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THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
Or
There's No Place Like Home
by
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
Author of "In Trust," "The Kathie Stories," etc.
Boston
Lee and Shepard, 47 Franklin Street
New York
Charles T. Dillingham. 678 Broadway
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
William F. Gill & Co.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
In Remembrance
OF
_MANY PLEASANT HOURS SPENT AT WOODSIDE_,
This Story
OF LOVE AND FAITH, OF WORK AND WAITING, AND THE GENTLE
VIRTUES THAT ARE NONE THE LESS HEROIC FOR
BLOOMING IN THE CENTRE OF THE
HOME CIRCLE,
_IS DEDICATED TO THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD_
OF
MR. and MRS. A. C. NEUMANN.
* * * * * *
THE DOUGLAS NOVELS.
BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
_Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.
"Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the
author."--_Philadelphia Methodist._
WHOM KATHIE MARRIED.
Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for
young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom
Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written.
LOST IN A GREAT CITY.
"There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that
would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader
will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In
some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence."--_San Francisco Post._
THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE.
"The romances of Miss Douglas's creation are all thrillingly
interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._
HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart.
"Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American
novel-readers."--_Manchester Mirror._
FROM HAND TO MOUTH.
"There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we
can so readily 'take it home' to ourselves."--_Portland Argus._
NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM.
"The Hartford Religious Herald" says, "This story is so fascinating,
that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up."
IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household.
"She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are
never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._
CLAUDIA.
"The plot is very dramatic, and the _dénoûment_ startling. Claudia, the
heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the
glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._
STEPHEN DANE.
"This is one of this author's happiest and most successful attempts at
novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her."--_Herald._
HOME NOOK: or, the Crown of Duty.
"An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and
written in forcible and attractive style."--_New York Graphic._
SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World.
"The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and
become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and
elevating in their tone."--_Express, Easton, Penn._
SEVEN DAUGHTERS.
The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like air which
pervades it.
_Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._
LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.
* * * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE.
JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY 7
CHAPTER II.
PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT 22
CHAPTER III.
A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY 36
CHAPTER IV.
THE IDENTICAL SHOE 52
CHAPTER V.
GOOD LUCK FOR JOE 68
CHAPTER VI.
FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES 84
CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL 103
CHAPTER VIII.
FLORENCE IN STATE 120
CHAPTER IX.
FOURTH OF JULY 137
CHAPTER X.
WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE? 154
CHAPTER XI.
OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST 172
CHAPTER XII.
JOE'S FORTUNE 191
CHAPTER XIII.
FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE 209
CHAPTER XIV.
A FLOWER-GARDEN INDOORS 225
CHAPTER XV.
HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY 244
CHAPTER XVI.
ALMOST DISCOURAGED 262
CHAPTER XVII.
LOST AT SEA 282
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SONG IN THE NIGHT 299
CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN 317
CHAPTER XX.
WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED 337
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE 352
CHAPTER XXII.
CHRISTMASTIDE 366
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
CHAPTER I.
JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY.
Hal sat trotting Dot on his knee,--poor little weazen-faced Dot, who
was just getting over the dregs of the measles, and cross accordingly.
By way of accompaniment he sang all the Mother Goose melodies that he
could remember. At last he came to,--
"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe:
She had so many children she didn't know what to do;
To some she gave broth without any bread,"--
and Harry stopped to catch his breath, for the trotting was of the
vigorous order.
"And a thrashing all round, and sent them to bed!"
finished Joe, thrusting his shaggy head in at the window after the
fashion of a great Newfoundland dog.
Dot answered with a piteous cry,--a sort of prolonged wail,
heart-rending indeed.
"Serve you right," said Joe, going through an imaginary performance
with remarkably forcible gestures.
"For shame, Joe! You were little once yourself, and I dare say cried
when you were sick. I always thought it very cruel, that, after being
deprived of their supper, they should be"--
"Thrashed! Give us good strong Saxon for once, Flossy!"
