Martin Barton, a respectable, well looking lad, entered Mr. Daly’s
thread and needle store at the age of fourteen. He was a faultless and
enduring creature, always at his post, and serving out his appointed
time—seven years—without giving his master the least cause of complaint.
The morning of his birthday was his day of freedom, and although Mr.
Daly knew that this day must come some time or other, yet he was quite
unprepared for it. Great, therefore, would have been his sorrow, if
Martin Barton had not, in announcing that his apprenticeship was
expired, asked his consent to marry Miss Letty Daly—his only child.
Now Mr. Daly had not the least suspicion that Martin Barton had a fancy
for his daughter, for he had always considered him as a young man that
had no fancy for any thing outside the counter. Even Mrs. Daly, as
sharp-eyed as one of her needles, heard the news pretty much as he had
done—sorrow that Martin Barton’s time was up, and surprise that he
wanted to marry their daughter.
“Martin Barton in love with our Letty!—it cannot be, Mr. Daly, for to my
knowledge he has never spent an evening with her in his life.”
“I did not say he was in love with her, Mrs. Daly, I only said he wanted
our consent to marry her—so, wife, if you have no objection, I may as
well let them marry at once; business is a little slack just at present,
and he can be spared better now than in the spring.”
“Why, to be sure, husband, Martin Barton is worth his weight in gold in
such a shop as ours, and no one could supply his place if he were to
leave us; so I’ll just step back and tell Letty—oh, here she
comes—Letty, my dear, Martin Barton’s time is up, he is twenty-one this
morning, and he told your father, and your father told me, that he wants
to have you for a wife.”
“Yes, so Martin Barton told me himself,” said Miss Letty, a fine
tempered girl of eighteen, and as brisk as a bee.
“Oh, then he has spoken to you himself, has he? When did you see him?
Not this morning after church, I guess, for I saw him turn the corner
with Ira Elkado, and I saw him come back with old Hosea Bringle around
the very same corner.”
“We talked the matter over after church about a month ago; indeed we
have done all our courting in that way while coming home after church,
for Martin Barton has no time to court on week days, you know.”
“No more he has not,” said the satisfied mother, “so, husband, all we
have to do now is to get them married and pass the shop over to Martin
Barton. You and I are tired of all this hard work, so we will go to our
little farm in the country and live at our ease.” Live at their ease!!
Martin Barton expected as much, and so did Miss Letty; they were married
the following week, and before another week had expired Mr. and Mrs.
Daly bade adieu to the thread and needle store, and went into the
country _to live at their ease_!
Hosea Bringle, with whom Martin Barton had gone round the corner, was
the book keeper as long as goods were sold on credit, but as soon as it
was determined to sell for cash alone, the old man’s occupation was
gone. He was transferred to the lower end of the counter—but, alas!
Hosea Bringle was found to be a poor vender of tape and bobbin. It did
well enough when it came to a dozen of stockings or socks, but he never
could tell which thread of yarn was thick or which thin, and above all
he could not tell linen tape from cotton tape. It was plain, therefore,
that Hosea Bringle had to go.
Sigismund Sloper had entered the shop at the same time with Martin
Barton, but although he was a decent lad enough, and had been a year out
of his time, for he was fifteen when he began his service, yet Mr. Daly
had no great partiality for him. He continued on, therefore, at good
wages, till the present time, when little Jenny Hart spoke up and said
that Sigismund Sloper was not wanted any longer, as she had heard of an
excellent lad of the right age who would work better and cheaper.
Now Jenny Hart was the oracle of the shop; she likewise had been in Mr.
Daly’s employ for a term of years—three, I believe—but it was a far
different thing to see her move about and direct every thing that was
done, than when the clerks or Martin Barton did it. Clean and neat, too,
was little Jenny Hart, quick at meals and quick at work, an early riser
and a late sitter up; and such a tongue as she had, such a spirit as she
showed, such a goer and comer! In short, little Jenny Hart was the life
and soul of the establishment, and money came in so fast that the money
drawers had to be emptied every night—no credit—happy thread and needle
people were Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton.
Sigismund Sloper vowed vengeance against little Jenny Hart; for she was
a free spoken little thing, and made no scruple of speaking out her
thoughts. He was too slow and too tardy of speech for such off hand
business as theirs, and was too mulish to learn, so she fairly told him
that on the first of May—three months ahead—Ira Elkado was to take his
place. She cast many an anxious glance at old Hosea Bringle, wishing him
out of the concern too, for he was very much in her way, and it was
really hard upon her, for thus it went all day, week in and week out:
“It is three cents a yard, Hojer Bringle—(she always called him
Hojer)—this way, miss, that old gentleman does not know our private
mark, and yet he has lived in this shop seven years.” The old man
sighed, and little Jenny Hart heard him. “To be sure there is an excuse
for him, as he was always at the desk when we gave credit—nine yards and
a half?—yes, sir, stocks of all kinds, beautiful and well made—too high
a price!—oh, no indeed—will I take eighteen shillings? no, but I’ll
split the difference—Hojer Bringle, give this gentleman five
shillings—Hojer Bringle examines all the three dollar notes, sir.” And
so little Jenny Hart’s tongue run on, while she cast rueful glances at
the old man and strove to harden her heart against him.
Ira Elkado came in at one fold of the double door as Sigismund Sloper
went out at the other, and Jenny Hart laughed out in one of the
customers’ face while selling him a pair of stockings. The man looked at
his waistcoat and at his hands, and cast a glance at himself in the
glass behind the little shop girl’s head, but as nothing was amiss he
attributed it to a joyous spirit, as in reality it was. “You are merry,
Jenny Hart, this fine May morning,” said he. “I suspect you are thinking
of your lover.”
“Lover! oh, sir,” said Jenny Hart, casting a sly glance at Ira Elkado,
as he solemnly stalked behind the counter, and, as if he had been there
for years, fell to putting up a bundle of misses’ hose. “Such a lover,
too,” thought Jenny Hart, as he would make,—pretty much, however, like
Mr. Martin Barton,—and she cast her eye to the other end of the counter,
where Martin Barton stood folding up a bundle of suspenders in the very
same solemn way. Hosea Bringle, instead of taking a little girl’s penny
for two needles,—he had given her nines for sixes, the paper being
turned upside down when he looked at it,—was staring at the new clerk,
Ira Elkado.
