DAISY JASPER
What to do with Ben was the next question of importance. He was fond of
books, an omnivorous reader, in fact, a very fair scholar, and, with a
certain amount of push, could have graduated the year before. He really
was not longing for college.
There was only one line of horse-cars, and that conveyed the passengers
of the Harlem Railroad from the station on Broome Street to the
steam-cars up-town. Only a few trains beside the baggage and freight cars
were allowed through the city. Consequently a boy's ambition had not
been roused to the height of being a "car conductor" at that period. A
good number counted on "running wid de machine" when they reached the
proper age, but boys were not allowed to hang around the engine-houses.
Running with the machine was something in those days. There were no
steam-engines. Everything was drawn by a long rope, the men ranged on
either side. The force of the stream of water was also propelled by main
strength, and the "high throwing" was something to be proud of. There
was a good deal of rivalry among the companies to see who could get to a
fire the first. Sometimes, indeed, it led to quite serious affrays if
two parties met at a crossing. "Big Six" never gave up for any one.
"Forty-one" was another famous engine on the East side. Indeed they had
a rather menacing song they sometimes shouted out to their rivals, which
contained these two blood-curdling lines:
"From his heart the blood shall run
By the balls of Forty-one."
Later on the fights and disturbances became so bitter that the police
had to interfere, and as the city grew larger some new method of
expediting matters had to be considered. But the "fire laddies" were a
brave, generous set of men, who turned out any time of day or night and
dragged their heavy engines over the rough cobble-stones with a spirit
and enthusiasm hard to match. They received no pay, but were exempt from
jury duty, and after a number of years of service had certain privileges
granted them. Jim counted strongly on being a fireman. John had
sometimes gone to fires but was not a "regular."
But all differences were forgotten in the "great fire," as it was called
for a long time. There had been one about ten years before that had
devastated a large part of the city. And in February of this year there
had been quite a tragic one in the Tribune Building. There was a fierce
drifting snowstorm, so deep it was impossible to drag the engines
through it, and some of the hydrants were frozen. Men had jumped from
the windows to save their lives, and there had been quite a panic.
Early in the gray dawn of July nineteenth, a watchman discovered flames
issuing from an oil store on New Street. A carpenter shop next door was
soon in flames. A large building in which quantities of saltpetre was
stored caught next. A dense smoke filled the air, and a sudden explosive
sound shot out a long tongue of flame that crossed the street. At
intervals of a few moments others followed, causing everybody to fly for
their lives. And at last one grand deafening burst like a tremendous
clap of thunder, and the whole vicinity was in a blaze. Bricks and
pieces of timber flew through the air, injuring many people. Then the
fire spread far and wide, one vast, roaring, crackling sheet of flame.
One brave fireman and several other people were killed, and Engine 22
was wrecked in the explosion.
It was said at first that powder had been stored in the building, but it
was proved on investigation that the saltpetre alone was the dangerous
agent. Three hundred and forty-five buildings were destroyed, at a loss,
it was estimated, of ten millions of dollars. For days there was an
immense throng about the place. The ruins extended from Bowling Green to
Exchange Place.
A relic of Revolutionary times perished in this fire. The bell of the
famous Provost prison, that had been used by the British during their
occupancy of the city, had been removed when the building was remodelled
and placed on the Bridewell at the west of the City Hall, and used for a
fire-alarm bell. When the Bridewell had been destroyed it was
transferred to the cupola of the Naiad Hose Company in Beaver Street. It
rang out its last alarm that morning, for engine house and bell perished
in the flames.
Stephen had been very fortunate in that he was out of the fire district.
He took Margaret and Hanny down to view the great space heaped with
blackened debris, and when a fire alarm was given the little girl used
to shiver with fright for months afterward.
And now schools were considering their closing exercises, and parents of
big boys were puzzled to know just where to start them in life. Ben
declared his preference at last--he wanted to be some sort of a
newspaper man.
They called Mr. Whitney in to council. He was not quite sure he would
recommend beginning there. It would be better to learn the trade
thoroughly at such a place as the Harpers'. Then there would always be
something to fall back upon. Steve did not cordially approve, and Dr.