Flossy was of the ambitious, correct, and sentimental order. She had
lovely light curls, and soft white hands when she did not have to work
too hard, which she never did of her own free will. She thought it
dreadful to be so poor, and aspired to a rather aristocratic ladyhood.
"I am sorry you were not among them," she replied indignantly. "You're
a hard-hearted, cruel boy!"
"When the thrashings went round? You're a c-r-u-e-l girl!" with a
prodigious length of accent. "Why, I get plenty of 'em at school."
"'Trot, trot, trot. There was an old woman'--what are you laughing at,
Joe?" and Hal turned red in the face.
"I've just made a brilliant discovery. O my poor buttons! remember
Flossy's hard labor and many troubles, and do not _bust_! Why, we're
the very children!"
At this, Joe gave a sudden lurch: you saw his head, and then you saw
his heels, and the patch on the knee of his trousers, ripped partly off
by an unlucky nail, flapped in the breeze; and he was seated on the
window-sill right side up with care, drumming both bare heels into the
broken wall. He gave a prolonged whistle of satisfaction, made big eyes
at Dot, and then said again,--
"Yes, we are the _very_ children!"
"What children? Joe, you are the noisiest boy in Christendom!"
"Flossy, the old woman who lived in a shoe is Granny, and no mistake!
I can prove it logically. Look at this old tumble-down rookery: it is
just the shape of a huge shoe, sloping gradually to the toe, which is
the shed-end here. It's brown and rusty and cracked and patched: it
wants heeling and toeing, and to be half-soled, greased to keep the
water out, and blacked to make it shine. It was a famous seven-leaguer
in its day; but, when it had lost its virtue, the giant who used to
wear it kicked it off by the roadside, little dreaming that it would be
transformed into a cabin for the aforesaid old woman. And here we all
are sure enough! Sometimes we get broth, and sometimes we don't."
Dot looked up in amazement at this harangue, and thrust her thumbs
in her mouth. Hal laughed out-right,--a soft little sound like the
rippling of falling water.
"Yes, a grand discovery! Ladies and gentlemen of the nineteenth
century, I rise to get up, to speak what I am about to say; and I hope
you will treasure the words of priceless wisdom that fall from my lips.
I'm not backward about coming forward"--
Joe was balancing himself very nicely, and making tremendous
flourishes, when two brown, dimpled hands scrubbed up the shock of
curly hair, and the sudden onslaught destroyed his equilibrium, as
Flossy would have said, and down he went on the floor in crab fashion,
looking as if he were all arms and legs.
"Charlie, you midget! just wait till I catch you. I haven't the broth,
but the other thing will do as well."
But Charlie was on the outside; and her little brown, bare feet were
as fleet as a deer's. Joe saw her skimming over the meadow; but the
afternoon was very warm, and a dozen yards satisfied him for a race, so
he turned about.
"Joe, you might take Dot a little while, I think," said Hal
beseechingly, as Joe braced himself against the door-post. "I've held
her all the afternoon."
"She won't come--will you, Dot?"
But Dot signified her gratification by stretching out her hands. Joe
was a good-natured fellow; and, though he might have refused Hal
easily, he couldn't resist Dot's tender appeal, so he took her on his
shoulder and began trotting off to Danbury Cross. Dot laughed out of
her sleepy eyes, highly delighted at this change in the programme.
"Oh, dear!" and Hal rubbed his tired arms. "I shouldn't think
grandmother would know what to do, sure enough! What a host of us there
are,--six children!"
"I'm sure I do my best," said Flossy with a pathetic little sniff. "But
it's very hard to be an orphan and poor."
"And when there are six of us, and we are all orphans, and all poor, it
must be six times as hard," put in Joe with a sly twinkle.
Then he changed Dot from her triumphal position on his shoulder to a
kind of cradle in his arms. Her eyelids drooped, and she began to croon
a very sleepy tune.
