Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Promise that I may make the flowers you wear on your
wedding-day," whispered Lizzie, kissing the kind hand held out to help
her rise--PAGE 85.]
[Illustration: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN OMNIBUS.--_Page_ 187.]
AUNT JO's SCRAP-BAG.
MY GIRLS, ETC.
[Illustration: Scrap Bag Vol. IV]
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
"HOSPITAL SKETCHES," "EIGHT COUSINS," ETC.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1878.
_Copyright,_
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
1877.
_Cambridge:
Press of John Wilson & Son._
CONTENTS.
I. My Girls
II. Lost in a London Fog
III. The Boys' Joke, and who got the best of it
IV. Roses and Forget-me-nots
V. Old Major
VI. What the Girls did
VII. Little Neighbors
VIII. Marjorie's Three Gifts
IX. Patty's Place
X. The Autobiography of an Omnibus
XI. Red Tulips
XII. A Happy Birthday
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG.
I.
MY GIRLS.
Once upon a time I wrote a little account of some of the agreeable boys
I had known, whereupon the damsels reproached me with partiality, and
begged me to write about them. I owned the soft impeachment, and
promised that I would not forget them if I could find any thing worth
recording.
That was six years ago, and since then I have been studying girls
whenever I had an opportunity, and have been both pleased and surprised
to see how much they are doing for themselves now that their day has
come.
Poor girls always had my sympathy and respect, for necessity soon makes
brave women of them if they have any strength or talent in them; but
the well-to-do girls usually seemed to me like pretty butterflies,
leading easy, aimless lives when the world was full of work which ought
to be done.
Making a call in New York, I got a little lesson, which caused me to
change my opinion, and further investigation proved that the rising
generation was wide awake, and bound to use the new freedom well.
Several young girls, handsomely dressed, were in the room, and I
thought, of course, that they belonged to the butterfly species; but on
asking one of them what she was about now school was over, I was much
amazed to hear her reply, "I am reading law with my uncle." Another
said, "I am studying medicine;" a third, "I devote myself to music,"
and the fourth was giving time, money, and heart to some of the best
charities of the great city.
So my pretty butterflies proved to be industrious bees, making real
honey, and I shook hands with sincere respect, though they did wear
jaunty hats; my good opinion being much increased by the fact that not
one was silly enough to ask for an autograph.
Since then I have talked with many girls, finding nearly all intent on
some noble end, and as some of them have already won the battle, it may
be cheering to those still in the thick of the fight, or just putting
on their armor, to hear how these sisters prospered in their different
ways.
Several of them are girls no longer; but as they are still unmarried, I
like to call them by their old name, because they are so young at
heart, and have so beautifully fulfilled the promise of their youth,
not only by doing, but being excellent and admirable women.
A is one in whom I take especial pride. Well-born, pretty, and bright,
she, after a year or two of society, felt the need of something more
satisfactory, and, following her taste, decided to study medicine.
Fortunately she had a father who did not think marriage the only thing
a woman was created for, but was ready to help his daughter in the work
she had chosen, merely desiring her to study as faithfully and
thoroughly as a man, if she undertook the profession that she might be
an honor to it. A was in earnest, and studied four years, visiting the
hospitals of London, Paris, and Prussia; being able to command private
lessons when the doors of public institutions were shut in her face
because she was a woman. More study and work at home, and then she had
the right to accept the post of resident physician in a hospital for
women. Here she was so successful that her outside practice increased
rapidly, and she left the hospital to devote herself to patients of all
sorts, beloved and valued for the womanly sympathy and cheerfulness
that went hand in hand with the physician's skill and courage.
When I see this woman, young still, yet so independent, successful, and
contented, I am very proud of her; not only because she has her own
house, with a little adopted daughter to make it home-like, her
well-earned reputation, and a handsome income, but because she has so
quietly and persistently carried out the plan of her life, undaunted by
prejudice, hard work, or the solitary lot she chose. She may well be
satisfied; for few women receive so much love and confidence, few
mothers have so many children to care for, few physicians are more
heartily welcomed and trusted, few men lead a freer, nobler life, than
this happy woman, who lives for others and never thinks of any fame but
that which is the best worth having, a place in the hearts of all who
know her.
B is another of my successful girls; but her task has been a harder one
than A's, because she was as poor as she was ambitious. B is an
artist, loving beauty more than any thing else in the world; ready to
go cold and hungry, shabby and lonely, if she can only see, study, and
try to create the loveliness she worships. It was so even as a child;
for flowers and fairies grew on her slate when she should have been
doing sums, painted birds and butterflies perched on her book-covers,
Flaxman's designs, and familiar faces appeared on the walls of her
little room, and clay gods and goddesses were set upon the rough altar
of her moulding board, to be toiled over and adored till they were
smashed in the "divine despair" all true artists feel.
But winged things will fly sooner or later, and patient waiting,
persistent effort, only give sweetness to the song and strength to the
flight when the door of the cage opens at last. So, after years of
hard work with pencil and crayon, plaster and clay, oil and water
colors, the happy hour came for B when the dream of her life was
realized; for one fine spring day, with a thousand dollars in her
pocket and a little trunk holding more art materials than clothes, she
sailed away, alone, but brave and beaming, for a year in England.