Joe was quite disappointed. He was ready to help Ben through college.
Newspaper people did not rank as high then as now. There was a good deal
of what came to be called Bohemianism among them, and it was not of the
artistic type. For the one really good position there were a dozen
precarious ones.
Aunt Nancy Archer rather amused them with another objection. She wasn't
at all sure the publishing of so many novels was conducive to the
advancement of morals and religion. She never could quite understand how
so good a man as Brother Harper could lend it countenance. When she was
young the girls of her time were reading Hannah More. And there was Mrs.
Chapone's letters, and now Charlotte Elizabeth and Mrs. Sigourney.
"Did you know Hannah More wrote a novel?" inquired John, with a half
smile of his father's humor. "And Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Edgeworth and
Charlotte Elizabeth's stories are in the novel form."
"But they have a high moral. And there are so many histories for young
people to read. They ought to have the real truth instead of silly
make-believes and trashy love stories."
"There are some histories that would be rather terrible reading for
young minds," said John. "I think I'll bring you two or three, Aunt
Nancy."
"But histories are _true_."
"There are a great many sad and bitter truths in the world. And the
stories must have a certain amount of truth in them or they would never
gain a hearing. Do we not find some of the most beautiful stories in the
Bible itself?"
"Well, I can't help thinking all this novel reading is going to do harm
to our young people. Their minds will get flighty, and they will lose
all taste and desire for solid things. They are beginning to despise
work already."
"Aunt Nancy," said Ben, with a deprecating smile, "the smartest girl I
know lives just below here. She does most all the housekeeping, she can
wash and iron and sweep and sew, and she reads novels by the score. She
just races through them. I do believe she knows as much about Europe as
any of our teachers. And I never dreamed there had been such tremendous
conquests in Asia, and such wonderful things in Egypt until I heard her
talk about them; and she knows about the great men and generals and
rulers who lived before the Christian era, and at the time Christ was
born----"
Aunt Nancy gasped.
"Of course there were Old Testament times," she returned hesitatingly.
"And I am not sure but Mayor Harper is doing a good work in
disseminating knowledge of all kinds. I believe we are to try all things
and hold fast to that which is good," said John.
He brought Aunt Nancy the history of Peter the Great and the famous
Catharine of Russia, but she admitted that they were too cruel and too
terrible for any one to take pleasure in.
Mrs. Underhill and Margaret went to the closing exercises of Houston
Street school. Jim as usual had a splendid oration, one of Patrick
Henry's. Ben acquitted himself finely. There was a large class of boys
who had finished their course, and the principal made them an admirable
address, in which there was much good counsel and not a little judicious
praise as well as beneficial advice concerning their future.
But at Mrs. Craven's there was something more than the ordinary
exercises. The front parlor was turned into an audience-room, and a
platform was raised a little in the back parlor almost like a stage.
There was a dialogue that was a little play in itself, and displayed the
knowledge as well as the training of the pupils. Some compositions were
read, and part of a little operetta was sung quite charmingly by the
girls. Then there was a large table spread out with specimens of
needlework that were really fine; drawing, painting, and penmanship that
elicited much praise from the visitors.
The crowning pleasure was the little party given in the evening, to
which any one was at liberty to invite a brother or cousin, or indeed a
neighbor of whom their mother approved. And strange to relate, there
were a good many boys who were really pleased to be asked to the "girls'
party." Charles Reed came and had a delightful time. Josie had waylaid
Mr. Reed again and told him all about it, and hoped he would let Charles
come, and he said he would be very happy to. Mrs. Reed did not approve
of parties for children, and Charles had been but to very few.
Mr. Underhill and Dr. Joe went down to the Harpers', having decided to
place Ben there to learn a trade. Thinking it all over, he resolved to
acquiesce, though he told Hanny privately that some day he meant to have
a newspaper of his own and be the head of everything. But he supposed he
would have to learn first.
Margaret and Hanny went with them, and found many changes since their
first visit. The making of a book seemed a still more wonderful thing to
the child, but how one could ever be written puzzled her beyond all. A
composition on something she had seen or read was within the scope of
her thought, but to tell about people and make them talk, and have
pleasant and curious and sad and joyous happenings, did puzzle her
greatly.