“Put the cent in Hojer Bringle’s hand, little girl; he is thinking”—said
Jenny Hart—“here, let me stick the needles in the paper or you’ll lose
them; they are tiny little needles; are you hemming fine work, my dear?”
“No, Miss Jenny Hart, mother is making a cloak—these are sixes,” said
the child, “are they not?” So Jenny Hart had to go to the needle box and
get out No. 6, saying—“Look here, Hojer Bringle, the numbers are all at
the top; this paper, if turned up so, looks like nines; do you see now?”
Hosea Bringle sighed again, and Jenny whispered in his ear—“there are
two fine pair of ducks and a huge mess of corn salad for dinner to-day,
and I’ll have them at my side of the table and give you the _four_ legs
all to your own share, and all the stuffings out of two of them—precious
little will I give to Ira Elkado, beside the neck and rack, or may be
the drumsticks. Hosea Bringle wiped his mouth and put the needle box
nicely away, pitying Ira Elkado for the poor dinner he was to get, for
Hosea Bringle held the rack and drumsticks very cheap; while Ira Elkado
was revelling in the thoughts of owning this very thread and needle
store that day three years, with Jenny Hart for clerk and wife. No one,
to look at Ira Elkado, would ever suppose that he had an excursive
imagination, he looked so sober and acted so cautiously; but, oh! what a
turmoil and what business was going on within. He took all the company
in at a glance, and made up his mind that he would rule them all as
Jenny Hart did, and her into the bargain. So he began that very moment.
“This counter is very inconvenient, Miss Jenny Hart,” said he, striking
his foot against the bottom, “it ought to slope inward; it is very
wearisome for you to keep at such a distance from the counter. Now, if
it sloped inward—now Sigismund Sloper, he”—
Ah ha! did Ira Elkado think this was news to Jenny Hart? she had felt
the inconvenience often and often, but she counted cost, and made up her
mind that the house was old, the counter old, and time precious, so that
it was not worth while to make a new counter, and, besides, there was no
time to do it. She gave one of her peculiar stares, as if trying to
comprehend what Ira Elkado was saying.
“Sigums Sloper, did you say, Ira Elkado,—he went out as you came in; I
persuaded Mr. Martin Barton to change him for you because he was a fault
finder; I warned him, when he came, to mind the customers; the fact is,
we are such busy people that we have no time to fiddle-faddle and look
out for flaws and specks. This is your money drawer—here are four places
to drop money in—this for sixpenny pieces—this for shillings—this for
quarters, and this for half dollars. Hojer Bringle, there, changes three
dollar notes, I five, Mrs. Martin Barton ten, and Mr. Martin Barton all
larger ones. Do you recollect?—to-morrow I shall tell it to you over
again.” Oh, how small Ira Elkado felt, and how he hated Jenny Hart!
Little Jenny Hart did not tell him that she twitched the notes from
every hand first, before the others had a chance of looking at them. In
fact, she handed them to the one whose business it was to take them,
with a nod or a shake of the head, if good, or bad, for she was as wise
as a serpent about bank notes—and in what was she not wise?
Every body that went to the shop took a good look at Jenny Hart, but no
one took the least liberty with her; there she stood helping the
customers, watching Hosea Bringle, curbing Ira Elkado, keeping Martin
Barton from prosing, and relieving Mrs. Martin Barton from the most of
her labours. The worthy couple had now been married eight years, and had
but two children, twin girls, now in their seventh year, and it was odd
enough to see how they were brought up; in fact, if it had not been for
Jenny Hart they would not have been brought up at all. The shop was
opened at daylight winter and summer; Jenny Hart was the first in it,
and the last to leave it; every thing, as they said, went through her
mouth and through her hands; neither Martin Barton nor his wife had the
least concern in the world, for Jenny Hart ordered the marketing too;
and as the girl brought the market basket through the long shop, the
little body would whisk from behind the counter, lift up the cover, and
satisfy herself that all was as she ordered. Then she hired the cook,
and nurse, and maid of all work, and little Betty the waiter was of her
choosing.
“Mrs. Martin Barton, what a noise those children make,”—said Mr. Martin
Barton; “you must tell Jenny Hart that we shall have to build a room
back of the parlour, and let them range about there, for their play is
as noisy as their cries.”
Jenny Hart had just returned from quieting them, and a lady who was
buying some German worsted asked Mrs. Martin Barton how old the little
girls were.
“Let me see—how old are the two twins?”—for she always called them the
two twins, just as if they were speaking of two candles, or two pinches
of snuff—“how old are the two twins, Jenny Hart?”
“Just seven years old, Mrs. Martin Barton,” and Jenny Hart had answered
this question of the age of the two twins ever since they were a year
old. Mr. Martin Barton never knew, and Mrs. Martin Barton always forgot.
“As to building another room, Mr. Martin Barton, that will never do,”
(oh, how Ira Elkado stared to see what a sway she had!) said Jenny
Hart,—“for the back parlour is dark enough already, and we shall have
less draft through the shop, too, if we clutter up the yard; but the
twins are soon going to school; I spoke to Mrs. Playfair yesterday,—she
was buying canvass of me,—and she has promised to take good care of the
children, and for one year let them off easy—after that,” said she,
whispering in Mrs. Martin Barton’s ear—“after that, we’ll get poor old
Hojer to teach them at home, and Mrs. Armstrong will be a sort of
governess to them; for old Hojer Bringle is a dead weight in the shop.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, and she went the other side of Jenny
Hart and whispered it to Martin Barton. “Good,” said he.
“Oh, if I had only the ruling of that girl,” thought Ira Elkado, “how I
would quell her.” Just as he said this, mentally, however, Jenny Hart,
who had sold a gross of pearl buttons while the Martin Bartons were
saying “good, good,” thrust a bad shilling in his hand. “You took that
bad shilling from a boy, yesterday,” said she, “and gave it to Amy
Russel this morning; it has come back, and it must be charged to you.”
Ira Elkado put it in his pocket and gave her a good shilling; but the
moment her quick eye was directed to something else, he slipped the bad
piece of money in old Hosea Bringle’s drawer and helped himself to
another, for he did not see why he should lose it. Hosea Bringle stood
up, holding by the counter, fast asleep, and did not see it.
“That bad shilling,” said Jenny Hart, “will be known again, I’ll
warrant, for I run the file across the edge. You had better put it in
Hosea Bringle’s bad money drawer, that last slit in the corner; all the
counterfeit money goes there.” “Powers on earth!” thought Ira Elkado,
“did the little black-eyed devil see me slip the shilling in?”
