OUR FRIENDS.
We had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all,
perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called “D. D.”
She had another name, but that is nobody’s business but her own. D. D.
was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and
she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look
at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright
and black as a young girl’s. One of the pleasantest things about her was
the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white
dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a
jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of
white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp.
Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow
or purple, as they pleased,--she wore her white dimity; and we children
knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress
that she could have chosen.
Another wonderful thing about D. D. was her store-closet. There never
was such a closet as that! It was all full of glass jars, and the jars
were full of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and raisins, and all manner
of good things. Yes, and they were not screwed down tight, as jars are
likely to be nowadays; but one could take off the top, and see what was
inside; and if it was cinnamon, one might take even a whole stick, and
D. D. would not mind. Sometimes a friend of hers who lived at the South
would send her a barrel of oranges (she called it a “bar’l of awnges,”
because she was Scotch, and we thought it sounded a great deal prettier
than the common way), and then we had glorious times; for D. D. thought
oranges were very good for us, and we thought so too. Then she had some
very delightful and interesting drawers, full of old daguerreotypes and
pieces of coral, and all kinds of alicumtweezles. Have I explained
before that “alicumtweezles” are nearly the same as “picknickles” and
“bucknickles”?
D. D.’s son was a gallant young soldier, and it was his hair that she
wore in the harp-shaped brooch. Many of the daguerreotypes were of him,
and he certainly was as handsome a fellow as any mother could wish a son
to be. When we went to take tea with D. D., which was quite often, we
always looked over her treasures, and asked the same questions over and
over, the dear old lady never losing patience with us. And such jam as
we had for tea! D. D.’s jams and jellies were famous, and she often made
our whole provision of sweet things for the winter. Then we were sure of
having the best quince marmalade and the clearest jelly; while as for
the peach marmalade--no words can describe it!
D. D. was a wonderful nurse; and when we were ill she often came and
helped our mother in taking care of us. Then she would sing us her
song,--a song that no one but D. D. and the fortunate children who had
her for a friend ever heard. It is such a good song that I must write it
down, being very sure that D. D. would not care.
“There was an old man. and he was mad,
And he ran up the steeple;
He took off his great big hat.
And waved it over the people.”
To D. D. we owe the preservation of one of Laura’s first compositions,
written when she was ten years old. She gave it to the good lady, who
kept it for many years in her treasure-drawer till Laura’s own children
were old enough to read it. It is a story, and is called--
LOST AND FOUND.
Marion Gray, a lovely girl of thirteen, one day tied on her gypsy
hat, and, singing a merry song, bade good-by to her mother, and ran
quickly toward the forest. She was the youngest daughter of Sir
Edward Gray, a celebrated nobleman in great favor with the king,
and consequently Marion had everything she wished for. When she
reached the wood she set her basket down under a chestnut-tree,
and climbing up into the branches she shook them till the ripe
fruit came tumbling down. She then jumped down, and having filled
her basket was proceeding to another tree, when all of a sudden a
dark-looking man stepped out, who, when she attempted to fly,
struck her severely with a stick, and she fell senseless to the
ground.
Meanwhile all was in confusion at the manorhouse. Marion’s faithful
dog Carlo had seen the man lurking in the thicket, and had tried to
warn his mistress of the danger. But seeing she did not mind, the
minute he saw the man prepare to spring out he had run to the
house. He made them understand that some one had stolen Marion.
“Who, Carlo, who?” exclaimed the agonized mother. Carlo instantly
picked up some A-B-C blocks which lay on the floor, and putting
together the letters that form the word “Gypsies,” looked up at his
master and wagged his tail. “The Gypsies!” exclaimed Sir Edward;
“alas! if the gypsies have stolen our child, we shall never see her
again.” Nevertheless they searched and searched the wood, but no
trace of her was to be found.
* * * * *
“Hush! here she is! Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Yes! but what is her name?”
“Marion Gray. I picked her up in the wood. A splendid addition to
our train, for she can beg charity and a night’s lodging; and then
the easiest thing in the world is just to find out where they keep
the key, and let us in. Hush! hush! she’s coming to.”
These words were spoken by a withered hag of seventy and the man
who had stolen her. Slowly Marion opened her eyes, and what was her
horror to find herself in a gypsy camp!
I will skip over the five long years of pain and suffering, and
come to the end of my story. Five years have passed, and the new
king sits on his royal throne, judging and condemning a band of
gypsies. They are all condemned but one young girl, who stands with
downcast eyes before him; but when she hears her doom, she raises
her dark flashing eyes on the king. A piercing shriek is heard, the
crown and sceptre roll down the steps of the throne, and Marion
Gray is clasped in her father’s arms!
Another dear friend was Miss Mary. She was a small, brisk woman, with
“New England” written all over her. She used to stay with us a good
deal, helping my mother in household matters, or writing for our father;
and we all loved her dearly. She had the most beautiful hair, masses
and masses of it, of a deep auburn, and waving in a lovely fashion. She
it was who used to say, “Hurrah for Jackson!” whenever anything met her
special approval; and we all learned to say it too, and to this day some
of us cheer the name of “Old Hickory,” who has been in his grave these
fifty years. Miss Mary came of seafaring people, and had many strange
stories of wreck and tempest, of which we were never weary. Miss Mary’s
energy was untiring, her activity unceasing. She used to make long
woodland expeditions with us in the woods around the Valley, leading the
way “over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier,” finding all
manner of wild-wood treasures,--creeping-jenny, and ferns and mosses
without end,--which were brought home to decorate the parlors. She knew
the name of every plant, and what it was good for. She knew when the
barberries must be gathered, and when the mullein flowers were ready.
