THE LITTLE GIRL IN POLITICS
A whole week of holidays! Jim and Benny Frank had their mother almost
wild, and Martha said "she would be dead in another week. If Christmas
came twice a year there would be no money nor no people left. They would
be all worn out."
It was splendid winter weather. Sunny and just warm enough to thaw and
settle the snow during the day and freeze it up again at night. Then
there came another small fall of snow to whiten up the streets and make
the air gayer than ever with bells.
The Morgan cousins had to go down and call on Miss Dolly Beekman, and
were very favorably impressed with her. The little girl went with them
to Cherry Street and had "just a beautiful time with the kitty," she
told her mother. Her blue woollen frock was full of white cat-hairs as a
memento. She went to tea with the little Dean girls, she spent an
afternoon with Nora, and had the little girls in to visit her. Margaret
played on the piano and they had a charming dance, beside playing "Hot
butter blue beans," which was no end of fun.
On New Year's Day everybody had "calls." Margaret was hardly considered
a young lady, but Miss Cynthia came to help entertain. It was really
very pleasant. A number of family relatives called in, some of whom they
had not seen since they came to the city. They were all rather
middle-aged, though Joe brought in his chum, a very handsome young man
who had graduated with his class but was two years older. Margaret was
quite abashed by Doctor Hoffman's attention to her, and his saying he
should take her good wishes as a happy omen for his New Year. Indeed,
she was very glad to have Miss Cynthia come to the rescue in her airy
fashion.
Late in the afternoon the Odells drove down. The little girls went
up-stairs to see the Christmas things and the lovely doll for whom no
name had been good enough. John had a fire in his room and it was nice
and warm, so he told them they might go up there. They played "mother"
and "visiting," and wound up with a splendid game of "Puss in the
Corner." There were only four pussies and they could have but three
corners, but it was no end of fun dodging about, and if they did squeal,
the folks down in the parlor hardly heard them.
Saturday was Saturday everywhere. It was "Ladies' day" too. But people
had to clear up their houses and begin a new week, a new year, as well,
for it was 1844.
The little girl wondered what made the years. Mrs. Craven explained that
the recurrence of the four seasons governed them, and some rather
learned reasons the child could not understand. But she said:
"It seems to me the year ought to begin in spring and not the middle of
the winter."
Ophelia came home, she was Mrs. Davis now, and they had a grand party
with music and dancing and a supper, and Nora wore her pretty new silk
frock. Then Mrs. Davis went down-town to be near her husband's business,
and started housekeeping in three rooms.
The next great event on the block was a children's party. They were
children then until they were at least sixteen. Miss Lily Ludlow and her
sister had ten dollars sent to each of them as a Christmas gift. Chris
went out straightway and bought a new coat. Lily's was new the winter
before. There were a great many things she needed, but most of all she
wanted a party. She had been to two already.
"What a silly idea!" said her father.
But Lily kept tight hold of her idea and her money, and the last of
January, with Chris' help, she brought it about. They took the bedstead
out of the back parlor and changed the furniture around. And though her
mother called it foolishness, she baked some tiny biscuits and made a
batch of crullers and boiled a ham. Lily bought fancy cakes, mottoes,
candies, and nuts, and a few oranges which were very expensive.
The Underhill boys were invited, of course. Benny said "he didn't
believe he would go. He shouldn't know what to do at a party."
"Why, follow your nose," laughed Jim. "Do just as the rest do. Don't be
a gump!"
"And I hate to be fooling round girls."
"You don't seem to mind Dele Whitney. You're just cracked about her."
I don't know how the boys of that day managed without the useful and
pithy word "mashed."
"It's no such thing, Jim Underhill! She's always down-stairs with her
mother. I go in to see Mr. Theodore;" yet Ben's face was scarlet.
"You know you like her," teasingly.
"I _do_ like her. And it's awful mean not to ask her when she's in the
same crowd and lives on the block. But she doesn't care. She wouldn't
go."
"Sour grapes." Jim made a derisive face.
