gets a little wild when the people hurrah and clap very loud. But he
always knows me."
"How beautifully you do ride," went on Alice. "It looks just like flying
when you jump through the hoops. I wish I knew how. Is it very hard to
do?"
"No--except when I get tired. Then I don't do it well. But as long as
the music plays I don't feel tired. Sometimes before I come out I am
frightened, and think I can't do it at all, but then I hear the band
begin, and I know I can. Oh! don't you love music?"
"Y--es," said Alice wonderingly, for Mignon's eyes sparkled and her face
flushed as she asked this question. "I like music when it's pretty."
"I love it so _so_ much," went on Mignon confidentially. "It's like
flowers--and colors--all sorts of things--sunsets too. Our band plays
beautifully, don't you think so? It makes me feel as if I could do any
thing in the world, fly or dance on the air,--any thing! It's quite
different when they stop. Then I don't want to jump or spring, but just
to sit still. If they would keep on playing always, I don't believe I
should ever get tired."
"How funny!" said the practical Alice. "I never feel that way at all.
Aunty says I haven't got a bit of ear for music. Did you see Aunty at
the window this morning when you looked up?"
"Was that your Aunty? I thought it was your Mamma."
"No; I haven't got any Mamma. She died when I was a little baby. I don't
remember her a bit."
"Neither do I mine," said Mignon wistfully. "Mr. Currie says he guesses
I never had any. Do you think I could? Little girls always have Mammas,
don't they?"
"But haven't you an Aunty or any thing?" cried Alice.
Mignon shook her head.
"No," she said. "No Aunty."
"Why! Who takes care of you?"
"Oh, they all take care of me," replied Mignon smiling. "Madame
Orley,--that's Mrs. Currie, you know,--she's very kind. She curls my
hair and fastens my frock in the morning, and she always dresses me for
the performance herself. Mr. Currie,--he's kind too. He gave me these
anklets and my silver bracelets and two rings--see--one with a blue
stone and one with a red stone. Aren't they pretty? Goo-Goo is nice too.
He taught me to write last year. And old Jerry,--that's the head groom,
you know,--he's the kindest of all. He says I'm like his little
granddaughter that died, and wherever we go he almost always buys me a
present. Look what he gave me this morning," putting her hand into the
bosom of her frock and pulling out an ivory needle-case. "I keep it here
for fear it'll get lost. There's always such a confusion when we only
stop one night in a place."
"Isn't it pretty," said Alice admiringly. "I'm glad Jerry gave it to
you. But I wish you had an Aunty, because mine is so nice."
"Or a Mamma," said Mignon thoughtfully. "If I only had a Mamma of my
own, and music which would play _all the time_ and never stop, I should
be just happy. I wouldn't mind the Enchanted Steed then,--or any
thing."
"What's the Enchanted Steed?" asked Alice.
"Oh,--one of the things I do. It's harder than the rest, so I don't like
it quite so well. You'll see--it's the grand _finale_ to-night."
A sharp little bell tinkled.
"That's to ring up the curtain," said Mignon. "I must go. Thank you so
much for coming to see me."
"Oh, wait one minute!" cried Alice, diving into her pocket. "Yes, I
thought so. Here's my silver thimble. Won't you take it for a keepsake,
dear, to go with your needle-book, you know? And don't forget me,
because I never, never shall forget you. My name's Alice,--Alice
Flower."
"How pretty!" cried Mignon, looking admiringly at the thimble. "How kind
you are! Good-by."
"Kiss your hand to me from the back of the horse, won't you, please?"
said Alice. "That will be splendid! Good-by, dear, good-by."
The two children kissed each other; then Mignon ran away, tucking the
thimble into her bosom as she went.
"O Aunty! you never saw such a darling little thing as she is!" cried
Alice, when they had got back to the box. "So sweet, and so pretty,
prettier than any of the little girls we know, Aunty. I'm sure you'd
think so if you saw her near. She hasn't any Mamma either, and no Aunty
or any thing. She wishes so much she had. But she says all the circus
people are real kind to her. You can't think how much she loves music.
If the band would play all the time, she could fly, she says, or do any
thing else that was hard. It was so queer to hear her talk about it. I
never saw any little girl that I liked so much. I wish she was my
sister, my own true sister; really I do, Aunty."
"Why, Alice, I never knew you so excited about anybody before," remarked
Miss Flower.
"O Aunty! she isn't _anybody_; she's quite different from common people.