She knew now what she wanted and where to find it, and "a heavenly
year" followed, though to many it would have seemed a very dull one.
All day and every day but the seventh was spent in the National
Gallery, copying Turner's pictures in oil and water colors. So busy,
so happy, so wrapt up in delightsome work, that food and sleep seemed
impertinencies, friends were forgotten, pleasuring had no charms,
society no claims, and life was one joyful progress from the blue
Giudecca to the golden Sol de Venezia, or the red glow of the old
Temeraire. "Van Tromp entering the mouth of the Texel" was more
interesting to her than any political event transpiring in the world
without; ancient Rome eclipsed modern London, and the roar of a great
city could not disturb the "Datur Hora Quieti" which softly grew into
beauty under her happy brush.
A spring-tide trip to Stratford, Warwick, and Kenilworth was the only
holiday she allowed herself; and even this was turned to profit; for,
lodging cheaply at the Shakespearian baker's, she roamed about,
portfolio in hand, booking every lovely bit she saw, regardless of sun
or rain, and bringing away a pictorial diary of that week's trip which
charmed those who beheld it, and put money in her purse.
When the year was out, home came the artist, with half her little
fortune still unspent, and the one trunk nearly as empty as it went,
but there were two great boxes of pictures, and a golden saint in a
coffin five feet long, which caused much interest at the Custom House,
but was passed duty-free after its owner had displayed it with
enthusiastic explanations of its charms.
"They are only attempts and studies, you know, and I dare say you'll
all laugh at them; but I feel that I _can_ in time _do_ something, so
my year has not been wasted," said the modest damsel, as she set forth
her work, glorifying all the house with Venetian color, English
verdure, and, what was better still, the sunshine of a happy heart.
But to B's great surprise and delight, people did not laugh; they
praised and bought, and ordered more, till, before she knew it, several
thousand dollars were at her command, and the way clear to the
artist-life she loved.
To some who watched her, the sweetest picture she created was the free
art-school which B opened in a very humble way; giving her books,
copies, casts, time, and teaching to all who cared to come. For with
her, as with most who _earn_ their good things, the generous desire to
share them with others is so strong it is sure to blossom out in some
way, blessing as it has been blessed. Slowly, but surely, success
comes to the patient worker, and B, being again abroad for more
lessons, paints one day a little still life study so well that her
master says she "does him honor," and her mates advise her to send it
to the Salon. Never dreaming that it will be accepted, B, for the joke
of it, puts her study in a plain frame, and sends it, with the eight
thousand others, only two thousand of which are received.
To her amazement the little picture is accepted, hung "on the line" and
noticed in the report. Nor is that all, the Committee asked leave to
exhibit it at another place, and desired an autobiographical sketch of
the artist. A more deeply gratified young woman it would be hard to
find than B, as she now plans the studio she is to open soon, and the
happy independent life she hopes to lead in it, for she has earned her
place, and, after years of earnest labor, is about to enter in and
joyfully possess it.
There was C,--alas, that I must write _was_! beautiful, gifted, young,
and full of the lovely possibilities which give some girls such an
indescribable charm. Placed where it would have been natural for her
to have made herself a young queen of society, she preferred something
infinitely better, and so quietly devoted herself to the chosen work
that very few guessed she had any.
I had known her for some years before I found it out, and then only by
accident; but I never shall forget the impression it made upon me. I
had called to get a book, and something led me to speak of the sad case
of a poor girl lately made known to me, when C, with a sudden
brightening of her whole face, said, warmly, "I wish I had known it, I
could have helped her."
"You? what can a happy creature like you know about such things?" I
answered, surprised.
"That is my work." And in a few words which went to my heart, the
beautiful girl, sitting in her own pretty room, told me how, for a long
time, she and others had stepped out of their safe, sunshiny homes to
help and save the most forlorn of our sister women. So quietly, so
tenderly, that only those saved knew who did it, and such loyal silence
kept, that, even among the friends, the names of these unfortunates
were not given, that the after life might be untroubled by even a look
of reproach or recognition.
"Do not speak of this," she said. "Not that I am ashamed; but we are
able to work better in a private way, and want no thanks for what we
do."
I kept silence till her share of the womanly labor of love, so
delicately, dutifully done, was over. But I never saw that sweet face
afterward without thinking how like an angel's it must have seemed to
those who sat in darkness till she came to lift them up.
Always simply dressed, this young sister of charity went about her
chosen task when others of her age and position were at play; happy in
it, and unconsciously preaching a little sermon by her lovely life.
Another girl, who spent her days reading novels and eating
confectionery, said to me, in speaking of C,--
"Why doesn't she dress more? She is rich enough, and so handsome I
should think she would."
Taking up the reports of several charities which lay on my table, I
pointed to C's name among the generous givers, saying,--
"Perhaps _that_ is the reason;" and my visitor went away with a new
idea of economy in her frivolous head, a sincere respect for the
beautiful girl who wore the plain suit and loved her neighbor better
than herself.
A short life; but one so full of sweetness that all the bitter waters
of the pitiless sea cannot wash its memory away, and I am sure that
white soul won heaven sooner for the grateful prayers of those whom she
had rescued from a blacker ocean.