"You shut up about it."
"Don't get wrathy, Benjamin Franklin."
When his mother said "Benny Frank," he thought it the best name in the
whole world. Perhaps part was due to his mother's tone. And Ben was a
splendid boy's name. But his schoolmates did torment him. They asked him
if he had finished his roll, and if he had any to give away. They
pestered him about flying his kite, and inquired what he said to the
King of France when he went abroad--if it was "_parley vous de donkey_."
If there is anything the average school-boy can turn into ridicule he
does it. When Jim wanted to be exasperating he gave him his whole name.
And then Ben wished he had been called plain John, even if there had
been two in the family.
But the day of the party Jim coaxed him, and Jim could be irresistible.
Then Margaret said: "Oh, yes, I think I would go." She fixed up both of
the boys, and scented their handkerchiefs with her "triple extract," and
hoped they would have a nice time, insisting that one needn't be afraid
of girls.
Of course they did, especially Jim. He was in for all the fun and
frolic, and the kissing didn't worry him a bit when the "forfeits" were
announced. He didn't mind how deep he "stood in the well," nor how high
the tree was from which they "picked cherries." Ben _could_ rise to an
emergency if he was not praying for it every moment.
Chris was a great card. She could not help wishing that she knew enough
young people in her social round to ask to a party. There were enough
young ladies, but a "hen party" wasn't much fun. She made herself very
agreeable to the Underhill boys, and wished in the sweetest of tones
"that she _did_ know their sister Margaret."
There were a good many imperfect lessons the next day, but the party was
the great topic. Hosts of girls were "mad."
"I couldn't ask everybody. The house wouldn't hold them," declared Lily.
But she took great comfort in thinking she had "paid out" several girls
against whom she had a little grudge. And the "left-outs" declared they
wouldn't have gone anyhow. It must be admitted that the party did
advance Lily socially.
The family had hardly recovered from this spasm of gayety when Stephen
insisted that Margaret should go to a Valentine's ball at the Astor
House, to be given to the ladies by a club of bachelors. He was going to
take Dolly. Mrs. Bond would be there, and Dolly came up to coax her
prospective mother-in-law. "Margaret had not gone into any society and
was only a school-girl, altogether too young to have her head filled
with such nonsense," with many more reasons and conjunctions. Dolly was
so sweet and persuasive, and said the simplest white gown would do,
young girls really didn't dress much. Then Margaret would have it ready
for her graduation. They would be sure to send her home early and take
the best of care of her.
Joe said: "Why, of course she must go. It wasn't like being among
strangers with Dolly and her people." So the boys and Dolly carried the
day. All the while Margaret's heart beat with an unaccustomed throb. She
did not really know whether she wanted to go or not.
St. Valentine's Day was held in high repute then. You sent your best
girl the prettiest valentine your purse could afford, and she laid it
away in lavender to show to her children. Bashful young fellows often
asked the momentous question in that manner. There were some lovely
ones, with original verses written in, for there were young bards in
those days who struggled over birthday and valentine verses, and who
would have scorned second-hand protestations.
Though Margaret didn't get any valentines the little girl received three
that were extremely pretty. She asked Steve if he didn't send one.
"Oh, dear," he answered, as if he were amazed at the question, "I had to
spend all my money buying Dolly one." And Joe pretended to be so
surprised. He had spent his money for Margaret's sash and gloves and
bunch of flowers. Even John would not own up to the soft impeachment
and declared, "Your lovers sent them."
"But I haven't any lovers," said the little girl, in all innocence.
She used to read them to her mother, and ask her which she thought came
from Steve, which from Joe and John. It was quite funny, though, that
Nora Whitney had one exactly like one of hers. And even Mr. Theodore
declared he didn't send them.
Margaret looked like an angel, the little girl thought. Her white
cashmere frock was simply made, with a lace frill about the neck and at
the edge of the short sleeves. Her broad blue satin sash was elegant.