No, Jenny Hart did not see him do it, but she suspected he would. She
knew that he was a capital hand to buy goods at auction, and it was for
this purpose she hired him—we may as well say she hired him, for it was
all her doings. Martin Barton had nothing to do but approve; Jenny Hart,
therefore, put up with many things from him.
“Mrs. Martin Barton,” said her husband, “what a long holiday those
children have; how noisy they are, jumping and screaming like mad
things; and old Hosea Bringle with your night cap on—only look there.”
“No, it is my cap,” said Jenny Hart, “let the poor old man play, for
once in his life; only think how long he has been nailed to this
counter. Just make a codicil to your will, Mr. Martin Barton, and give
the poor old soul one hundred dollars a year for life—I am only too glad
to get him out of the shop. By twelve to-morrow we shall have two nice
young lads—if I can only remember their names—I wish people would give
their children plain names. Oh, I forgot, Mrs. Armstrong will be in town
to-morrow; I have hired the house next door, as you told me, and here is
the lease. I paid one year’s rent, you see, in advance.”
“Good,” said Martin Barton. “Excellent,” said his wife. The back door
stood open, and happy Hosea Bringle was playing _sleep_ with the
children, while they were tickling his ears with a straw, and then he
would snap at the straw, which made the little girls shout again. “Hojer
Bringle will fall asleep in good earnest,” said Jenny Hart to a lady who
was buying hair pins of her, and in a few moments he was snoring.
“How old are your little girls?” said the lady to Mrs. Martin Barton.
“How old are the two twins?—how old are they, Jenny? I forget.”
“Ten years old, Mrs. Martin Barton; I thought I had better leave them
another year with old Mrs. Playfair, for they had been cooped up so
here, in this close place, that they were sickly like, and the good old
lady has quite freshened them up again. They have not learned much, that
is book learning, but all that will come in a few years, as Mrs.
Armstrong is a rock of learning. Ira Elkado, you are the very prince of
buyers.” The young man had just come in loaded from auction. “Oh, what
beautiful slippers—just what we wanted. Chessmen!—how many have you?
only three sets—well, I’ll take them off your hands, for we don’t sell
chessmen, you know, and I have been wanting to make a few presents.
Never buy things we are not in the habit of selling; it only confuses
us. Here is your money; pray Mr. Martin Barton charge me with fifteen
dollars—they are as cheap as dirt, Ira Elkado.” “Devil take the girl,”
thought Ira Elkado.
And so she went on, talking and acting, and letting no one get the
better of her, while the good couple did their share of labour too, for
the shop had a very great run, and customers stood three deep sometimes.
“We shall have to push the shop into the back room,” said she to Martin
Barton, “and get two more clerks—I mean two more besides those that are
coming to-morrow.” “Good,” said Martin Barton.
“I don’t hear the children’s voices any more,” said a lady to Mrs.
Martin Barton, “where are they?”
“Oh, they live next door with Mrs. Armstrong; we could not attend to
them ourselves, you know, having so much to do.”
“How old are they now, Mrs. Martin Barton.”
“How old are the two twins?—let me see—how old are they, Jenny Hart?”
“Twelve years old this month, Mrs. Martin Barton, and as fine, healthy
children as you would wish to see. Here, Alfred Gray, put up these
goods, the porter has laid them before me, and they belong to Mr. Martin
Barton’s shelves. These buttons are for the drawer, we shall retail
them. Mr. Martin Barton, to-morrow we begin to close the shop at
sundown. Alfred Gray and Jasper Merry stipulated, you know, that at the
end of two years they were only to tend shop between sunrise and
sunset.”
“Very well,” said Martin Barton, “I am glad of it. Then we may as well
all quit together, at the same hour, for the other young men have the
like privilege.”
“No,” said Jenny Hart, “Ira Elkado made no such bargain, he is to work
evenings, and as there are many bundles to pack up, he can help the
porter to”—but Jenny Hart cast those black eyes of hers to the end of
the long counter, and there stood Ira Elkado figuring away at accounts,
his auction accounts, and making all square. Her heart smote her, but
she reasoned herself out of her tender feelings, for the man had been
presumptuous and disposed to meddle, particularly with a fifth clerk, a
clever young man who had his station on the right hand of Martin Barton,
and, of course, next to her. Ira Elkado had at first longed for this
post of honour, but his having to turn buyer at auctions kept him from
having a regular station behind the counter. His place was the old spot
once occupied by Hosea Bringle, and here he had to sit perched up at a
small desk.
Oh, how these people worked; never shop had such a run; and Jenny Hart’s
fame had spread far and wide. Some people said she was beautiful, very
beautiful; far too beautiful to stand behind the counter; but others
thought that she was not so very beautiful either; only so remarkably
shrewd and good humoured. The gentlemen made business every day to get a
peep at her; and yet, after all, what was it? She had a neat, well made
figure; a pretty hand, and a small foot, with a delicate ankle. Her eyes
were like black cherries dipped in clear spring water; and her teeth
were like grains of white corn, standing out a little. She had a large,
well shaped mouth and rich red lips, with a breath like new made hay.
Her cheek bones were a little too high, and her nose a thought too
small; and her skin, the hundredth part of a shade too dark; but take
her all in all there was a something which was very piquant about her. I
forgot her voice; it was fine, clear, and musical, and such as no one
could ever forget.
“I’ll have her yet,” said Ira Elkado, as he sat watching her from the
corner of his eye. “That lad, Archy Campbell, next her, thinks he is in
a fair way to win her, but he shall eat poison first. I have wrought
hard for her, and she and this shop shall be mine. I wonder how old the
black eyed gipsy is.”
More than Ira Elkado had wondered; and had asked this question, but no
one knew. Jenny Hart was an orphan, and came early into Mr. Daly’s
family. We knew her age, however; she was just six and twenty when Ira
Elkado sat wondering.
At ten o’clock the postman brought two letters, one for Martin Barton,
and one for Mrs. Martin Barton—the first letter, really the first letter
either of them had ever received in their lives. Jenny Hart had never
read a letter, but she knew how one ought to be opened; a thing which
neither of the two owners of the shop did.
“Jenny Hart, can you tell how to open this letter?”
“Yes, surely I can; I have seen many a one opened—here, let me cut the
seals—there—they are open. This is yours, Mr. Martin Barton;—twelve
cents a dozen, Miss—and this is yours, Mrs. Martin Barton; but what is
the matter?”