Ben was not to go until the first of September. So he would help Steve,
go to the country for a visit, and have a good time generally before he
began his life-work. Stephen's house was approaching completion, and it
was wonderful to see how the rows of buildings were stretching out, as
if presently the city would be depleted of its residents. One wondered
where all the people came from.
John Robert Charles had grown quite confidential with his father and
began to think him as nice as Mr. Underhill--not as funny, for Mr.
Underhill had a way of joking and telling amusing stories and teasing a
little, that was very entertaining, and never sharp or ill-natured.
He had carried off the honors of his class and was proud of it. Mr. Reed
showed his satisfaction as well. Mrs. Reed was rather doubtful and
severe, and thought it her duty to keep Charles from undue vanity. She
was in a fret because she had to go away and leave the house and waste a
whole month.
"I don't want to go," said Charles to his father. "It's awful lonesome
up there in the mountains, and there's no one to talk to. Aunt Rhoda's
deaf, and Aunt Persis hushes you up if you say a word. And the old
gardener is stupid. There are no books to read, and I do get so tired."
"Well, we'll see," replied his father.
To his wife Mr. Reed said: "Why do you go off if you don't want to?"
"I won't have Charles running the streets and getting into bad company,
and wearing out his clothes faster than I can mend them," she replied
shortly.
It would not be entertaining for Charles in his office, and he didn't
just see what the boy could do. But he met a friend who kept a sort of
fancy toy store, musical instruments and some curios, down Broadway, and
learned that they were very much in want of a trusty, reliable lad who
was correct in figures and well-mannered. A woman came in the morning to
sweep the store and sidewalk, to wash up the floor and windows, and do
the chores. So there was no rough work.
"I'll send my boy down and see how you like him. I think he would fancy
the place, and during the month you might find some one to take it
permanently. There seems to be no lack of boys."
"You can't always find the right sort," said Mr. Gerard. "Yes, I shall
be glad to try him."
Mr. Reed did not set forth the matter too attractively to his wife, not
even to Charles, who had learned to restrain his enthusiasm before his
mother. And though she made numerous objections, and the thought of bad
company seemed to haunt her, she reluctantly decided to let him try it
for a week. He would go down in the morning with his father, so he could
not possibly begin his day in mischief.
Charles was delighted. The city was not over-crowded then. The Park gave
"down-town" quite a breathing space.
Now a boy would think it very hard not to have any vacation after eleven
months of study. He would be so tired and worn and nervous that ten
weeks would be none too much. The children then studied hard and played
hard and were eager to have a good time, and generally did have it. And
now Charles was delighted with the newness of the affair. He walked up
at night fresh and full of interest, and was quite a hero to the girls
over on Mrs. Dean's stoop.
"I hope you will bring them down even if you shouldn't want to buy
anything. Mr. Gerard said the stock was low now, as it is the dullest
season of the year. But there are such beautiful articles for gifts,
china cups and saucers and dainty pitchers and vases, and sets like
yours, Josie, some ever so much smaller, and a silver knife and fork and
spoon in a velvet case, and lovely little fruit-knives and nut-picks and
ever so many things I have never heard of. And musical instruments,
flutes and flageolets and violins, and oh, the accordeons! There are
German and French. Oh, I wish I _could_ own one. I know I could soon
learn to play on it!" declared Charles eagerly.
In that far-back time an accordeon really was considered worth one's
while. A piano was quite an extravagance. A good player could evoke real
music out of it, and at that period it had not been handed over to the
saloons. In fact, saloons were not in fashion.
The children listened enchanted. It was a great thing to know any one in
such a store. Mrs. Dean promised to take them all down.