Miss Cynthia came and plaited her beautiful hair in a marvellous
openwork sort of braid, and she had two white roses and a silver arrow
in it. Her slippers were white kid, her gloves had just a cream tint,
and Miss Cynthia brought her own opera cloak, which was light brocaded
silk, wadded and edged with swans-down.
Joe looked just splendid, the little girl decided. If she could only
have seen Dolly!
The Beekman coach was sent up for Margaret, who kissed her little sister
and went off like Cinderella!
"Oh, do you suppose she will meet the king's son?" asked Hanny, all
excitement.
"Oh, child, what nonsense!" exclaimed her mother.
It wasn't the king's son; but young Doctor Hoffman was there, and
Margaret danced several times with him. They talked so much about Joe
that Margaret felt very friendly with him.
After that the world ran on in snow, in sunshine, and in rain. The days
grew longer. March was rough and blowy. Mother Underhill had to go up in
the country for a week, for Grandfather Van Kortlandt died. He had been
out of health and paralyzed for a year or two. Aunt Katrina had been
staying there, and they would go on in the old house until spring. She
was grandmother's sister. Of course no one could feel very sorry about
poor old Uncle Nickie, as he was called. He had always been rather
queer, and was no comfort to himself, for he had lost his mind, but
everybody admitted that grandmother had done her duty, and the Van
Kortlandt children, grown men and women, thanked her for all her good
care.
Oh, what fun the children had on the first of April! What rags were
pinned to people--what shrieks of "My cat's got a long tail!" And there
on the sidewalk would lay a tempting half-dollar with a string out of
sight, and when the pedestrian stooped to pick it up--presto! how it
would vanish. When one enterprising wight put his foot on it and picked
it up triumphantly the boys called out:
"April fool! That's an awful sell, mister! It's a bad half-dollar."
They watched and saw him bite it and throw it down. Then they went after
it and had their fun over and over again. Stephen had given the
half-dollar to Jim with strict injunctions not to attempt to pass it or
he'd get a "hiding," which no one ever did in the Underhill family. Mrs.
Underhill declared "'Milyer was as easy as an old shoe, and she didn't
see what had kept the children from going to ruin." Joe always insisted
"it was pure native goodness."
Then they called out to the carters and other wagoners: "Oh, mister,
say! Your wheel's goin' round!" And sometimes without understanding the
driver would look and hear the shout.
They had another trick they played out in the Bowery. Boys had a
reprehensible trick of "cutting behind," as the stages had two steps at
the back, and the boys used to spring on them and steal rides. It was
such a sight of fun to dodge the whip and spring off at the right
moment. Sometimes a cross-grained passenger who had been a very good boy
in his youth would tell.
On this day they didn't steal the ride. They called out with great
apparent honesty: "Cuttin' behind, driver--two boys!"
Then the driver would slash his whip furiously, and even the passers-by
would enjoy the joke. Of course you could only play that once on each
driver.
Altogether it was a day of days. You were fooled, of course; no one was
smart enough to keep quite clear. But almost everybody was good-natured
about it. Martha found some eggs that had been "blown," and a potato
filled with ashes, and there were inventions that would have done credit
to the "pixies."
The little girl would not go out to play in the afternoon, and she
didn't even run when Jim said, "Nora wanted her for something special."
But she really had no conscience about fooling her father several times.
He pretended to be so surprised, and said, "Oh, you little witch!" It
was a day on which you had need to keep your wits about you.
Then with the long days and the sunshine came so many things. Little
girls skipped rope and rolled hoops, their guiding-sticks tied with a
bright ribbon. The boys had iron hoops and an iron guider, and they made
a musical jingle as they went along. There were kites too, but you
didn't catch Benny Frank flying one. And marbles and ball. In the
afternoon the streets seemed alive with children. But what would those
people have said to the five-story tenement-houses with their motley
crew! Then Ludlow and Allen and many another street wore such a clean
and quaint aspect, and the ladies sat at their parlor windows in the
afternoon sewing and watching their little ones.