Hal looked out of the window, over to the woods, where the westward
sun was making a wonderful land of gold and crimson. Sometimes he
had beautiful dreams of that softened splendor, but now they were
mercenary. If one could only coin it all into money! There was poor
grandmother slaving away, over at Mrs. Kinsey's,--she should come home,
and be a princess, to say the very least.
"I guess I'll clear up a bit!" said Hal, coming down from the clouds,
and glancing round at the disorderly room. "Granny will be most tired
to death when her day's work is done. Flossy, if you wouldn't mind
going in the other room."
Flossy gathered up her skirts and her crocheting, and did not take the
invitation at all amiss.
Then Hal found the stubby broom, and swept the floor; dusted the
mantle, after removing an armful of "trash;" went at the wooden chairs,
that had once been painted a gorgeous yellow with green bars; and
cleared a motley accumulation of every thing off of the table, hanging
up two or three articles, and tucking the rest into a catch-all closet.
A quaint old pitcher, that had lost both spout and handle, was emptied
of some faded flowers, and a fresh lot cut,--nothing very choice; but
the honeysuckle scented the room, and the coxcombs gave their crimson
glow to the top of the pyramid.
"Why, Mrs. Betty," said Joe, "you've made quite a palace out of your
end of the shoe, and this miserable little Dot has gone to sleep at
last. Shall I put her in the cradle, or drop her down the well?"
Hal smiled a little, and opened the door. It was the best room, quite
large, uncarpeted, but clean; and though the bed was covered with a
homemade spread, it was as white as it could be. The cradle was not
quite as snowy; for the soiled hands that tumbled Dot in and out left
some traces.
To get her safely down was a masterpiece of strategy. Joe bumped her
head; and Hal took her in his arms, hushing her in a low, motherly
fashion, and pressing his brown cheek to hers, which looked the color
of milk that had been skimmed, and then split in two, and skimmed
again. She made a dive in Hal's hair with her little bird's claw of a
hand, but presently dropped asleep again.
"I guess she'll take a good long nap," whispered Hal, quite relieved.
"I'm sure she ought," sighed Florence.
Hal went back to his housekeeping. He was as handy as a girl, any day.
He pulled some radishes, and put them in a bowl of cold water, and
chopped some lettuce and onions together, the children were all so fond
of it. Then he gleaned the raspberries, and filled the saucer with
currants that were not salable.
Joe, in the meanwhile, had gone after Mrs. Green's cows. She gave them
a quart of milk daily for driving the cows to and from the pasture, and
doing odd chores.
"If you see the children, send them home," had been Hal's parting
injunction. "Grandmother will soon be here."
She came before Joe returned. The oddest looking little old woman that
you ever saw. Florence, at fourteen, was half a head taller. Thin and
wrinkled and sunburned; her flaxen hair turning to silver, and yet
obstinately full of little curls; her blue eyes pale and washed out,
and hosts of "crows'-feet" at the corners; and her voice cracked and
tremulous.
Poor Grandmother Kenneth! She had worked hard enough in her day, and
was still forced to keep it up, now that it was growing twilight with
her. But I don't believe there was another as merry a houseful of
children in all Madison.
Joe's discovery was not far out of the way. The old woman, whose
biography and family troubles were so graphically given by Mother
Goose, died long before our childhood; but I think Granny Kenneth must
have looked like her, though I fancy she was better natured. As for
the children, many and many a time she had not known what to do with
them,--when they were hungry, when they were bad, when their clothes
were worn out and she had nothing to make new ones with, when they had
no shoes; and yet she loved the whole six, and toiled for them without
a word of complaint.
Her only son, Joe, had left them to her,--a troublesome legacy indeed;
but at that time they had a mother and a very small sum of money.
Mrs. Joe was a pretty, helpless, inefficient body, who continually
fretted because Joe did not get rich. When the poor fellow lay on his
death-bed, his disease aggravated by working when he was not able, he
twined his arms around his mother's neck, and cried with a great gasp,--
"You'll be kind to them, mother, and look after them a little. God will
help you, I know. I should like to live for their sakes."