How I wish she'd hurry and come out again. She promised to kiss her
hand to me from the horse's back, Papa. Won't that be splendid?"
The whole performance was more interesting to Alice since her
conversation with Mignon. Madame Orley and her trained steed were quite
new and different now that she knew that Madame Orley's real name was
Currie, and that she curled Mignon's hair every morning. Goo-Goo seemed
like an intimate friend, because of the writing-lessons. Alice was even
sure that she could make out old Jerry of the needle-book among the
attendants. Round and round and round sped the horses. Goo-Goo cracked
his whip. The trapezeist swung high in air like a glittering blue spider
suspended by silver threads. Mr. Vernon Twomley's Bucephalus did every
thing but talk. Somebody else on another horse played the violin and
stood on his head meanwhile, all at full gallop! It was delightful. But
the best of all was when Mignon came out again. Her cheeks were rosier,
her eyes brighter than ever, and--yes--she recollected her promise, for
during the very first round she turned to Alice, poised on one foot like
a true fairy, smiled charmingly, and kissed her hand twice. How
delightful that was! Not Alice only, but all the children present were
bewitched by Mignon that evening. Twenty little girls at least said to
their mothers, "Oh, how I would like to ride like that!" and many who
did not speak wished privately that they could change places and _be_
Mignon. Alice did not wish this any longer. The noise and confusion
behind the scenes, the stamping horses and swearing men, had given her a
new idea of the life which poor Mignon had to lead among these sights
and sounds, the only child among many grown people, dependant upon the
chance kindness of clowns and head grooms for her few pleasures, her
little education. She no longer desired to change places. What she now
wanted was to carry Mignon away for a companion and friend, sharing
lessons with her and Aunty and all the other good things which she had
forgotten, when in the morning she wished herself a part of the gay
circus troupe.
And now the performances were almost over. One last feat remained, the
_Finale_, of which Mignon had spoken. It stood on the bills thus:--
"GRAND FINALE!!
IN CONCLUSION
WILL BE GIVEN THE STUPEFYING FEAT
OF
THE ENCHANTED STEED,
AND
THE FLIGHT THROUGH THE AIR!
_Performers:_
MADEMOISELLE MIGNON; HER HORSE PLUTO; M. ARISTIDE;
AND M. JOACHIN."
Alice watched with much interest the arrangements making for this feat.
Fresh sawdust was sprinkled over the arena, the ropes of the trapezes
were lowered and tested: evidently the feat was a difficult one, and
needed careful preparation. M. Aristide and M. Joachin took their places
on the suspended bars, the ring-master cleared the circle, and Mignon
rode in at a gallop. Three times she went round the arena at full speed,
then she was snatched from the horse's back by the long arm of M.
Aristide extended from the trapeze above. Pluto galloped steadily on.
One second only M. Aristide held Mignon poised in air, then he flung her
lightly across the space to M. Joachin, who as lightly caught her,
waited a second, and, as Pluto passed beneath, dropped her upon his
back. It looked fearfully dangerous; all depended upon the exact time at
which each movement was executed. The whole audience caught its breath,
but Mignon did not seem to be frightened. Her little face was quite
unruffled as the strong men tossed her to and fro, her limbs and dress
fell into graceful lines as she went through the air; it was really like
a bird's flight. Alice's hands were squeezed tightly together, she could
hardly breathe. Ah!--Pluto was an instant too late, or M. Joachin a
second too soon,--which was it? Mignon missed the saddle,--grazed it
with her foot, fell,--striking one of the wooden supports of the tent
with her head as she touched the ground. There was a universal thrill
and shudder. Mr. Currie hurried up, Pluto faltered in his pace, whinnied
and ran back to where his little mistress lay. But in one moment Mignon
was on her feet again, making her graceful courtesy and kissing her
hand, though she looked very pale. The curtain fell rapidly. Alice,
looking anxiously that way, had a vague idea that she saw Mignon drop
down again, but Aunty said, "How fortunate that that sweet little thing
was not hurt;" and Alice, being used to finding Aunty always in the
right, felt her heart lightened. They went out, following the audience,
who were all praising Mignon, and saying that it might have been a
terrible accident; and, for their part, it didn't seem right to let
children run such risks, and they were thankful that the little dear was
not injured. Many a child envied Mignon that night; many dreamed of
silver spangles, galloping steeds, roses, applause, and waked up
thinking how charming it must be to live on a horse's back with music
always playing, and exciting things going on, and people praising you!