D was one of a large family all taught at home, and all of a dramatic
turn; so, with a witty father to write the plays, an indulgent mother
to yield up her house to destruction, five boys and seven girls for the
_corps dramatique_, it is not to be wondered at that D set her heart on
being an actress.
Having had the honor to play the immortal Pillicoddy on that famous
stage, I know whereof I write, and what glorious times that little
company of brothers and sisters had safe at home. But D burned for a
larger field, and at length found a chance to appear on the real boards
with several of her sisters. Being very small and youthful in
appearance they played children's parts, fairies in spectacles and
soubrettes in farce or vaudeville. Once D had a benefit, and it was a
pretty sight to see the long list of familiar names on the bill; for
the brothers and sisters all turned out and made a jolly play of
"Parents and Guardians," as well as a memorable sensation in the
"Imitations" which they gave.
One would think that the innocent little girls might have come to harm
singing in the chorus of operas, dancing as peasants, or playing "Nan
the good-for-nothing." But the small women were so dignified,
well-mannered, and intent on their duties that no harm befell them.
Father and brothers watched over them; there were few temptations for
girls who made "Mother" their confidante, and a happy home was a safe
refuge from the unavoidable annoyances to which all actresses are
exposed.
D tried the life, found it wanting, left it, and put her experiences
into a clever little book, then turned to less pleasant but more
profitable work. The father, holding a public office, was allowed two
clerks; but, finding that his clear-headed daughter could do the work
of both easily and well, gave her the place, and she earned her
thousand a year, going to her daily duty looking like a school girl;
while her brain was busy with figures and statistics which would have
puzzled many older heads.
This she did for years, faithfully earning her salary, and meanwhile
playing her part in the domestic drama; for real tragedy and comedy
came into it as time went on; the sisters married or died, brothers won
their way up, and more than one Infant Phenomenon appeared on the
household stage.
But through all changes my good D was still "leading lady," and now,
when the mother is gone, the other birds all flown, she remains in the
once overflowing nest, the stay and comfort of her father, unspoiled by
either poverty or wealth, unsaddened by much sorrow, unsoured by
spinsterhood. A wise and witty little woman, and a happy one too,
though the curly locks are turning gray; for the three Christian
graces, faith, hope, and charity, abide with her to the end.
Of E I know too little to do justice to her success; but as it has been
an unusual one, I cannot resist giving her a place here, although I
never saw her, and much regret that now I never can, since she has gone
to plead her own cause before the wise Judge of all.
Her story was told me by a friend, and made so strong an impression
upon me that I wrote down the facts while they were fresh in my mind.
A few words, added since her death, finish the too brief record of her
brave life.
At fourteen, E began to read law with a legal friend. At eighteen she
began to practise, and did so well that this friend offered her half
his business, which was very large. But she preferred to stand alone,
and in two years had a hundred cases of all sorts in different courts,
and never lost one.
In a certain court-room, where she was the only woman present, her
bearing was so full of dignity that every one treated her with respect.
Her opponent, a shrewd old lawyer, made many sharp or impertinent
remarks, hoping to anger her and make her damage her cause by some loss
of self-control. But she merely looked at him with such a wise, calm
smile, and answered with such unexpected wit and wisdom, that the man
was worsted and young Portia won her suit, to the great satisfaction of
the spectators, men though they were.
She used to say that her success was owing to hard work,--too hard, I
fear, if she often studied eighteen hours a day. She asked no help or
patronage, only fair play, and one cannot but regret that it ever was
denied a creature who so womanfully proved her claim to it.
A friend says, "she was a royal girl, and did all her work in a royal
way. She broke down suddenly, just as she had passed the last hostile
outpost; just as she had begun to taste the ineffable sweetness of
peace and rest, following a relative life-time of battle and toil."
But, short as her career has been, not one brave effort is wasted,
since she has cleared the way for those who come after her, and proved
that women have not only the right but the ability to sit upon the
bench as well as stand at the bar of justice.
Last, but by no means least, is F, because her success is the most
wonderful of all, since every thing was against her from the first, as
you will see when I tell her little story.
Seven or eight years ago, a brave woman went down into Virginia with a
friend, and built a school-house for the freed people, who were utterly
forlorn; because, though the great gift of liberty was theirs, it was
so new and strange they hardly understood how to use it. These good
women showed them, and among the first twenty children who began the
school, which now has hundreds of pupils, white as well as black, came
little F.
Ignorant, ragged and wild, yet with such an earnest, resolute face that
she attracted the attention of her teachers at once, and her eagerness
to learn touched their hearts; for it was a hard fight with her to get
an education, because she could only be spared now and then from
corn-planting, pulling fodder, toting water, oyster-shucking or
grubbing the new land.
She must have made good use of those "odd days," for she was among the
first dozen who earned a pictorial pocket-handkerchief for learning the
multiplication table, and a proud child was F when she bore home the
prize. Rapidly the patient little fingers learned to write on the
first slate she ever saw, and her whole heart went into the task of
reading the books which opened a new world to her.
The instinct of progression was as strong in her as the love of light
in a plant, and when the stone was lifted away, she sprang up and grew
vigorously.