The fact is, that Martin Barton was perplexed. The letter began thus:
“Dear sir, I am sorry to inform you of the death of ——,” he had got so
far when Jenny Hart, true as steel to her business, no sooner had said,
“What is the matter?” than she turned to a customer who wanted black
silk stockings. “Mr. Martin Barton, said she, please to show this
gentleman the best black silk stockings—here is a pin, stick it in the
place where you left off.” (Jenny Hart used to do so when reading a
book.)
Martin Barton stuck in the pin, laid down the letter, and sold the
stockings, while the gentleman was eyeing the pretty shop-girl. Archy
Campbell could have knocked him down; and Ira Elkado was well pleased to
see his rival vexed. Jenny Hart was indifferent to all this; turning to
Mrs. Martin Barton with, “some ladies’ gloves wanting—here, stick a pin
in the letter where you leave off; the gloves are twenty-five cents, you
know, Mrs. Martin Barton.”
“Archy Campbell,” said she, one day, “why did you look so angrily at the
gentleman who gave me the bunch of flowers yesterday? It was not like
you; and it gave me great pain; you will drive customers away if you
behave so rudely to them.”
“You know well enough, Jenny Hart, why I looked angrily; and there sits
Ira Elkado, who knows it too”—
“Carpet binding by the gross?”
“Yes, sir. Archy Campbell, show the best carpet binding,” said the
indefatigable Jenny Hart; never waiting to hear why Archy Campbell
looked so mad at the customer.
It certainly was a great relief to them all, when the shop closed at
sundown. Every one felt it a blessing but Ira Elkado; it cut him off
from two or three hours of gazing at Jenny Hart, and in regaling himself
with the thoughts of conquering this hard hearted gipsy, as he always
called her. He lay awake for hours, very often, in trying to perfect
some plan by which he could get admittance to her during the evening;
but it never came to any thing. He was one of those kind of persons
whose imaginations are fertile enough; but with physical capacities so
entirely different, that a life is spent, or dawdled away, without any
benefit to themselves or others. Had Ira Elkado been as brisk in his
motions as he was in his mind, the shop and Jenny Hart might have been
his long ago; but her good genius preserved her from a hard fate. Hard
it would have been; for Ira Elkado never ended one of his aspiring
soliloquies without grinding his teeth and promising himself great
satisfaction in scourging her, after marriage, as she had scourged him
before. Poor Jenny Hart did not mean to scourge him; it was her way of
managing people. She was shrewd, and treated them according to their
merits; but she was never unjust.
As soon as the shop was shut, and she had presided at the tea-table,
(for in the old fashioned way, the clerks always lived in the house, and
ate at the table, one after the other,) she assisted Martin Barton and
Archy Campbell in counting the money of the day; and it was a job. But
by the judicious mode of keeping the different money apart; and, oh, how
she rated the poor clerk, in whose box a sixpence was found in the
shilling department—much time was saved. Martin Barton and his wife,
good souls, went tired to bed, as soon as this was over; and then came
Jenny Hart’s holiday: then was the time to see her. Talk of her beauty
and musical voice; her bounding spirit and her grace of motion, behind
the counter; what was all that to the seeing her up in Mrs. Armstrong’s
room, with the twin sisters! Then her joyous spirit relaxed; tape,
bobbin, buttons, money, marketing, bank stock, rents—for Jenny managed
all the money concerns; and Martin Barton was now immensely rich—then
all was combed out of her head with the first brush that was put to her
fine glossy hair.
It was the signal for fun and frolic, when her light step was heard
bounding up the narrow stairs; and there stood the two girls ready to
snatch the first kiss, and to say the first word. From the time they
could hold the brush, they coveted the pleasure of combing and brushing
her hair; and the poor thing was generally so tired that she was really
glad when they were old enough to do it properly for her. So up she
came, and down she sat on the sofa; and a world of things had she to
hear from the two innocent girls; and then came the rummaging of her
apron pockets and her ample basket; and then came Mrs. Armstrong, with
her account of the progress of her pupils.
“Oh, such sweet walks as we have, dear Jenny Hart. Why can you not
sometimes go with us? it would do you so much good,” said Rona, a
beautiful black eyed girl; “you must go with us to-morrow.”
“Or, if you cannot take a walk, you can surely go with us to the museum
in the evening, now that the shop closes at sundown,” said Ida, the blue
eye, and quite as beautiful as her sister.
“Why, that is true,” said Jenny Hart, “and we can do a great deal in
that way, now that winter is coming and the evenings long.”
“Jenny Hart, dear, I want some fine cotton stockings,” said Rona. “And I
want gloves,” said Ida. “And I want a fresh supply of needles and
thread, and every thing, in short, for these little gipsies have given
away my whole stock.”
“Plenty, plenty shall you have; for plenty there is. And do you know
that you are to have a grand Christmas present? But if you guess till
morning you will not guess right; for ‘tis a present that does not often
fall to the lot of the daughters of thread and needle people. Oh, Mrs.
Armstrong, let us remember the poor, for we are growing very rich.”
The girls guessed; and Mrs. Armstrong was made to guess; but they fell
either above or below the mark; and tell, Jenny Hart would not. Then
came the little story, that one or the other read every evening. And, to
see Jenny Hart’s admiration at their progress! And then came the writing
books; and, lastly, just as the clock struck ten, came a tap at the
door, and little Betty, with her face hidden in her handkerchief,
presented to the astonished Jenny Hart _two_ letters.
“Oh, you rogues,” said the delighted little maiden—“letters from you—oh,
how nicely they are written. And I dare say they are all spelled right;
hey, Mrs. Armstrong? And how sweetly they smell of roses. I’ll show them
to your father and mother in the morning; and, if there is a chance, to
Archy Campbell.”
“And to Jasper Merry,” said black eyed Rona; “and to Alfred Gray,” said
the little blue eye. “I will, I will,” said Jenny Hart.
“And why not to Peter Squires and Ira Elkado?” said Mrs. Armstrong.
“Because,” said Jenny Hart, “I never think of Peter Squires from one
year’s end to the other. I see quite through him when he stands near me;
such a mere shadow he is. Not but that he is a faithful, honest
creature. I’ll get Mr. Martin Barton to set him up in business, one of
these days; and, as to Ira Elkado—I tell you what, Mrs. Armstrong, I go
as near to hating him as I can hate any one; and yet, poor soul, he does
me no harm. I think I’ll set him up with Peter Squires; but we cannot
spare him yet. We have not made, what I think, enough money yet. I shall
remember the museum; and, perhaps, I may bring Archy Campbell with me.”