"Ring-a-round-a-rosy" began again. And dear me, there were so many
signs! You must not step on a crack in the flagging or something
dreadful would happen to you. And you mustn't pick up a pin with the
point toward you or you would surely be disappointed. If the head was
toward you, you could pick it up and make a wish which would be sure to
come to pass. You must cut your finger-nails Monday morning before
breakfast and you would get a present before the week was out. And if
you walked straight to school that morning you were likely to have good
lessons, but if you loitered or stopped to play or were late, bad luck
would follow you all the week. And the little girls used to say:
"Lesson, lesson, come to me,
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, three,
Thursday, Friday, then you may
Have a rest on Saturday,"
So you see a little girl's life was quite a weighty matter.
That summer political excitement ran high. Indeed, it had begun in the
winter. A new party had nominated Mr. James Harper for mayor, and in
the spring he had been elected. Mr. Theodore used to pause and discuss
men and measures now that it was getting warm enough to sit out on the
stoop and read your paper. Country habits were not altogether tabooed.
But what impressed his honor the mayor most strongly on the little
girl's mind was something Aunt Nancy Archer, who was now an earnest
Methodist, said when she was up to tea one evening.
"I did look to see Brother Harper set up a little. It's only natural,
you know, and I can't quite believe in perfection. But there he was in
class-meeting, not a mite changed, just as friendly and earnest as ever,
not a bit lifted up because he had been called to the highest position
in the city."
"There's no doubt but he will make a good mayor," rejoined Mr.
Underhill. "He's a good, honest man. And all the brothers are capable
men, men who are able to pull together. I'm not sure but we'll have to
go outside of party lines a little. It ought to broaden a man to be in a
big city."
The little girl slipped her hand in Aunt Nancy's.
"Is he your school-teacher?" she ventured timidly.
"School-teacher? Why, no, child!" in surprise.
"You said class----"
"You'll have to be careful, Aunt Nancy. That little girl has an
inquiring mind," laughed her father.
"Yes. It's a church class. I belong to the same church as Brother
Harper. We're old-fashioned Methodists. We go to this class to tell our
religious experiences. You are not old enough to understand that. But we
talk over our troubles and trials, and tell of our blessings too, I
hope, and then Brother Harper has a good word for us. He comforts us
when we are down at the foot of the hill, and he gives us a word of
warning if he thinks we are climbing heights we're not quite fitted for.
He makes a comforting prayer."
"I should like to see him," said the little girl.
"Well, get your father to bring you down to church some Sunday. Do,
Vermilye."
"Any time she likes," said her father.
They talked on, but Hanny went off into a little dreamland of her own.
She was not quite clear what a mayor's duty was, only he was a great
man. And her idea of his not being set up, as Aunt Nancy had phrased it,
was that there was a great handsome chair, something like a throne, that
had been arranged for him, and he had come in and taken a common seat.
She was to have a good deal of hero-worship later on, and be roused and
stirred by Carlyle, but there was never anything finer than the
admiration kindled in her heart just then.
After Aunt Nancy went away she crept into her father's lap.
"Aren't you glad Mr. Harper's our mayor?" she asked. "Did everybody vote
for him? Do girls--big girls--and women vote?"
"No, dear. Men over twenty-one are the only persons entitled to vote.
Steve and Joe and I voted. And it's too bad, but John can't put in his
vote for President this fall."
"The mayor governs the city, and the governor, the State. What does the
President do?"
Her father explained the most important duties to her, and that a
President was elected every four years. That was the highest office in
the country.
"And who is going to be our President?" She was getting to be a party
woman already.
"Well, it looks as if Henry Clay would. We shall all work for him."
If it only wouldn't come bedtime so soon!
The little girl studied and played with a will. She could skip rope like
a little fairy, but it had been quite a task to drive her hoop straight.
She was unconsciously inclined to make "the line of beauty." I don't
know that it was always graceful, either.