At last the chance to go North and earn something, which all freed
people desire, came to F; and in spite of many obstacles she made the
most of it. At the very outset she had to fight for a place in the
steamer, since the captain objected to her being admitted to the cabin
on account of her color; though any lady could take her black maid in
without any trouble. But the friend with whom she travelled insisted
on F's rights, and won them by declaring that if the child was
condemned to pass the night on deck, she would pass it with her.
F watched the contest with breathless interest, as well she might; for
this was her first glimpse of the world outside the narrow circle where
her fourteen years had been spent. Poor little girl! there seemed to
be no place for her anywhere; and I cannot help wondering what her
thoughts were, as she sat alone in the night, shut out from among her
kind for no fault but the color of her skin.
What could she think of "white folks" religion, intelligence, and
courtesy? Fortunately she had one staunch friend beside her to keep
her faith in human justice alive, and win a little place for her among
her fellow beings. The captain for very shame consented at last, and F
felt that she was truly free when she stepped out of the lonely
darkness of the night into the light and shelter of the cabin, a
harmless little girl, asking only a place to lay her head.
That was the first experience, and it made a deep impression on her;
but those that followed were pleasanter, for nowhere in the free North
was she refused her share of room in God's world.
I saw her in New York, and even before I learned her story I was
attracted to the quiet, tidy, door-girl by the fact that she was always
studying as she sat in the noisy hall of a great boarding-house,
keeping her books under her chair and poring over them at every leisure
moment. Kindly people, touched by her patient efforts, helped her
along; and one of the prettiest sights I saw in the big city was a
little white girl taking time from her own sports to sit on the stairs
and hear F recite. I think Bijou Heron will never play a sweeter part
than that, nor have a more enthusiastic admirer than F was when we went
together to see the child-actress play "The Little Treasure" for
charity.
To those who know F it seems as if a sort of miracle had been wrought,
to change in so short a time a forlorn little Topsy into this
intelligent, independent, ambitious girl, who not only supports and
educates herself, but sends a part of her earnings home, and writes
such good letters to her mates that they are read aloud in school.
Here is a paragraph from one which was a part of the Christmas festival
last year:--
"I have now seen what a great advantage it is to have an education. I
begin to feel the good of the little I know, and I am trying hard every
day to add more to it. Most every child up here from ten to twelve
years old can read and write, colored as well as white. And if you
were up here, I think you would be surprised to see such little bits of
children going to school with their arms full of books. I do hope you
will all learn as much as you can; for an Education is a great thing."
I wonder how many white girls of sixteen would do any better, if as
well, as this resolute F, bravely making her way against fate and
fortune, toward the useful, happy womanhood we all desire. I know she
will find friends, and I trust that if she ever knocks at the door of
any college, asking her sisters to let her in, they will not disgrace
themselves by turning their backs upon her; but prove themselves worthy
of their blessings, by showing them Christian gentlewomen.
Here are my six girls; doctor, artist, philanthropist, actress, lawyer,
and freed woman; only a few among the hundreds who work and win, and
receive their reward, seen of men or only known to God. Perhaps some
other girl reading of these may take heart again, and travel on cheered
by their example; for the knowledge of what has been done often proves
wonderfully inspiring to those who long to do.
I felt this strongly when I went to a Woman's Congress not long ago;
for on the stage was a noble array of successful women, making the
noblest use of their talents in discussing all the questions which
should interest and educate their sex. I was particularly proud of the
senators from Massachusetts, and, looking about the crowded house to
see how the audience stirred and glowed under their inspiring words, I
saw a good omen for the future.
Down below were grown people, many women, and a few men; but up in the
gallery, like a garland of flowers, a circle of girlish faces looked
down eager-eyed; listening, with quick smiles and tears, to the wit or
eloquence of those who spoke, dropping their school books to clap
heartily when a good point was made, and learning better lessons in
those three days than as many years of common teaching could give them.
It was close and crowded down below, dusty and dark; but up in the
gallery the fresh October air blew in, mellow sunshine touched the
young heads, there was plenty of room to stir, and each day the garland
seemed to blossom fuller and brighter, showing how the interest grew.
There they were, the future Mary Livermores, Ednah Cheneys, Julia
Howes, Maria Mitchells, Lucy Stones, unconsciously getting ready to
play their parts on the wider stage which those pioneers have made
ready for them, before gentler critics, a wiser public, and more
enthusiastic friends.
Looking from the fine gray heads which adorned the shadowy platform, to
the bright faces up aloft, I wanted to call out,--
"Look, listen, and learn, my girls; then, bringing your sunshine and
fresh air, your youth and vigor, come down to fill nobly the places of
these true women, and earn for yourselves the same success which will
make their names long loved and honored in the land."
II.
LOST IN A LONDON FOG.
We had been to tea with some friends in Shaftesbury Terrace, and were
so busy with our gossip that the evening slipped away unperceived till
the clock struck half-past ten. We were two lone ladies, and had meant
to leave early, as we were strangers in London and had some way to
drive; so our dismay on discovering the lateness of the hour may be
imagined.
We had not engaged a carriage to come for us, knowing that a cab-stand
was near by, and that a cab would be much cheaper than the snug
broughams ladies usually secure for evening use.
