
school-bag--they didn't call them satchels then--was made of a piece of
blue and white bed-ticking, folded at the bottom. Every white stripe you
worked with zephyr worsted in briar stitch or herring-bone or feather
stitch. You could use one color or several. And now the old work and the
bed-ticking has come back again and ladies make the old-fashioned bags
with tinsel thread.
Margaret had made one, and the little girl had taken it up. She was
quite an expert with her needle. She had found several delightful new
books to read. The Deans had some wonderful fairy stories. She was
enraptured with the "Lady of the Lake," and some of Mrs. Howitt's
stories and poems. She had learned her way about, and could go out to
the Bowery to do an errand for her mother. She knew some more little
girls, and with her sewing, helping her mother, studying and reading and
play, the days seemed too short.
Vacation did not begin until the 1st of August. The boys were to go up
to Yonkers and help George and Uncle Faid. They were quite ready for new
ventures.
When Margaret came home the last day of school with a really fine
report, her mother felt quite proud of her. The little girl, with large
eyes and a mysterious expression, begged her to come into the parlor and
see something. She smiled and took Hanny's small hand in hers. The
furniture had been moved about a little. And oh, what was this? The
little girl's eyes were stars of joy.
"It's your piano and mine," she said. "Yours till you get married and go
away, and then mine forever and ever. Joe gave fifty dollars of his
prize money toward it. Wasn't he lovely? And oh, Margaret, such
beautiful music as it makes!"
The little girl with one small finger struck a key. The sound seemed to
fascinate her. Margaret caught her in her arms and kissed the enraptured
face.
"We shall be too happy, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have had the courage to
ask for a piano, but it's the one thing above all others that I have
wanted. Oh, it's just too delightful!"
Mrs. Underhill said: "It's a great piece of wastefulness, but the boys
would have it. I'm sure I don't see where you're going to get time to
learn everything. And you'll never know anything about housekeeping. I
should be ashamed to have any one marry you."
People didn't hustle off to the country the day school closed. Indeed,
some didn't go at all. The children played on the shady side of the
street. The little girls had "Ring around a rosy," that I think Eve's
grandchildren must have invented. Then there was "London Bridge is
falling down," "Open the gates as high as the sky," and
"Here come two lords quite out of Spain
A-courting for your daughter faire,"
and after a great deal of disputing and beseeching they obtained
"daughter faire," and averted war. And "Tag" never failed with its "Ana
mana mona mike." You find children playing them all yet, but I think the
wonderful zest has gone out of them.
In the evening a throng of the First Street children who had pennies to
spend used to go up to the corner of Second Street and Avenue A. An old
colored woman sat there, with a gay Madras turban, and a little table
before her, that had a mysterious spring drawer. On one side she had an
earthen jar, on the other a great pail with a white cloth over it, that
emitted a steamy fragrance. And she sang in a sort of chanting tone:
"H-o-t corn, hot corn. Here's your nice hot corn, s-m-okin' h-o-t.
B-a-ked pears, baked pears--Get away, chillen,' get away, 'les you've
got a penny. Stop crowdin'."
They had enough to eat at home, but the corn was tempting. One night one
boy would treat and break the ear of corn in two and divide. And the
baked pears were simply delicious. The old woman fished them out with a
fork and put them on a bit of paper. Wooden plates had not been
invented. And the high art was to lift up your pear by the stem and eat
it. Sometimes a mischievous companion would joggle your arm and the stem
would come out--and oh, the pear would drop in a "mash" on the sidewalk.
You could not divide the pear very well, though children did sometimes
pass a "bite" around. But we lived in happy innocence and safety, for
the deadly bacillus had not been invented and ignorance was bliss.