“And Jasper Merry,” said Rona. “And Alfred Gray,” said Ida. “Yes, yes,
dears; I’ll bring them all; and so, good night—good night; and write me
such a pretty letter every day; and who knows what I’ll do when
Christmas comes?”
Christmas was indeed a day with the whole family of Martin Barton.
First, there was the great long counter, covered with squares of
table-cloths, before each clerk’s stand; and then, there was the hall
table, for the servants; and, lastly, there was the parlour, next
door—literally full of presents for the children, Mrs. Martin Barton’s
two twins; and there were the little baskets for the poor customers—I
suspect they did not pay much for needle and thread. Jenny Hart had
arranged every thing herself; and there she stood in the shop, at
sunrise, having given them all an early breakfast. With a little white
wand in her hand, she pointed to a table that stood out from the corner,
and said—
“Hosea Bringle—our oldest and our best clerk—lift up the table cover;
Martin Barton hopes you will be pleased with what is under.”
Old Hosea, who had not been in the shop for a long time, lifted up the
cover—“Oh, Jenny Hart, how kind; how excellent all these things are; and
I was wishing for this box of tools, and all this fine wire; (just as if
Jenny Hart did not know his wants) and here is fine perfumed soap, and
every thing an old man wants; and, ah ha, Miss Jenny Hart, you have
found out I have a sweet tooth, have you? (Jenny Hart had furnished him
with confectionary for twelve years,) and what’s this?—a suit of
clothes? oh, Miss Jenny Hart—and the old man wrung her hand, with his
eyes swimming; while she, the good little maiden, laughed till she
cried.
“Ira Elkado—lift up that cover,” said she, touching it with her wand.
“What can it be?” thought he; “it lies flat; I think she means to play
me a trick. I shall not touch it. Nothing can lie under that flat
cover;” so he said, “Never mind me, Jenny Hart; pass on to Mr. Archy
Campbell.”
“Well, then,” said Jenny Hart, laughing, “Archy Campbell, lift up your
parcel;” and Archy Campbell lifted up the cover; but there was nothing
but a bunch of rods and a little note. He slipped the note into his
pocket, without looking at it, reddening up to the very temples. He
likewise took up the bunch of rods, and gallantly kissed it, which made
Jenny Hart blush in return. “Devil take the impudent rascal,” said Ira
Elkado.
“You come next, Alfred Gray;” and Alfred Gray lifted up the cover, where
lay chess men and drawing materials, and perfumery, and books, and
keepsakes in plenty. A little note lay there, too; but he left all and
went near the door to read it. “Keep the contents to yourself,”
whispered Jenny Hart.
Jasper Merry’s parcel was similar to his friend’s; and the little note
caused them both to smile. Peter Squires came last; and there lay a nice
new suit of clothes for him, and a variety of very useful and pretty
articles likewise; such as a poor young man would like to have, and
could not afford to buy.
“Now you are all pleased,” said Jenny Hart, “but Ira Elkado; and why he
don’t lift up the cover I cannot tell. I must do it for him.” She lifted
up the cover, and only a little note was seen. Archy Campbell felt
injured, for he dreaded the contents of the note; but he need not have
been jealous. It ran thus:
“Mr. Ira Elkado, you have served me faithfully for seven years. I shall
want you no longer. At the corner of Joice street, you will find your
shop. I hope it will be to your liking. One year’s rent is paid. Your
friend, Martin Barton.”
Ira Elkado had nearly fainted; but, rallying, he lifted up his head to
thank Jenny Hart; but she was gone. Out he rushed to look at his shop.
He might well thank Jenny Hart, for it was all her doings. She had
persuaded Martin Barton to give the young man this outfit—a thousand
dollars’ worth. Ira Elkado made heaps of money, and died a rich man; but
he had visions of Jenny Hart to the last.
At twelve o’clock the little girls’ present was at the door; a handsome
new carriage, and a pair of excellent, gentle horses. “There’s for you,
dears,” said she, as the happy children flew to the window; “there, jump
in. After sitting in church so long you will be the better for a little
ride. Come, let us all go; Martin Barton has never been inside of a
carriage in his life; and I can scarcely remember how it is.” The whole
family—six—took a nice ride to old Mr. Daly’s, and had a fine Christmas
dinner.
“Well, young gentlemen, how did you like the contents of the notes?”
said she, the next morning. “O delightful! Most happy it made us,” said
Alfred Gray and Jasper Merry. “And the honour is deeply felt by me,”
said Archy Campbell, blushing and looking tenderly at Jenny Hart, who
said, “Pshaw.” The notes were nothing more than an invitation from Mrs.
Armstrong to go with them to the museum. From that hour every evening
was spent in Mrs. Armstrong’s parlour; and innocent they were, for the
lady was indeed, as Jenny Hart said, a rock of learning; and loved to
improve young people.
Martin Barton knew no more what was going on next door than if the
family was not his; all the day was spent behind the counter, and the
evening found them so tired that they were only fit for the bed when the
money was counted, and put in the iron chest. On Sunday they went
regularly to church, in the morning, dined, took a long nap in the
afternoon, were called up to tea, yawned while drinking it; and, after a
few vain attempts to keep awake, fairly took the candle and went to bed.
Poor tired souls; if it had not been for this one day’s rest, they never
could have gone through the week. But Jenny Hart did not tire; her
little caoutchouc frame never failed her. Her twins and herself, with
Mrs. Armstrong and old Hosea, spent almost every Sunday with Mr. and
Mrs. Daly, going with them to the village church.
Still they toiled on; the years passed—flew, it seemed; and they grew
richer and richer, until even Jenny thought they had enough; and most
judiciously had she placed the money. She had chosen her counsellor
well; honest Mr. Norton, the broker; he never deceived her for a moment;
and, as to herself, even Archy Campbell did not covet her hand more than
did Mr. Norton. He would have taken her without a cent; indeed he did
not know that she had a penny in the world; but Jenny Hart was as honest
as himself; and she settled it in her mind, long ago, that she could
never be his wife. He was true to her, however—dear Jenny Hart, who
would not be true to her?
“Take this parcel up to Mrs. Armstrong, Betty,” said Jenny Hart, one
fine morning in May, “and say, that if it suits she can keep the whole
dozen.” “Twelve for a shilling, sir; thank you.” “Knitting needles?”