Out flew the little maid to get us a cab, and we hurried on our wraps
eager to be gone. But we waited and waited, for Mary Ann did not come,
and we were beginning to think something had happened to her, when she
came hurrying back to say that all the cabs were gone from the
neighboring stand, and she had run to another, where, after some delay,
she had secured a hansom.
Now it is not considered quite the thing for ladies to go about in
hansom cabs, without a gentleman to accompany them, especially in the
evening; but being independent Americans, and impatient to relieve our
weary hostess of our presence, we said nothing, but bundled in, gave
the address,--24 Colville Gardens, Bayswater,--and away we went.
A dense fog had come on, and nothing was visible but a short bit of
muddy street, and lamps looming dimly through the mist. Our driver was
as husky as if it had got into his throat, and the big, white horse
looked absolutely ghostly as he went off at the breakneck pace which
seems as natural to the London cab-horse as mud is to London streets.
"Isn't it fun to go rattling round in this all-out-of-doors style,
through a real London fog?" said my sister, who was now enjoying her
first visit to this surprising city.
"That remains to be seen. For my part, I'd give a good deal to be shut
up, dry and decent, in a four-wheeler, this is so very rowdy," I
returned, feeling much secret anxiety as to the propriety of our
proceeding.
"You are sure you gave the man the right direction?" I asked, after we
had driven through what seemed a wilderness of crescents, terraces,
gardens, and squares.
"Of course I did, and he answered, 'All right, mum.' Shall I ask him
if it is all right?" said M, who dearly liked to poke up the little
door in the roof, which was our only means of communication with the
burly, breezy cherub who sat up aloft to endanger the life of his fare.
"You may, for we have ridden long enough to go to St. Paul's."
Up went the little door, and M asked blandly,--
"Are you sure you are going right, driver?"
"No, mum, I ain't," was the cheering response breathed through the
trap-door (as M called it) in a hoarse whisper.
"I told you where to go, and it is time we were there."
"I'm new come to London, mum, and ain't used to these parts
yet,"--began the man.
"Good gracious! so are we; and I'm sure I can't tell you any thing more
than the name and number I have already given. You'd better ask the
first policeman we meet," cried I, with the foreboding fear heavier
than before.
"All right, mum," and down went the little door, and off rattled the
cab.
My irrepressible sister burst out laughing at the absurdity of our
position.
"Don't laugh, M, for mercy's sake! It's no joke to be wandering about
this great city at eleven o'clock at night in a thick fog, with a tipsy
driver," I croaked, with a warning pinch.
"He isn't tipsy, only stupid, as we are, not to have engaged a carriage
to come for us."
"He is tipsy; I smelt gin in his breath, and he is half asleep up
there, I've no doubt, for we have passed one, if not two policemen, I'm
sure."
"Nonsense! you wouldn't know your own father in this mist. Let Jarvey
alone and he will bring us safely home."
"We shall see," I answered, grimly, as a splash of mud lit upon my
nose, and the cab gave a perilous lurch in cutting round a sharp corner.
Did any one ever find a policeman when he was wanted? I never did,
though they are as thick as blackberries when they are not needed.
On and on we went, but not a felt helmet appeared, and never did
escaping fugitive look more eagerly for the North Star than I did for a
gleaming badge on a blue coat.
"There's a station! I shall stop and ask, for I'm not going slamming
and splashing about any longer. Hi there, driver!" and I poked up the
door with a vigor that would have startled the soundest sleeper.
"Ay, ay, mum," came the wheezy whisper, more wheezy than ever.
"Stop at this station-house and hail some one. We _must_ get home, and
you _must_ ask the way."
"All right, mum," came back the hollow mockery conveyed in those
exasperating words.
We did stop, and a star did appear, when I, with all the dignity I
could muster, stated the case and asked for aid.
"Pleeseman X," gave it civilly; but I greatly fear he did not believe
that the muddy-faced woman with a croaky voice, and the blonde damsel
with curls, long earrings and light gloves, were really respectable
members of the glorious American Republic.
I felt this and I could not blame him; so, thanking him with a bow
which would have done credit to the noblest of my Hancock and Quincy
ancestors, we went on again.
Alas, alas, it was all go on and no stop; for although our driver had
responded briskly, "Ay, ay, sir," to the policeman's inquiry, "You know
your way now, don't you?" he evidently did not know it, and the white
horse went steadily up and down the long, wet streets, like a phantom
steed in a horrid dream.
Things really were becoming serious; midnight was approaching. I had
not the remotest idea where we were, and the passers-by became more and
more infrequent, lights vanished from windows, few cabs were seen and
the world was evidently going to bed. The fog was rapidly
extinguishing my voice, and anxiety quenching my courage. M's curls
hung limp and wild about her face, and even M's spirits began to fail.
"I am afraid we _are_ lost," she whispered in my ear.
"Not a doubt of it."
"The man _must_ be tipsy, after all."
"That is evident."
"What _will_ people think of us?"
"That we are tipsy also."
"What _shall_ we do?"
"Nothing but sit here and drift about till morning. The man has
probably tumbled off; this dreadful horse is evidently wound up and
won't stop till he has run down; the fog is increasing, and nothing
will bring us to a halt but a collision with some other shipwrecked
Yankee, as lost and miserable as we are."