Some new people moved in the block. Just opposite there was a tall thin
woman who swept and dusted and scrubbed until Steve said "he was afraid
there wouldn't be enough dirt left to bury her with." She wore faded
morning-gowns and ragged checked aprons, and had her head tied up with
something like a turban, only it was grayish and not pretty. She did not
always get dressed up by afternoon. Oh, how desperately clean she was!
Even her sidewalk had a shiny look, and as for her door brasses, they
outdid the sun.
She had one boy, about twelve perhaps. And his name was John Robert
Charles Reed. He was fair, well dressed, and so immaculately clean that
Jim said he'd give a dollar, if he could ever get so much money
together, just to roll him in the dirt. His mother always gave him his
full name. He went to a select school, but when he was starting away in
the morning his mother would call two or three times to know if he had
all of his books, if he had a clean handkerchief, and if he was sure his
shoes were tied, and his clothes brushed.
And one day a curious sort of carriage went by, a chair on wheels, and a
man was pushing it while a lady walked beside it. In the chair was a
most beautiful girl or child, fair as a lily, with long light curls and
the whitest of hands. Hanny watched in amazement, and then went in to
tell her mother. "She looks awful pale and sick," said Hanny.
Josie Dean found out presently who she was. She had come to one of the
houses that had the pretty gardens in front. She had been very ill, and
she couldn't walk a step. And her name was Daisy Jasper.
Such a beautiful name, and not to be able to run and play! Oh, how
pitiful it was!
The little girl had her new spring and summer clothes made. They were
very nice, but somehow she did not feel as proud of them as she had last
summer. Her father took her to Aunt Nancy's church one Sunday. It was
very large and plain and full of people. Aunt Nancy sat pretty well up,
but they found her. There seemed a good many old men and women, Hanny
thought, but the young people were up in the galleries. She thought the
singing was splendid, it really went up with a shout. People sang in
earnest then.
When they came out everybody shook hands so cordially. Aunt Nancy waited
a little while and then beckoned a tall, kindly looking man, who was
about as old as her father, though there was something quite different
about him. He shook hands with Sister Archer, and she introduced him. He
said he was very glad to see Mr. Underhill among them, and smiled down
at the little girl as he took her small hand. She came home quite
delighted that she had shaken hands with the mayor. Then one day Steve
took her and Ben down to Cliff Street, through the wonderful
printing-house, small in comparison to what it is to-day. They met the
mayor again and had a nice chat.
The next great thing to Hanny was Margaret's graduation. She had been
studying very hard to pass this year, for she was past eighteen, and she
was very successful. Even Joe found time to go down. She wore her pretty
white dress, but she had a white sash, and her bodice had been turned in
round the neck to make it low, as girls wore them then. Hanny thought
her the prettiest girl there. She had an exquisite basket of flowers
sent her, beside some lovely bouquets. Annette Beekman graduated too,
and all the Beekman family were out in force.
There were some very pretty closing exercises in the little girl's
school, and at Houston Street Jim was one of the orators of the day, and
distinguished himself in "Marco Bozzaris," one of the great poems of
that period.
After that people went hither and thither, and when schools opened and
business started up the Presidential campaign was in full blast. There
was Clay and Frelinghuysen, Polk and Dallas, and at the last moment the
Nationals, a new party, had put up candidates, which was considered bad
for the Whigs. Still they shouted and sang with great gusto:
"Hurrah, hurrah, the country's risin'
For Harry Clay and Frelinghuysen!"
The Democrats, Loco-Focos, as they were often called in derision, were
very sure of their victory. So were the Whigs. The other party did not
really expect success. There were parades of some kind nearly every
night. Even the boys turned out and marched up and down with fife and
drum. There was no end of spirited campaign songs, and rhymes of every
degree. The Loco Foco Club at school used to sing:
"Oh, poor old Harry Clay!
Oh, poor old Harry Clay!
You never can be President
For Polk stands in the way."
Nora Whitney used to rock in the big chair with kitty in her arms, and
this was her version:
"Oh, poor old pussy gray!
Oh, poor old pussy gray!
You never can be President
For Polk stands in the way."