“Yes, the best of steel; Alfred Gray, some of the best steel knitting
needles—A newspaper from Mr. Norton, my boy?—thank you; stop, here is a
pair of gloves for you; now run home.—You have only measured off seven
yards, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the lady asked for eight—Jasper Merry,
make that dog go out—Your’s, madam, is it?”—“well, Jasper Merry, just
put him outside of the door and shut it—Why did Mr. Norton send me the
paper?—Oh, I see—The Camperdown property is for sale, Mrs. Martin
Barton—Mr. Daly, your father wants you to buy it sadly. We rode out
there yesterday afternoon; and, really, it is a place for a prince, let
alone poor thread and needle people, like ourselves. It is very much
improved since you were there, last fall, Mrs. Martin Barton; all the
houses are finished; and now the gardens are all laid out, and the
fences and the grounds; and it looks like a little settlement already.
Four beautiful houses, all large and very roomy; and the river in front,
too. I wonder what it will bring. It is to be sold separate or together;
but I fear it is beyond our means. The property is to be sold on Monday
next.”
“I wonder how it came to be called Camperdown,” said Martin Barton. “I
had a scapegrace of a cousin, called Camperdown Barton; but for him my
old uncle Davies would have left me something handsome. Some people did
say, that this Camperdown Barton forged a will in his own favour; but I
could not believe it.”
“Mr. Barton,” said a man, entering the shop—“Martin Barton, if you
please, sir,” said Mr. Martin Barton.
“Mr. Martin Barton,” said the man, smiling, “have you any white
galloon?” “Yes.” “Alfred Gray, hand down that box of white galloon,”
said Jenny Hart.
“And where is this Camperdown Barton, now,” said Jenny Hart, when the
man had bought the galloon, and was out of the shop.
“I can hardly tell; but he was in the West Indies when I last heard of
him. He married, and had two children, and”—
“La, Mr. Martin Barton,” said his wife, “what became of my letter; I am
sure there was some mention made in it of this Camperdown Barton—I stuck
a pin in it, Jenny Hart, as you told me, at the very place; and I had no
time to finish the letter; in fact I don’t know where I put it. Do you
know, Jenny Hart?—it is many years ago.”
“Well, let me see—yes, I think I know; it is in the japan box, on the
toilet table. And what became of your letter, Mr. Martin Barton?”
“Mine, Jenny Hart? that is more than I can tell. I laid it just here;
and I stuck a pin in at where I left off, as you told me.”
“It must have been pushed aside; or perhaps it was folded up in one of
the bundles of stockings. It is gone, certainly. I trust it had nothing
of importance in it.” Jenny Hart always placed Martin Barton before the
shelves of socks and stockings, as they were the least perplexing
articles to sell.
“Here is a letter,” said Jasper Merry, “I picked it up the other day, by
Mr. Martin Barton’s feet; I think it must have fallen from that bundle
of stockings that you sent up to Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Let me see,” said Jenny Hart. She took it, and cast her eye over the
contents, while Mr. Martin Barton and his wife were plunged in tapes,
bobbins, buttons and pins. She quietly put it in her little French
pocket, and as quietly walked out of the shop. In five minutes Mr.
Norton was with her up in Mrs. Armstrong’s parlour.
“Look here,” said Jenny Hart, “just read this letter, Mr. Norton. Only
think what luck to find it as we did. Two days later, and all would have
been lost to us.” Mr. Norton was indeed surprised, for this letter
announced the death of this very cousin, and his two children—this
Camperdown Barton; and he had left all the property to his cousin,
Martin Barton, on condition that he claimed it before a certain period.
If not claimed then, it was to be sold and the money divided among some
distant relations. As Martin Barton had not claimed it—how tired I am of
always writing his name at full length; but I shall soon have done—the
property was to be sold on the following Monday, the very day the term
expired.
“There is no difficulty, then, Mr. Norton,” said Jenny Hart, “we can
claim it yet, can we? Certainly my dear Jenny Hart—he could not have
called her Jenny for the world, nor could I—so send Martin Barton to me.
Can you tell why he chose to be called Martin Barton?—‘tis so tiresome.”
“Why, this very Camperdown Barton was the cause; he was a bad character
even when very young, and our Martin Barton kept the two names together,
that he might not be taken for his cousin. I only heard all this this
morning, for we have been always too busy to talk of such matters. I
think that Mrs. Martin Barton is even more particular on this point than
he is. But, oh, Mr. Norton, don’t our dear little girls grow finely?”
“Little girls indeed! why they are young women, taller than yourself,
Jenny Hart; but they don’t eclipse you yet; you are as pretty and good
as ever, hard-hearted girl that you are; but I claim the promise of
giving you away,” said the kind old bachelor, seeing Jenny Hart shy off.
“Good morning, then, if you must go; but this shop business will kill
you; you work too hard.”
“Never fear,” said she, and down she tripped, pitying Mr. Norton for his
hopeless love, although he was now quite resigned to it; and
congratulating Martin Barton on this handsome accession of property. Of
course, every thing was properly done, and to the entire satisfaction of
every one but the poor folks, who were on the point of getting the
money. This Camperdown Barton had, in reality, secreted the will of
their uncle; but on the death of his children he repented, and restored
as much of the property as was left to the true owner.
But oh, what a plot Jenny Hart had in hand—her first plot and her last.
She had acquainted Martin Barton and his wife, with the affection that
was growing up between their daughters and the two excellent young
clerks, Jasper Merry and Alfred Gray; and the good couple were very well
content. The acme of bliss was to stand day in and day out, in the
thread and needle shop, eat their three nice meals, count out their five
long boxes of copper and silver and bank notes, rock themselves for a
quarter of an hour in their high backed rocking chairs, and go lovingly
to bed as innocent and happy as their “two” twins.
For one month did Jenny Hart toil as no woman ever did toil; for she had
all sorts of work people to superintend, and all sorts of secrets to
keep; and above all she had to repress Archy Campbell’s highly excited
feelings, for he was as far as ever from coming to any understanding
with her. Well, all was ready—the first of June came; Archy had been
told in a quiet kind of way, that he was to be bride’s man to his two
young companions; and that he must be ready at a minute’s warning, and
to go on as if nothing was to happen, particularly on this their last
day in the shop.
The last day came—the first of June, and the shop was unusually full;
for quietly as Jenny Hart managed every thing, still something had
leaked out, and as she was the most conspicuous person, the secret was
attached to her. It was conjectured, that she was either to be married
to Mr. Norton or to Archy Campbell, and in either case she would
disappear from public eyes.