"Oh, L, don't be sarcastic and grim now! Do exert yourself and land
somewhere. Go to a hotel. This horrid man must know where the Langham
is."
"I doubt if he knows any thing, and I am sure that eminently
respectable house would refuse to admit such a pair of frights as we
are, at this disreputable hour. No, we must go on till something
happens to save us. We have discovered the secret of perpetual motion,
and that is some comfort."
M groaned, I laughed, the ghostly horse sneezed, and I think the driver
snored.
When things are pretty comfortable I am apt to croak, but when every
thing is tottering on the verge of annihilation I usually feel rather
jolly. Such being the perversity of my fallen nature, I began to enjoy
myself at this period, and nearly drove poor M out of her wits by awful
or whimsical suggestions and pictures of our probable fate.
It was so very absurd that I really could not help seeing the funny
side of the predicament, and M was the best fun of all, she looked so
like a dilapidated Ophelia with her damp locks, a blue rigolette all
awry, her white gloves tragically clasped, and her pale countenance
bespattered with the mud that lay thick on the wooden boot and flew
freely from the wheels.
I had my laugh out and then tried to mend matters. What could we do?
My first impulse was to stir up the sleeping wretch above, and this I
did by energetically twitching the reins that hung loosely before our
noses like the useless rudder of this lost ship.
"Young man, if you don't wake up and take us to Colville Gardens as
quickly as possible, I shall report you to-morrow. I've got your
number, and I shall get my friend, Mr. Peter Taylor, of Aubrey House,
to attend to the matter. He's an M.P., and will see that you are fined
for attempting to drive a cab when you know nothing of London."
I fear that most of this impressive harangue was lost, owing to the
noise of the wheels and the feebleness of my nearly extinguished voice;
but it had some effect, for though the man did not seem scared by the
threatened wrath of an M.P., he did feel his weak point and try to
excuse it, for he answered in a gruffy, apologetic tone,--
"Who's a-goin' to know any thing in such a blessed fog as this? Most
cabbies wouldn't try to drive at no price, but I'll do my best, mum."
"Very well. Do you know where we are now?" I demanded.
"Blest if I do!"
He didn't say "blest"--quite the reverse;--but I forgave him, for he
really did seem to be making an effort, having had his nap out. An
impressive pause followed, then M had an inspiration.
"Look, there's a respectable man just going into his house from that
four-wheeled cab. Let us hail the whole concern, and get help of some
sort."
I gave the order, and, eager to be rid of us at any price, our man
rattled us up to the door at which a gray-haired gentleman was settling
with his driver.
Bent on clutching this spar of salvation, I burst out of our cab and
hastened up to the astonished pair. What I said I don't know, but
vaguely remember jumbling into my appeal all the names of all the
celebrated and respectable persons whom I knew on both sides of the
water, for I felt that my appearance was entirely against me, and
really expected to be told to go about my business.
John Bull, however, had pity upon me, and did his best for us, like a
man and a brother.
"Take this cab, madam; the driver knows what he is about, and will see
you safely home. I'll attend to the other fellow," said the worthy
man, politely ignoring my muddy visage and agitated manners.
Murmuring blessings on his head, we skipped into the respectable
four-wheeler, and in a burst of confidence I offered Mr. Bull my purse
to defray the expenses of our long drive.
"Rash woman, you'll never see your money again!" cried M, hiding her
Roman earrings and clutching her Etruscan locket, prepared for highway
robbery if not murder.
I did see my purse again and my money, also; for that dear old
gentleman paid our miserable cabby out of his own pocket (as I found
afterwards), and with a final gruff "All right!" the pale horse and his
beery driver vanished in the mist. It is, and always will be my firm
belief that it was a phantom cab, and that it is still revolving
ceaselessly about London streets, appearing and disappearing through
the fog, to be hailed now and then by some fated passenger, who is
whisked to and fro, bewildered and forlorn, till rescued, when ghostly
steed and phantom cab vanish darkly.
"Now you will be quite safe, ladies;" and the good old gentleman
dismissed us with a paternal smile.
With a feeling of relief I fell back, exhausted by our tribulations.
"I know now how the wandering Jew felt," said M, after a period of
repose.
"I don't wish to croak, dear; but if this man does not stop soon, I
shall begin to think we have gently stepped out of the frying-pan into
the fire. Unless we were several miles out of our way, we ought to
arrive _somewhere_," I responded, flattening my nose against the pane,
though I literally could not see one inch before that classical feature.
"Well, I'm so tired, I shall go to sleep, whatever happens, and you can
wake me up when it is time to scream or run," said M, settling herself
for a doze.
I groaned dismally, and registered a vow to spend all my substance in
future on the most elegant and respectable broughams procurable for
money, with a gray-haired driver pledged to temperance, and a stalwart
footman armed with a lantern, pistol, directory, and map of London.
All of a sudden the cab stopped; the driver, not being a fixture,
descended, and coming to the window, said, civilly,--
"The fog is so thick, mum, I'm not quite sure if I'm right, but this is
Colville Square."