This didn't tease the little girl nearly so much, for she knew no matter
how sweet and lovely and good a cat might be, it could only aspire to
that honor in catland. She did so hate to hear Mr. Clay called old and
poor when he was neither. To her he was brave Harry of the West, the
hero of battle-fields.
Jim had a rather hard time as well. He thought, with a boy's loyalty,
his people must be right. But there was Lily, who, with all _her_
people, was a rabid Democrat. He quite made up his mind he wouldn't keep
in with her, but the two girls he liked next best had Democratic
affiliations also.
Then the Whigs had a grand procession. Perhaps it would have been the
part of wisdom to wait until the victory was assured, but the leaders
thought it best to arouse enthusiasm to the highest pitch.
Stephen had joined with some friends and hired a window down Broadway.
The little girl thought it a very magnificent display. Such bands of
strikingly dressed men marching to inspiriting music, their torches
flaring about in vivid rays, such carriage loads, such wagons
representing different industries, and there was the grand Ship of
State, drawn by white horses, four abreast, and gayly attired, in which
Henry Clay was to sail successfully into the White House. After that
imposing display the little girl had no fear at all. Jim was very
toploftical to Miss Lily for several days.
Then came the fatal day. There were no telegraphs to flash the news all
over the country before midnight. A small one connected Baltimore and
Washington, but long distance was considered chimerical.
So they had to wait and wait. Fortunes varied. At last reliable accounts
came, and Polk had stood in the way, or perhaps Mr. Binney, the third
candidate, had taken too many votes. Anyhow, the day was lost to brave
Harry of the West.
The little girl was bitterly disappointed. She would have liked all the
family to tie a black crape around their arms, as Joe had once when he
went to a great doctor's funeral. Dele teased her a good deal, and Nora
sang:
"Hurrah, old pussy gray!
Hurrah, old pussy gray!
We've got the President and all,
And Polk has won the day."
Then the Democrats had _their_ grand procession. The houses were
illuminated, the streets were full of shouting children. Even the boys
had a small brigade that marched up and down the street. And oh, grief,
Jim marched with them!
"I wouldn't be such a turn-coat!" declared the little girl angrily. "I'm
ashamed of you, James Underhill. I shall always feel as if you wasn't my
brother any more."
"Sho!" returned Jim. "Half the boys turning out have Whig fathers! There
wouldn't have been enough for any sort of procession without us. And
they promised to cry quits if we would turn out. It don't mean anything
but fun!"
She took her trouble to her father. "You are sorry we have been beaten?"
she said excitedly.
"Yes, pussy, very sorry. I still think we shall be sorry that Clay isn't
President."
"I'm sorry all the time. And when he was so good and splendid, why
didn't they put him in?"
"Well, a great many people think Mr. Polk just as splendid."
"Oh, the Democrats!" she commented disdainfully.
"More than half the votes of the country went against our Harry of the
West. One side always has to be beaten. It's hard not to belong to the
winning side. But we won four years ago, and we did a big lot of
crowing, I remember. We shouted ourselves hoarse over the announcement
that:
'Tippecanoe and Tyler too!
Were bound to rule the country through.'
We drove our enemies out of sight and erected Log Cabins on their ruins.
We had a grand, good time. And then our brave and loyal Tippecanoe died,
and some of us have been rather disappointed in Mr. Tyler. We will all
hope for the best. There are a good many excellent men on both sides. I
guess the country will come out all right."
There really were tears in her eyes.
"You see, my little girl, we must make up our minds to occasional
defeat, especially when we go into politics," and there was the shrewd
laughing twinkle in his eye. "It is supposed to be better for the
country to have the parties about evenly divided. They stand more on
their good behavior. And we will hope for better luck next time."
"But _you_ couldn't turn round and be a Democrat, could you?" she asked,
with a sad entreaty.
"No, dear," he replied gravely.
"I'm glad we have Mayor Harper left. Can the new President put him out?"
"No, my dear."
They kissed each other in half-sorrowful consolation. But alas! next
year even Mayor Harper had to go out.