Hanny had a new source of interest. Dr. Joe had told her a very moving
story when he was up to tea on Sunday evening, about a little girl who
had been two months in the hospital and who had just come home for good
now, who lived only a little way below them. It was Daisy Jasper, whom
they had seen a little while last summer in a wheeling chair, and who
had disappeared before any one's curiosity could be satisfied. She was
an only child, and her parents were very comfortably well off. When
Daisy was about six years old, a fine, healthy, and beautiful little
girl, she had trodden on a spool dropped by a careless hand and fallen
down a long flight of stairs. Beside a broken arm and some bruises she
did not seem seriously injured. But after a while she began to complain
of her back and her hip, and presently the sad knowledge dawned upon
them that their lovely child was likely to be a cripple. Various
experiments were tried until she became so delicate her life appeared
endangered. Mr. Jasper had been attracted to this pretty row of houses
standing back from the street with the flower gardens in front. It
seemed secluded yet not lonely. She grew so feeble, however, that the
doctors had recommended Sulphur Springs in Virginia, and thither they
had taken her. When the cool weather came on they had gone farther south
and spent the winter in Florida. She had improved and gained sufficient
strength, the doctors thought, to endure an operation. It had been
painful and tedious, but she had borne it all so patiently. Dr. Mott and
Dr. Francis had done their best, but she would always be a little
deformed. The prospect was that some day she might walk without a
crutch. Joe had seen a good deal of her, and at one visit he had told
her of his little sister who was just her age, as their birthdays were
in May.
Hanny had cried over the sorrowful tale. She thought of her early story
heroine, "Little Blind Lucy," whose sight had been so marvellously
restored. But Daisy could never be quite restored to straightness.
After supper Joe had taken her down to call on Daisy. Oh, how pretty the
gardens were, a beautiful spot of greenery and bloom, such a change from
the pavements! A narrow brick walk ran up to the house, edged with rows
of dahlias just coming into bloom. On the other side there were circles
and triangles and diamond-shaped beds with borders of small flowers, or
an entire bed of heliotrope or verbena. The very air was fragrant. Up
near the house was a kind of pavilion with a tent covering to shield one
from the sun.
Daisy, with her mother and aunt, were sitting out here when Dr. Joe
brought his little sister. Daisy's chair was so arranged that the back
could be adjusted to any angle. It was of bamboo and cane with a soft
blanket thrown over it, a pretty rose color that lighted up the pale
little girl whose languor was still perceptible.
After a little Mrs. Jasper took Dr. Joe into the house, as she wanted to
question him. Then Hanny and Daisy grew more confidential. Daisy asked
about the children in the neighborhood and thought she would like to see
Nora and Pussy Gray. She was very fond of cats, but theirs, a very good
mouser, was bad-tempered and wanted no petting. And then the Dean girls
and Flossy and Elsie Hay, and last but not least of all, Charles Reed
with his beautiful voice.
"I do so dearly love music," said Daisy longingly. "Auntie plays but she
doesn't sing. Mamma knows a good many old-fashioned songs that are
lovely. When I am tired and nervous she sings to me. I don't suppose I
can ever learn to play for myself," she ended sadly.
Hanny told her she was learning and could play "Mary to the Saviour's
Tomb" for her father. And there were the boys and Stephen and her lovely
married sister Dolly and her own sister Margaret.
"Oh, how happy you must be!" cried Daisy. "I should like such a lot of
people. I never had any brothers or sisters, and I _do_ get so lonesome.
And the doctor is so pleasant and sweet; you must love him a great
deal."
"I can't tell which one is best. Steve teases and says funny things, and
is--oh, just as nice as any one can be! And John is splendid, too. And
Ben is going to learn to make books, and I can have all the books I
want."
Daisy sighed. She was very fond of reading, but it soon tired her.
"I should so like to see you all. You know I've never been much with
children. And I like live people. I want to hear them talk and sing and
see them play. One gets tired of dolls."
"If you would like I will bring Nora and Pussy Gray. And I know Josie's
mother will let them come. If you could be wheeled up on our sidewalk."
"Oh, that would be delightful!" and the soft eyes glowed.
Hanny had taken Nora the very next afternoon, and Pussy Gray had been
just too good for anything. Daisy had to laugh at the conversations
between him and Nora. It really did sound as if he said actual words.
And they told Daisy about the time they went to the Museum and had a
double share for their money. Daisy laughed heartily, and her pale
cheeks took on a pretty pink tint.
"You are so good to come," said Mrs. Jasper. "My little girl has had so
much suffering in her short life that I want her to have all the
pleasure possible now."