It will be a great loss to the shop when she goes, said one; a public
loss said another; Jenny Hart ought never to marry said a young
gentleman; for half the pleasure in life we young fellows have, is to
get a look at her and hear her musical voice, so modest and so arch and
gay as she is too. I have a great mind to choke old Norton, and shoot
this Archy Campbell; and there he stands, looking as if no happiness
awaited him. I think it must be old Norton after all; for no man could
look so grave on the eve of marrying such a peerless creature as this
Jenny Hart. Young and old caught a whisper of the news, but no one dared
to banter her; in fact, there was no chance, she was so busy.
Tired and fagged they all were that day; and if you had looked down
behind the counter, you would have seen Martin Barton, the much enduring
creature, standing on one foot to rest the other. His wife had told him
to do it years ago; and so, whenever he saw her standing on one foot,
which was generally every Saturday, he thought it was high time to do
the same. This day poor Jenny Hart did complain of fatigue, the first
time Archy Campbell had ever heard her complain of any thing. “Are you
tired, Jenny Hart?” said Martin Barton, “how sorry I am.” “Tired, are
you?” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “stand on one foot as we do Jenny Hart,
that will rest the other.” “Stand on one foot,” said Jenny Hart,
laughing, “I have not a foot left to stand upon.”
“Oh, what a beautiful bunch of flowers,” said a lady, “where did they
come from, and whom are they for?”
“They came from our new place Camperdown,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “and
they are for our two twins to-morrow.”—Jenny Hart pushed her.
“Ah! true,” said the lady, “I recollect you have twins; how old are
they?”
“How old? let me see,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, who really had known the
night before; but Jenny’s push had bewildered her—she was afraid that to
tell their age, would be to tell the secret. “How old are they Jenny
Hart?”
“Just seventeen, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the sun is down, you see. We
shut up shop now at sundown,” said Mr. Martin Barton. Seeing that many
of the customers lingered—we are going to the—Jenny gave him a push.
“What ails them both to tell things now,” thought she, “just at this
present moment, and never before?”
Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their tea, the boxes were
brought in and the money counted; Archy Campbell put all in the strong
box and disappeared. Jenny Hart,—a thing of late years, quite unusual,
set herself down in a chair, and seemed as if she were going to spend
the evening in the little back room.
“I have something to say to you my good kind friends,” said she at last,
“something that I fear will give you pain; and I have also a favour to
beg of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in granting.”
“Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton,
“for I am so sleepy and tired, that I cannot even listen.”
“Just stop one moment,” said she, as Mrs. Martin Barton was pulling her
husband by the sleeve to go, she having the candlestick in her hand.
“You are going with us to Camperdown to-morrow,” said he, “and you can
come in our carriage, and tell us all about it. Poor thing, see how
tired she is;” and he looked down, and saw Mrs. Martin Barton on one
foot.
“Going with you,” said Jenny Hart, her lip quivering, “yes, just for
to-morrow; but you’ll see then—you’ll see. But go to bed, for I fear
that what I have to say, will rob you of sleep.”
“Oh, no,” said Martin Barton, “nothing can keep two such tired souls
awake, so say out and have done with it. You see that even poor tired
Letty is broad awake, has let go my sleeve, and has put down the
candlestick.”
“Well, to be sure,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “a change has come over
you. I have not heard you call me Letty this many a day. Speak out Jenny
Hart.”
“I won’t detain you long,” said Jenny, rising as she spoke, and going
near her friends, “We have taken an account of stock you know—and my
wages for the last fourteen years, untouched you know, is about equal to
the amount of goods. I want you to let Archy Campbell have the goods and
the shop, and your good will—and—poor Jenny Hart in the bargain. Archy
Campbell has saved money too; will you give your consent?”
“No,” thundered out Martin Barton, wide awake, “that I won’t. The goods
he may have for nothing, the shop he may have for nothing, and our best
good will he may have; but as to your leaving us—no, never. Oh, Jenny
Hart, Jenny Hart, can you bear to leave us? You may well cry and take on
so, Letty; why it is impossible, Jenny Hart—we could not stand it.”
“Oh, Jenny Hart, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, wide awake
now, falling on the afflicted little maiden’s neck, and trembling like a
leaf—“don’t leave us, we shall both die if you think of leaving us.
Martin Barton, don’t let us go to Camperdown—that is, to live there, I
mean. If she will stay, let us remain and keep shop for her as she has
done for us.”
“Good heaven,” thought Jenny Hart, almost fainting with emotion, “could
I have believed that under this untiring money-making spirit there was
so much of deep feeling?—and for me too! But I cannot give up Archy
Campbell; he has wrought hard for me. If I go with them I must give him
up, and that I find I cannot do.”
“There is no sleep for us to-night, Jenny”—seeing her hesitate—“how much
did you say we were now worth?”
“Why, Archy Campbell was just whispering to me as he went out that you
were now worth half a million of dollars, besides the large Camperdown
property. He has been hard at work with Mr. Norton for the last week.”
“Half a million!” said Mrs. Martin Barton; “well, it is really time to
leave off selling thread and needles.”
“Yes, a good half million,” said the little shopwoman exultingly. Martin
Barton whispered to his wife, and she wiped her tearful eyes, and
laughed out aloud. “Excellent,” said she,—“ah, Jenny, you have had your
day, now we’ll have ours; it is all settled, Jenny Hart, we have settled
it all, and now I am getting sleepy again—so, good night.”
What did Jenny do when the good couple left her? why she sent little
Betty for Archy Campbell, and when he came in she pointed to a chair.
“Archy Campbell,” said she, “I have never told you that this was the
last day that Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton were to be in the shop. They
have left it entirely, and—and—it is yours—all yours, goods, shop, and
all.”
“And _you_, Jenny Hart,” said the young man, rising and standing before
her, trembling with emotion.
“I,” said she, rising also, and stepping to the door of the entry which
led to the next house,—“I, why I am going to Camperdown with the
family.” (Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny Hart, how could you torment the young
man in this way?)
“Then the devil take the goods, the shop, and all,” said he, putting on
his hat. “They may look out for another bridesman to-morrow, and so I
will tell the young man. I had hoped that in time”—
“They _are_ going to look out for another bridesman in your place,” said
the provoking girl, breaking her heart, too, to see him so unhappy.