Oh, dear! I wish I could stop here. Why should there be painful things
in the world which must be written about? That pretty courtesy, that
spring from the earth were poor Mignon's last. She had risen and bowed
with the instinct which all players feel to act out their parts to the
end, but as the curtain fell down she dropped again, this time heavily.
Mr. Currie, much frightened, lifted and carried her to his wife's tent.
The band, who were playing out the audience, stopped with a dismayed
suddenness. Goo-Goo untied his mask and hurried in. Madame Orley, who
was feeding Chimborazo with sugar, dropped the sugar on the floor and
ran too. Jerry flew for a doctor. Mignon was laid on a bed. They fanned
her, rubbed her feet, put brandy into her pale lips. But it was all of
no use. The little hands were cold, the blue-veined eyelids would not
unclose. Madame Orley and the other women riders who were clustered
beside the bed began to sob bitterly. They all loved Mignon; she was the
pet and baby of the whole circus troupe.
It was not long before the doctor came. He felt Mignon's pulse, and
tried various things, but his face was very grave.
"She's a frail little creature," he said. "No stamina to carry her
through."
"She's opening her eyes," cried Madame Orley. "She's coming to herself."
Slowly the blue eyes opened. At first she seemed not to see the anxious
countenances bent over her. Then a look of recognition crept into her
face, and a wan little smile parted the lips. She lifted one hand and
began to fumble feebly in the bosom of her frock.
"What is it, Mignon, dear?" said one of the women. It was Alice's silver
thimble that Mignon was seeking after. When it was given her she seemed
content, and lay clasping it in her hand.
Just then a strange noise came from outside. Pluto, suspecting that
something had gone wrong, had slipped his halter. A groom tried to catch
him. He snorted back and cantered away. At the door of Madame Orley's
tent he paused, put in his head and gave a long whinny.
Mignon started. The bells on her ankles tinkled a little as she moved.
"Now, Pluto"--she whispered faintly,--"steady, dear Pluto. Ah, there's
the music at last! I thought it would never begin. How sweet,--oh, how
sweet! They never made such sweet music before. I can do it now." A
smile brightened her face.
"Has she a mother?" asked the doctor.
The words caught Mignon's ear. She looked up. "Mamma," she said--"Mamma!
Did _you_ make the music?" Her head fell back, she closed her
eyes.--That was all.
"She loved music so dearly," said one of the women weeping.
"She has it now," replied the good old doctor, laying down the little
hand from which the pulse had ebbed away. "Don't cry so over her, my
good girl. She was a tender flower for such a life as this. Depend upon
it, it is better as it is. Heaven is a home-like place for such little
ones as she, and the angels' singing will be sweeter to her ears than
the music of your brass band."
[Illustration]
LADY QUEEN ANNE.
"WHERE is Annie?" demanded old Mrs. Pickens.
"I'm sure I don't know. Not far away, for I heard her voice just now
singing in the woods near the house."
"That child is always singing, always," went on Mrs. Pickens in a
melancholy voice. "What she finds to sing about in this miserable place
I cannot imagine. It's really unnatural!"
"Oh, no! mother,--not unnatural. Remember what a child she is. She
hardly remembers the old life, or misses it. The sun shines, and she
sings,--she can't help it. We ought to be glad instead of sorry that she
doesn't feel the changes as we do."
"Well, I _am_ glad," responded the old lady. "You needn't take me up so
sharply, Susan. All I say is that it seems to me _unreasonable_."
Miss Pickens glanced about the room, and suppressed a sigh. It was,
indeed, a miserable dwelling, scarcely better than a hut. Very few of
you who read this have ever seen a place so comfortless or so poor. The
roof let in rain. Through the cracked, uneven floor the ground could be
distinctly seen. A broken window-pane was stopped by an old hat thrust
into the hole. For furniture was only a rusty stove, a table, three
chairs, a few battered utensils for cooking, and a bed laid on the floor
of the inner room,--that was all. And the dwellers in this wretched
home, for which they were indebted to the charity of friends scarcely
richer than themselves, were ladies born and bred, accustomed to all the
comforts and enjoyments of life.
It was the old story,--alas! too common in these times,--the story of a
Southern family reduced to poverty by the ravages of war. Six years
before, all had been different. Then the fighting was not begun, and the
Southern Confederacy was a thing to boast over and make speeches about.