Josie and Tudie Dean had been out spending the day, and really, there
was so much to tell that it was nine o'clock before it was all
discussed. Charles was very much interested in Daisy Jasper.
"You know I can tell just how she feels about not having any brothers
and sisters," he exclaimed. "I've wished for them so many times. And I
_do_ think Hanny is the luckiest of the lot; she has so many. It is like
a little town to yourself."
"I'm so glad it is vacation," declared Josie. "If we were going to
school we wouldn't have half time for anything."
Mr. Underhill came for his little girl. While he was exchanging a few
words with Mr. Dean Hanny caught one hand in both of hers and hopped
around on one foot. She was so glad she could do it. Poor Daisy, with
her beautiful name, who could never know the delight of exuberant
spirits.
Hanny's thoughts did not take in the long word, but that was what she
felt in every fibre of her being.
Charles wondered how she dared. He was frightened when he caught his
father's hand with an impulse of gratitude. But in pure fun!
There was quite a stir with the little clique in the upper end of the
block. Mrs. Underhill, Mrs. Dean, and Margaret called on their neighbor,
and the wheeled chair came up the street a day or two after. It had to
go to the corner and cross on the flagging, as the jar would have been
too great on cobble stones. They had a young colored lad now who kept
the garden in order, did chores, and waited upon "Missy" as he called
her.
The sidewalk was generally sunny in the afternoon, but this day it was
soft and gray without being very cloudy. The chariot halted at the
Underhills'. The little girls brought their dolls to show Daisy, their
very best ones, and Nora dressed up Pussy Gray in the long white baby
dress, and pussy was very obliging and lay in Daisy's arms just like a
real baby. The child felt as if she wanted to kiss him.
What a pretty group of gossips they were! If Kate Greenaway had been
making pictures then, she would have wanted them, though their attire
was not quite as quaint as hers. They went up and down the steps, they
told Daisy so many bright, entertaining things, and the fun they had
with their plays. Josie's party was described, the closing exercises at
school, and the many incidents so important in child life. Sometimes two
or three talked together, or some one said, "It's my turn, now let me."
They referred to Charles so much it really piqued Daisy's curiosity.
"Jim calls him a 'girl-boy,' because he plays with us," said Hanny, "and
in some ways I like girl-boys best. Ben is a sort of girl-boy. I'm going
to bring him over to see you. Jim's real splendid and none of the boys
dare fight him any more," she added loyally.
"And first, you know," began Tudie in a mysteriously confidential
manner, "we thought it so queer and funny. His mother called him John
Robert Charles. And she used to look out of the window and ask him if he
had his books and his handkerchief, and tell him to come straight home
from school, and lots of things. Oh, we thought we wouldn't have her
for our mother, not for a world!"
"How did he come by so many names?" Daisy smiled.
"Well, grandfather and all," replied Tudie rather ambiguously. "His
father calls him Charles. It sounds quite grand, doesn't it? We all
wanted to call him Robert. And Hanny's big sister sings such a lovely
song--"Robin Adair." I'd like to call him that."
"I should so like to hear him sing. I'm so fond of singing," said Daisy
plaintively.
"Now if we were in the back yard we could all sing," rejoined Josie.
"But of course we couldn't in the street with everybody going by."
"Oh, no!" Yet there was a wistful longing in Daisy's face, that was
beginning to look very tired.
There were not many people going through this street. Houston Street was
quite a thoroughfare. But the few who did pass looked at the merry group
of girls and at the pale invalid whose chair told the story, and gave
them all a tender, sympathetic thought.
All except Lily Ludlow. She was rather curious about the girl in the
chair and made an errand out to the Bowery. When Hanny saw who was
coming she turned around and talked very eagerly to Elsie Hay, and
pretended not to know it. Lily had her President, and Jim admired her,
that was enough.
"You're very tired, Missy," Sam said presently.
"Yes," replied Daisy. "I think I'll go home now. And will you all come
to see me to-morrow? Oh, it is so nice to know you all! And Pussy Gray
is just angelic. Please bring him, too."
They said good-by. For some moments the little girls looked at each
other with wordless sorrow in their eyes. I think there were tears as
well.