“They went to see one of their friends an hour ago, and I am to have the
two sweet girls for my bridesmaids, and you are to have both Jasper
Merry and Alfred Gray for your bridesmen; so get yourself ready and”—
“Jenny, dearest Jenny,” said he, approaching her, almost beside himself
through hopes and fears, “are you in earnest? am I at last”—and he that
had never wept since he left his mother, now covered his face and wept
aloud.
“Archy Campbell, I did not think you would be so greatly affected. Oh,
how I have underrated every body! what a world we live in, myself the
poorest in it. Here is my hand, dear Archy Campbell; it is so long since
I gave you my heart that I forget I ever had one.”
One embrace and the lovers parted; she tripped up, frightened to death
at what she had done, and he threw his hat to the farthest end of the
room in a transport of joy.
So the carriages came to the door, and then first stepped in Mr. and
Mrs. Martin Barton, Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Norton, (they were married
that day six months, and I was at the wedding,) and little Betty, who
sat down between Martin Barton’s feet. Then, in the second carriage,
stepped Rona, Jasper Merry, Ida, and Alfred Gray; then went Archy
Campbell—no, I ought rather to say, then went Jenny Hart and Archy
Campbell; he felt too deeply to wish for any other person near him at
that moment but his own darling, Jenny Hart—let me call her so a little
longer;—and, lastly, went the bridesmaids and bridesmen, who rattled
away, and were the first to get at the church door to help the party
out.
There had been great altercation the morning before as to who should be
married first, but Jenny Hart did not conquer this time. They all coaxed
and threatened, and at last she had to consent, to save time, she said.
“I would not give up now, my dear girls, but I feel as if the poor shop
girl”—
“Hold your tongue, Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “you are not a
poor”—
Martin Barton gave her a push. Then came the dispute as to which of the
twins should stand up first, for Mrs. Martin Barton had forgotten which
was the oldest; there was only half an hour’s difference, however. Jenny
Hart settled that by saying, that, as Jasper Merry was older than Alfred
Gray, his bride should take the precedence—and all was settled.
So Jenny Hart, and her manly, handsome lover, Archy Campbell, were
married first—and there had like to have been no one else married, there
was so much kissing and crying; but the ceremonies proceeded, and the
clergyman said he had never married three such lovely couples before. He
had five little notes in his hand as the carriages drove off; it was a
surprise to the poor clergyman, for each paper contained a hundred
dollar note—even Mr. Martin Barton and Mr. Norton made the clergyman a
present. But—half a million!
Away the carriages flew—five miles to Camperdown—and there, looking
quite young and handsome, stood good Mr. and Mrs. Daly, waiting to bless
them all, and to tell them that dinner was ready.
The table—two tables, I should say, were set out, and people may believe
it or not as they choose, but, though every delicacy was on them, there
was neither decanter nor wine glass. Temperance was their motto; it was
by temperance in all things that these thread and needle people made
themselves rich and happy.
The dinner was all one happy confusion; and, if Hosea Bringle had not
solaced himself with a good luncheon, beforehand, he would have risen
from the table with but a poor account of delicacies eaten—he was
impelled on by the tide of joyful faces, to follow, as they left the
house to take possession of their future homes.
Archy Campbell, with Jenny hanging on his arm, (good reader, let me go
back again, and call her Jenny Hart.) Archy Campbell, with dear Jenny
Hart hanging on his arm; walked slowly forward; his heart was too full
to be gay; his happiness was too new; his gratitude too deep, to know
what was passing; and his bride, letting in a flood of new feelings, was
pondering and wondering to see the quiet, yet alert, shopman, who, for
fifteen years, had frittered away the minutes in selling pennyworths of
tape and needles, transformed into a man of great elevation of soul, and
deep, tender feeling. “And this man is my husband,” said she, casting
her eyes up to his handsome countenance, which was all radiant with joy
as her eye met his.
First they installed Rona in her house. Every thing that heart could
wish was there, down to the minutest thing; and beautiful every thing
was; for dear Jenny—see, reader, I have dropped the other name—had an
exquisite taste. And then, Ida took possession of her home, exactly like
her sister’s, in point of beauty and completeness; but different only in
fancy. Then Mrs. Armstrong was taken to her house; every thing complete,
like the other two, only the furniture a thought more grave. Then the
whole flock proceeded to the fourth house—it was the one for the father
and mother—good, honest Martin Barton and his wife; this also was a
model of comfort and beauty. The whole party stood on the steps and
under the portico.
“Step in Jenny Hart—dear Jenny Campbell, now”—said Martin Barton, “step
in, Archy Campbell; I have made up my mind to one thing; and that is,
that I cannot let you have the thread and needle store; I have made it
all over to Peter Squire and Jacob Teller.”—Jacob Teller was the fifth
clerk.
Jenny turned pale and Archy red—“Come this way, Hosea Bringle,” said old
Mr. Daly, “don’t go to cry, man, you’ll hear all presently—come, son and
daughter, make haste, it is getting late.”
“Jenny Hart, my own Jenny,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, drying her eyes,
“this house, and all in it, is yours; and here comes Mr. Norton, to make
over to you one-fifth of the money you helped us to make. What, did you
think we could bear to see you toil, and toil again, as you have done;
and Archy Campbell, too—so in with you.” And in they went, with hearts
too full to thank their friends.
There was, indeed, plenty of room at Mr. Daly’s for Martin Barton and
his wife, and little Betty and all; and, as to Hosea Bringle, he was a
fixture there. Mrs. Armstrong, as I said, did not live alone long, in
her handsome house.
And now, gentle reader, I must leave off. But would you not like to hear
more of our dear Jenny—how she managed her house and her gardens, and
the poor people in the neighbourhood—and how her husband idolized her;
and how all the old customers, rich and poor, came to see her, and
partake of her hospitalities. Only let me know, and I will tell you more
of her, and how Hosea Bringle read to the four innocent people every
evening, either some good book or other; or in the Arabian Nights; and
how they blended the genii that wanted to kill the merchant, with the
giant in Pilgrim’s Progress. And how the old man sat whittling with a
penknife, making weathercocks for the stables; and, finally, little
go-carts, and little wheelbarrows, and little rakes, for the young
family that was fast rising up around him. They could not come too fast
for old Hosea Bringle. And then, how easy it came to Martin Barton to
take care of a garden; working as hard at it as he did in his thread and
needle store. Only encourage me, and I will write on; or drop a line in
the Evening Star, and the American, of New York, and my pen will soon be
set going again.