A month or two after this, Dot was born. Now that her dear Joe was
dead, there was no comfort in the world; so the frail, pretty little
thing grieved herself away, and went to sleep beside him in the
churchyard.
The neighbors made a great outcry when Grandmother Kenneth took the
children to her own little cottage.
"What could she do with them? Why, they will all starve in a bunch,"
said one.
"Florence and Joe might be bound out," proposed another.
A third was for sending them to the almshouse, or putting them in some
orphan asylum; but five years had come and gone, and they had not
starved yet, though once or twice granny's heart had quaked for fear.
Every one thought it would be such a blessing if Dot would only die.
She had been a sight of trouble during the five years of her life.
First, she had the whooping cough, which lasted three times as long as
with any ordinary child. Then she fell out of the window, and broke her
collar-bone; and when she was just over that, it was the water-pox. The
others had the mumps, and Dot's share was the worst of all. Kit had the
measles in the lightest possible form, and actually had to be tied in
bed to make him stay there; while it nearly killed poor Dot, who had
been suffering from March to midsummer, and was still poor as a crow,
and cross as a whole string of comparisons.
But Granny was patient with it all. The very sweetest old woman in the
world, and the children loved her in their fashion; but they seldom
realized all that she was doing for them. And though some of her
neighbors appreciated the toil and sacrifice, the greater part of them
thought it very foolish for her to be slaving herself to death for a
host of beggarly grandchildren.
"Well, Hal!" she exclaimed in her rather shrill but cheery voice,
"how's the day gone?"
"Pretty well: but you're tired to death. I suppose Mrs. Kinsey's
company came, and there was a grand feast?"
"Grand! I guess it was. Such loads of pies and puddings and kettles of
berries and tubs of cream"--
Granny paused, out of breath from not having put in any commas.
"Ice-cream, you mean? Freezers, they call 'em."
"You do know every thing, Hal!" And granny laughed. "I can't get all
the new-fangled names and notions in my head. There was Grandmother
Kinsey, neat as a new pin, and children and grandchildren, and aunts
and cousins. But it was nice, Hal."
The boy smiled, thinking of them all.
"Half of the goodies'll spile, I know. Mrs. Kinsey packed me a great
basket full; and, Hal, here's two dollars. I'm clean tuckered out."
"Then you just sit still, and let me 'tend to you. Dot's asleep; and if
I haven't worried with her this afternoon! That child ought to grow up
a wonder, she's been so much trouble to us all. Joe's gone after the
cows, and Florence is busy as a bee. Oh, what a splendid basket full!
Why, we shall feast like kings!"
With that Hal began to unpack,--a plate full of cut cake, biscuits by
the dozen, cold chicken, delicious slices of ham, and various other
delicacies.
"We'll only have a few to-night," said Hal economically. "'Tisn't every
day that we have such a windfall. I'll put these out of the children's
sight; for there they come."
The "children" were Charlie and Kit, with barely a year between; Kit
being seven, and Charlie--her real name was Charlotte, but she was such
a tomboy that they gave her the nickname--was about eight. Hal was
ten, and Joe twelve.
"Children," said Hal, "don't come in till you've washed yourselves. Be
quiet, for Dot is asleep."
Thus admonished, Charlie did nothing worse than pour a basin of water
over Kit, who sputtered and scolded and kicked until Hal rushed out to
settle them.
"If you're not quiet, you shall not have a mouthful of supper; and
we've lots of goodies."
Kit began to wash the variegated streaks from his face. Charlie
soused her head in a pail of water, and shook it like a dog, then ran
her fingers through her hair. It was not as light or silken as that
of Florence, and was cropped close to her head. Kit's was almost as
black as a coal; and one refractory lock stood up. Joe called it his
"scalp-lock waving in the breeze."
"Now, Charlie, pump another pail of water. There comes Joe, and we'll
have supper."