"Don't know any such place. Colville Gardens is what we want. There's
a church at the end, and trees in the middle, and "--
"No use, mum, describin' it, for I can't see a thing. But the Gardens
can't be far off, so I'll try again."
"We never shall find it, so we had better ask the man to take us at
once to some station, work-house, or refuge till morning," remarked M,
in such a tone of sleepy resignation that I shook her on the spot.
Another jaunt up and down, fog getting thicker, night later, one woman
sleepier and the other crosser every minute, but still no haven hove in
sight. Presently the cab stopped with a decided bump against the
curb-stone, and the driver reappeared, saying, with respectful
firmness,--
"My horse is beat out, and it's past my time for turning in, so if this
ain't the place I shall have to give it up, mum."
"It is not the place," I answered, getting out with the calmness of
despair.
"There's a light in that house and a woman looking out. Go and ask her
where we are," suggested M, waking from her doze.
Ready now for any desperate measure, I rushed up the steps, tried
vainly to read the number, but could not, and rang the bell with the
firm determination to stay in that house till morning at any cost.
Steps came running down, the door flew open, and I was electrified at
beholding the countenance of my own buxom landlady.
"My dear soul, where 'ave you been?" she cried, as I stood staring at
her, dumb with surprise and relief.
"From the Crystal Palace to Greenwich, I believe. Come in, M, and ask
the man what the fare is," I answered, dropping into a hall chair, and
feeling as I imagine Robinson Crusoe did when he got home.
Of course that civil cabby cheated me abominably. I knew it at the
time, but never protested; for I was so glad and grateful at landing
safely I should have paid a pound if he had asked it.
Next day we were heroines, and at breakfast alternately thrilled and
convulsed the other boarders by a recital of our adventures. But the
"strong-minded Americans" got so well laughed at that they took great
care never to ride in hansom cabs again, or get lost in the fog.
III.
THE BOYS' JOKE, AND WHO GOT THE BEST OF IT.
It was the day before Christmas, and grandpa's big house was swarming
with friends and relations, all brimful of spirits and bent on having a
particularly good time. Dinner was over and a brief lull ensued,
during which the old folks took naps, the younger ones sat chatting
quietly, while the children enlivened the day by a quarrel.
It had been brewing for some time, and during that half hour the storm
broke. You see, the boys felt injured because for a week at least the
girls had been too busy to pay the slightest attention to them and
their affairs,--and what's the good of having sisters and cousins if
they don't make themselves useful and agreeable to a fellow? What made
it particularly hard to bear was the fact that there was a secret about
it, and all they could discover was that _they_ were to have no part in
the fun. This added to their wrath, for they could have borne the
temporary neglect, if the girls had been making something nice for
them; but they were not, and the irate lads were coolly informed that
they would never know the secret, or benefit by it in the least.
Now this sort of thing was not to be borne, you know, and after
affecting to scorn the whole concern, the boys were finally goaded to
confess to one another that they were dying to learn what was going on,
though no power on earth would make them own as much to the girls. It
certainly was very tantalizing to the poor fellows penned up in the
breakfast-room (to keep the house quiet for an hour) to see the girls
prance in and out of the library with the most aggravating air of
importance and delight; to watch mysterious parcels borne along; to
hear cries of rapture, admiration, or alarm from the next room, and to
know that fun of some sort was going on, and they not in it.
It snowed so they could not go out; all had played their parts manfully
at dinner, and were just in the lazy mood when a man likes to be amused
by the gentler half of the race (which they believe was created for
that express purpose), and there, on the other side of the folding
doors, were half-a-dozen sprightly damsels, laughing and chatting,
without a thought or care for the brothers and cousins gaping and
growling close by.
The arrival of a sleigh-load of girlish neighbors added to the
excitement, and made the boys feel that something must be done to
redress their wrongs.
"Let's burst in on them and take a look, no matter if they do scold,"
proposed Tom, the scapegrace, ready for a raid.
"No, that won't do; grandma said we were to let the girls alone, and we
shall lose our presents if we don't behave. You just lean up against
the door, Joe, and if it flies open, why it is an accident, you know,"
said Alf the wise.
So Joe, the fat cousin, backed up to the door like a young elephant,
and leaned hard; but it was locked, and nothing came of it but a creak
from the door, and a groan from Joe.
"I'll look through the keyhole, and tell what I see," cried little
Neddy; and no one forbade him, though, at any other time, big brother
Frank would have cuffed his ears for daring to suggest such a prank.
"There's something bright, and the girls are fussing round it. Kitty's
got a lot of red and blue ribbons in her hand, and Grace is up in a
chair, and Nell--oh, it's cake; a great dish full of the jolliest
kinds, and bon-bons, and sugared fruit, just the sort I like. I say,
knock the door down, some of you big fellows, and let's have one grab!"
cried Neddy, maddened by the sight of the forbidden sweeties.
"Be quiet, and take another peep; it's rather interesting to hear
what's going on," said Frank, reposing upon the sofa like the Great
Mogul, as the boys called him.
Poor little Tantalus obediently applied his eye to the keyhole, but
fell back with a blank face, saying in a despairing tone:
"They've plugged it up, and I can't see a thing!"
"Serves you right; if you'd held your tongue they never would have
known what you were about," was Frank's ungrateful answer.