The gray uniforms were smart and new then; the volunteers eager and full
of zeal. All things went smoothly in the stately old house known to
Charleston people as the "Pickens Mansion." The cotton was regularly
harvested on the Sea Islands, and on the Beaufort plantation, which
belonged to Annie; for little Annie, too, was an heiress, with acres and
negroes of her own. War seemed an easy thing in those days, and a
glorious one. There was no lack felt anywhere; only a set of fresh and
exciting interests in lives which had always been interesting enough.
Mrs. Pickens and the other Charleston ladies scraped lint and rolled
bandages with busy fingers; but they smiled at each other as they did
so, and said that these would never be needed, there would never be any
real fighting! They stood on their balconies to cheer and applaud the
incoming regiments,--regiments of gallant young men, their own sons and
the sons of neighbors: and it was like the opening chapter of a story.
Ah! the story had run through many chapters since then, and what
different ones! The smart uniforms had lost all their gloss, blood was
upon the flags, the glory had changed to ashes; every family wore
mourning for somebody. The pleasant Charleston home, where Mrs. Pickens
had stood on the balcony to watch the gray-coated troops pass by, and
little Annie had fluttered her mite of a handkerchief, and laughed as
the gay banners danced in air, where was it? Burned to the ground; only
a sorry heap of ruin marked where once it stood. No more cotton bales
came from the Sea Islands. First one army, then the other, had swept
over the Beaufort plantation, trampling its fields into mire. It had
been seized, confiscated, retaken, re-confiscated, sold to this person
and that. Nobody knew exactly to whom it belonged nowadays; but it was
not to little Annie, rightful heiress of all. Stripped of every thing,
reduced to utter want, Mrs. Pickens and her daughter took refuge in a
lonely village, far up among the Carolina hills, where some former
friends, also ruined by the war, offered them the wretched home where
now we find them. Little Annie, sole blossom left upon the blasted tree,
went with them. It was a miserable life which they led. The pinch of
poverty is never so keenly felt as when the recollection of better days
mixes with it like a perpetual sting. All the bright hopes of six years
before were over, and the poor ladies could have said, "Behold, was ever
sorrow like unto my sorrow!" They grieved for themselves; they grieved
most of all for their beautiful little Annie, but Annie did not
grieve,--not she!
Never was a happier little maiden,--as blithe and merry in her coarse
cotton frock and bare feet as though the cotton were choicest satin. She
was as pretty too. No frock could spoil that charming little face framed
in thick chestnut curls, or hide the graceful movements which would have
made her remarkable anywhere. Her eyes, which were brown like her curls,
danced continually. Her mouth was always smiling. The dimples came and
went with every word she spoke. And, however shabby might be her dress,
she was a little lady always. No one could mistake it, who listened to
her sweet voice and prettily chosen words. The pitiful sadness of her
Grandmother, the rigid melancholy of her Aunt, passed over her as a
cloud drifts over a blue sky on a summer's day, leaving the blue
undimmed. She loved them, and was sorry when they were sorry; but God
had given her such a happy nature, that happy she must be in spite of
all. Just to be alive was pleasant enough, but there were many other
pleasant things beside. The woods were full of flowers, and Annie loved
flowers dearly. Then there were the beautiful pine forests themselves,
with their cool shades and fragrant smell. There was sunshine too, and
now and then a story, when Aunty felt brighter than usual. The negroes
in the neighborhood were all fond of little "Missy Annie." They would
catch squirrels for her, or climb for birds' eggs; and old Sambo
scarcely ever passed the hut without bringing some little gift of
flowers or nuts. There was Beppo, also, a large and handsome hound
belonging to a distant plantation, who came now and then to make Annie
visits. It was a case of pure affection on his part, for she was not
allowed to give him any thing to eat, not even a piece of corn bread,
for food was too precious with the stricken family to be shared with
dogs. But Beppo came all the same, and seemed to like to race and romp
with Annie just as well as though the entertainment had wound up with
something more substantial. Oh! there were many pleasant things to do,
Annie thought.
When Aunty went out to call her that day, she was sitting under a tree
with a lap full of yellow jessamines, which she was tying into a bunch.
As she worked she sang.
"Who are those for, Annie?" asked Miss Pickens.
"I was going to give them to Mrs. Randolph, Aunty. She came yesterday to
the camp, Juba says. I thought she'd like them."