Charlie eyed Joe distrustfully, and hurried into the house. Hal hung up
Granny's sun-bonnet, and placed the chairs around.
"Come, Florence," he said, opening the door softly.
"My eyes!" ejaculated Joe in amaze. "Grandmother, you're a trump."
"Joe!" exclaimed Hal reproachfully.
Joe made amends by kissing Granny in the most rapturous fashion. Then
he escorted her to the table in great state.
"Have you been good children to-day?" she asked, as they assembled
round the table.
"I've run a splinter in my toe; and, oh! my trousers are torn!"
announced Kit dolefully.
"If you ever had a whole pair of trousers at one time the world would
come to an end," declared Joe sententiously.
"Would it?" And Kit puzzled his small brain over the connection.
"And Charlie preserves a discreet silence. Charlie, my dear, I advise
you to keep out of the way of the ragmen, or you will find yourself on
the road to the nearest paper-mill."
Florence couldn't help laughing at the suggestion.
"Children!" said their grandmother.
Full of fun and frolic as they were, the little heads bowed reverently
as Granny asked her simple blessing. She would as soon have gone
without eating as to omit that.
"I really don't want any thing," she declared. "I've been tasting all
day,--a bit here and a bit there, and such loads of things!"
"Tell us all about it," begged Joe. "And who was there,--the grand
Panjandrum with a button on the top. Children's children unto the third
and fourth generation."
"O Joe! if you only wouldn't," began Granny imploringly.
"No, I won't, Granny;" and Joe made a face as long as your arm, or a
piece of string.
"Of course I didn't see 'em all, nor half; but men and women and
children and babies! And Grandmother Kinsey's ninety-five years old!"
"I hope I'll live to be that old, and have lots of people to give me a
golden wedding," said Charlie, with her mouth so full that the words
were pretty badly squeezed.
"This isn't a golden wedding," said Florence with an air of dignity:
"it's a birthday party."
"Ho!" and Joe laughed. "You'll be,--
'Ugly, ill-natured, and wrinkled and thin,
Worn by your troubles to bone and to skin.'"
"She's never been much else," rejoined Flossy, looking admiringly at
her own white arm.
"I'm not as old as you!" And Charlie flared up to scarlet heat.
"Oh! you needn't get so vexed. I was only thinking of the skin and
bone," said Florence in a more conciliatory manner.
"Well, I don't want to be a 'Mother Bunch.'"
"No fear of you, Charlie. You look like the people who live on some
shore,--I've forgotten the name of the place,--and, eat so many fish
that the bones work through."
Charlie felt of her elbows. They were pretty sharp, to be sure. She was
very tall of her age, and ran so much that it was quite impossible to
keep any flesh on her bones.
"Hush, children!" said grandmother. "I was going to tell you about the
party. Hal, give me a little of your salad, first."
The Kinseys had invited all their relations to a grand family
gathering. Granny told over the pleasant and comical incidents that had
come under her notice,--the mishaps in cooking, the babies that had
fallen down stairs, and various entertaining matters.
By that time supper was ended. Florence set out to take some lace that
she had been making to a neighbor; Hal washed the dishes, and Charlie
wiped them; Joe fed the chickens, and then perched himself astride the
gate-post, whistling all the tunes he could remember; Kit and Charlie
went to bed presently; and Hal and his grandmother had a good talk
until Dot woke up, strange to say quite good-natured.
"Granny," said Hal, preparing a bowl of bread and milk for his little
sister, "some day we'll all be grown, and you won't have to work so
hard."
"Six men and women! How odd it will be!" returned Granny with a smile
shining over her tired face.
"Yes. We'll keep you like a lady. You shall have a pretty house to live
in, and Dot shall wait upon you. Won't you, Dot?"
Dot shook her head sagely at Granny.
And in the gathering twilight Hal smiled, remembering Joe's conceit.
Granny looked happy in spite of her weariness. She, foolish body, was
thinking how nice it was to have them all, even to poor little Dot.