A stifled giggle from the other side of the door caused a dead silence
to pervade the breakfast-room for several minutes, while Neddy wriggled
out of sight under the sofa as if to escape from the finger of scorn.
Suddenly Tom cried in a shrill whisper, "I've got it!" and pointed to a
ventilator over the door.
A simultaneous rush of boys and chairs took place; but Tom claimed the
rights of a discoverer, and, softly mounting an improvised ladder of
tables and stools, he peered eagerly through the glass, while impatient
hands plucked at his legs, and the pressure of the mob caused his perch
to totter perilously.
The spectacle which he beheld would have touched the heart of any
little girl, but to an unappreciative boy it possessed no charm, for it
was only a doll's Christmas tree. For weeks, the young mammas had been
making pretty things for their wooden, wax, or porcelain darlings, and
it was excellent practice, since many a pair of hands that scorned
patchwork and towels, labored patiently over small gowns, trimmed gay
hats, and wrought wonders in worsted, without a sigh.
It really was a most delightful little tree, set in an Indian jar,
snowed over with flour, garlanded with alternate festoons of
cranberries and pop-corn, and every bough laden with such treasures
that if dolls could stare any harder than they do, they certainly would
have opened their painted eyes with amazement and joy. Such "darling"
hats, and caps; such "sweet" gowns and cloaks; such "cunning" muffs and
tippets! Dressing cases as perfect as grown-up ones, I assure you;
mittens that must have been knit on darning-needles; shoes of colored
kid fit for a doll's Cinderella, and sets of brass and bead jewelry
that glittered splendidly. Wee bottles of perfume for waxen noses;
tiny horns of comfits; travelling bags, and shawl straps, evidently
worked by the fairies; and underclothes which I modestly forbear to
describe, merely saying that very few of the seams were puckered, and
the trimmings "perfectly lovely."
At the moment when Peeping Tom's profane eye beheld the innocent revel,
the dolls were seated in a circle, their mammas standing behind them,
while the happy little hostesses bestowed the gifts with appropriate
remarks. It is needless to say that the dolls behaved beautifully,
their cheeks glowing with pleasure as they returned thanks in voices so
like those of their mothers that one couldn't tell the difference.
The tree was soon stripped, and then the chatter began again, for every
thing must be tried on at once, and more than one doll who came in
shabby clothes bloomed out in gorgeous array, or was made tidy for the
winter.
"I'm so glad to get a worked flannel petticoat for my Jemima. Mamma
was saying only yesterday that she didn't approve of show at the
expense of comfort, and I knew she meant Jemmy, who hadn't a thing on
but her pink silk dress and earrings," observed Mrs. Kitty, in a moral
tone.
"Clementina has been suffering for shoes, though her feet don't show
with a train. I meant to have saved enough to buy her some, but what
with limes and candy, and pencils, and fines for saying 'awful,' I do
believe the poor thing would have gone bare-footed all winter, if Nell
hadn't given her these beauties," replied Mrs. Alice, proudly surveying
her daughter's feet in red kid boots of a somewhat triangular shape.
"I couldn't make them fit very well, because the cotton is all coming
out of her toes, and it was hard to measure," explained Mrs. Nell,
conscious that shoemaking was not her mission.
"They are just the thing; for I'm afraid my poor Clem is going to have
the gout, young as she is. It is in our family, so it is well to be
prepared," answered Mrs. Alice, with the beautiful forethought of a
maternal heart.
"These muffs are made out of our Tabby's skin. I thought you'd like
them as keepsakes, for we all loved her," said Grace, with a pensive
sigh, as she smoothed the white fur of a dear departed cat, feeling
that black and violet bows would have been more suitable than red and
blue for the decoration of these touching memorials.
"I wonder if there isn't a nice place somewhere for good cats when they
die? I hope so: for I'm sure they have souls, though they may be
little bits of ones," observed Kitty, who felt as if her name was a tie
between herself and the pets she most adored.
"I wonder if they have ghosts," said Nell, as if she feared that
Tabby's might appear.
A faint "Meou" seemed to float down to the startled girls from some
upper region, and for an instant they stood staring about them. Then
they laughed like a chime of bells, and accused little Lotty of
pinching the kitten in her arms.
"I didn't; it was Tom up dere," protested the child, pointing to the
ventilator, from which a round red face was staring at them, like a
full moon.
Shrieks of indignation greeted the discovery, and a rain of small
articles pelted the countenance of the foe, as it grinned derisively,
while a jeering voice called out:
"I don't think much of your old secret. It wasn't worth the fuss you
made about it, and I wouldn't have any if I couldn't do better than
that."
"I'd like to see you get up any thing half as nice. You couldn't do
it. Boys never invent new games, but girls do. Papa says so, and he
knows," answered Nell.
"Pooh! We fellows could beat you as easy as not, if we cared to; so
you needn't brag, miss. Men invent every thing in the world,
'specially ventilators, and you see how useful they are," returned Tom,
glad that he had kept his place in spite of the maltreatment his
extremities were undergoing.
"Boys are more curious than girls, anyway. We should never have done
such a mean thing as to peek at you," cried Kitty, coming to the
rescue, and hitting the enemy in his weakest spot.