Miss Pickens looked rigid, but she made no reply. "The Camp" was a depot
of United States supplies, established for the relief of the poor
blacks and whites of the region, and Major Randolph was the officer in
charge of it. In her great poverty, Miss Pickens had been forced to
apply with the rest of her neighbors for this aid, going every week with
a basket on her arm, and receiving the same rations of bacon and
corn-meal which the poorest negroes received. It was bitter bread; but
what can one do when one is starving? Major Randolph was sorry for the
poor lady, and kind and courteous always, but Miss Pickens could not be
grateful; he was one of the Northern invaders who had helped to crush
her hopes and that of her State, and to bring them to this extremity;
and though she took the corn-meal, she had no thanks in her heart.
"We are going to the village this afternoon, aren't we, Aunty?" went on
Annie.
"Yes, we must," replied her Aunt. "I came to tell you to get ready. And,
Annie, don't sing so loud when you are near the house. Grandmamma
doesn't like to hear it."
"Doesn't she?" said Annie wondering. "I'll try to remember, Aunty. But
sometimes I don't know when I am singing. It just sings of itself."
"Getting ready" consisted of tying on two faded, flapping sun-bonnets,
to which Miss Pickens added an old ragged India shawl, relic of past
grandeur. Annie's feet were bare, her Aunt wore army shoes made of
cow-skin, part of the Bureau supply. She was a tall, thin woman, and,
with the habit of former days, carried her head high in air as she
walked along. Little fairy Annie danced by her side, now stopping to
gather a flower, now to listen to a bird, chatting and laughing all the
way, as though she were a bird herself, and never heeding Aunty's
melancholy looks or short answers.
"Who _are_ those people?" asked Mrs. Randolph of her husband, as she
watched the odd-looking pair come along the road. "Do look, Harry. Such
a strange woman, and--I do declare, the prettiest child I ever saw in my
life. Tell me who they are?"
"Oh, that's my little pet, Annie Pickens," replied the Major. Then he
hastily told his wife the story.
"The poor ladies suffer dreadfully both in pride and in pocket, I fear,"
he added. "But Annie, bless her! she doesn't know what suffering means,
any more than if she were a bird or a squirrel. I thought you'd take a
fancy to her, Blanche; and perhaps you can think of some way to help
them. Women know how to set about such things. I'm such a clumsy fellow
that all I dared attempt was to deal out as much meal and bacon as the
Aunt could carry."
Blanche Randolph found it easy to "take a fancy" to the sweet little
creature who lifted to her such beaming eyes as she made her offering of
the yellow jessamines. "Oh, dear!" she said to herself, "how I wish she
belonged to me." She kissed and fondled her, and while Miss Pickens
transacted her business, Annie sat on Mrs. Randolph's lap and talked to
her, quite as though they were old acquaintances.
"What do you do all day, dear? Have you any one to play with?"
"Oh, yes, I have Beppo. That's Mr. Ashley's dog, you know. He runs over
to see me almost every week, and we have such nice times."
"And don't you study any lessons?" asked Mrs. Randolph.
"No, not now. I used to, but Aunty is so busy now that she says she
hasn't time to teach me. Beside, all my books were burned up."
"Come, Annie, it is time to go," said Miss Pickens, moving away, with a
curt bow to Mrs. Randolph.
Annie lingered to kiss her new friend.
"I shall pick you some fresh flowers next time we come," she said.
"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mrs. Randolph, "that is the most
_pathetically_ sweet little darling I ever saw."
"Pathetic? Why she's as happy as the day is long."
"Ah, you don't understand! That's the very reason. 'I feel to cry' over
her, as old Mauma Sally would say."
Medville was a quiet, lonely place. All the people, black and white
alike, were very poor. Nobody called to see Mrs. Randolph; there were no
parties to go to; and after a while she learned to look forward to
little Annie's visit as the pleasantest thing in the whole week. Annie
looked forward to it also. Her new friend was both kind and gay. Always
some little treat was prepared for her coming,--a book, a parcel of
cakes, or a picture-paper with gay colored illustrations. Mrs. Randolph
chose these gifts carefully, because she was afraid of offending Miss
Pickens, but Miss Pickens was not offended; she loved Annie too dearly
for that, and became almost gracious as she thanked Mrs. Randolph for
her kindness. After some time Mrs. Randolph ventured to walk out to the
cottage. What she saw there horrified her, but I can best tell what that
was by quoting a letter which she wrote about that time to her sister,
Mrs. Boyd, who was spending the summer in England:--