She walked so fast and so far that she wore out an unreasonable number
of shoes in a season.
Speaking of her shoes reminds me that at the fire of which I spoke in a
previous chapter, at the Institution for the Blind, Miss Mary was the
first person to give the alarm. She had on a brand-new pair of morocco
slippers when the fire broke out, and by the time it was extinguished
they were in holes. This will give you some idea of Miss Mary’s energy.
Then there was Mr. Ford, one of the very best of our friends. He was a
sort of factotum of our father, and, like The Bishop in the “Bab
Ballads,” was “short and stout and round-about, and zealous as could
be.” We were very fond of trotting at his heels, and loved to pull him
about and tease him, which the good man never seemed to resent. Once,
however, we carried our teasing too far, as you shall hear. One day our
mother was sitting quietly at her writing, thinking that the children
were all happy and good, and possessing her soul in patience. Suddenly
to her appeared Julia, her hair flying, eyes wide open, mouth
ditto,--the picture of despair.
“Oh, Mamma!” gasped the child, “I have done the most dreadful thing! Oh,
the most dreadful, terrible thing!”
“What is it?” exclaimed our mother, dropping her pen in distress; “what
have you done, dear? Tell me quickly!”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” sobbed the child; “I cannot!”
“Have you set the house on fire?” cried our mother.
“Oh, worse than that!” gasped poor Julia, “much worse!”
“Have you dropped the baby?”
“Worse than that!”
Now, there _was_ nothing worse than dropping the baby, so our mother
began to feel relieved.
“Tell me at once, Julia,” she said, “what you have done!”
“I--I--” sobbed poor Julia,--“I pulled--I pulled--off--Mr. Ford’s wig!”
There were few people we loved better than Tomty, the gardener. This
dear, good man must have been a martyr to our pranks, and the only
wonder is that he was able to do any gardening at all. It was “Tomty”
here and “Tomty” there, from morning till night. When Laura wanted her
bonnet-strings tied (oh, that odious little bonnet! with the rows of
pink and green quilled ribbon which was always coming off), she never
thought of going into the house to Mary, though Mary was good and kind
too,--she always ran to Tomty, who must “lay down the shovel and the
hoe,” and fashion bow-knots with his big, clumsy, good-natured fingers.
When Harry was playing out in the hot sun without a hat, and Mary called
to him to come in like a good boy and get his hat, did he go? Oh, no! He
tumbled the potatoes or apples out of Tomty’s basket, and put that on
his head instead of a hat, and it answered just as well.
Poor, dear Tomty! He went to California in later years, and was cruelly
murdered by some base wretches for the sake of a little money which he
had saved.
Somehow we had not very many friends of our own age. I suppose one
reason was that we were so many ourselves that there were always enough
to have a good time.
There were one or two little girls who used to go with us on the famous
maying-parties, which were great occasions. On May-day morning we would
take to ourselves baskets,--some full of goodies, some empty,--and start
for a pleasant wooded place not far from Green Peace. Here, on a sunny
slope where the savins grew not too thickly to prevent the sun from
shining merrily down on the mossy sward, we would pitch our tent (only
there was no tent), and prepare to be perfectly happy. We gathered such
early flowers as were to be found, and made garlands of them; we chose a
queen and crowned her; and then we had a feast, which was really the
object of the whole expedition.
It was the proper thing to buy certain viands for this feast, the home
dainties being considered not sufficiently rare.
Well, we ate our oranges and nibbled our cocoanut, and the older ones
drank the milk, if there was any in the nut: this was considered the
very height of luxury, and the little ones knew it was too much for
them to expect. I cannot remember whether we were generally ill after
these feasts, but I think it highly probable.
In mentioning our friends, is it right to pass over the good
“four-footers,” who were so patient with us, and bore with so many of
our vagaries? Can we ever forget Oggy the Steamboat, so called from the
loudness of her purring? Do not some of us still think with compunction
of the day when this good cat was put in a tin pan, and covered over
with a pot-lid, while on the lid was set her deadly enemy Ella, the fat
King Charles spaniel? What a snarling ensued! what growls, hisses,
yells, mingled with the clashing of tin and the “unseemly laughter” of
naughty children!
And Lion, the good Newfoundland dog, who let us ride on his back--when
he was in the mood, and tumbled us off when he was not! He was a dear
dog; but Fannie, his mate, was anything but amiable, and sometimes gave
sore offence to visitors by snapping at their heels and growling.
But if the cats and dogs suffered from us, we suffered from José! O
José! what a tyrannous little beast you were! Never was a brown donkey
prettier, I am quite sure; never did a brown donkey have his own way so
completely.
Whether a child could take a ride or not depended entirely on whether
José was in the mood for it. If not, he trotted a little way till he got
the child alone; and then he calmly rubbed off his rider against a tree
or fence, and trotted away to the stable. Of course this was when we
were very little; but by the time the little ones were big enough to
manage him José was dead; so some of us never “got even with him,” as
the boys say. When the dearest uncle in the world sent us the
donkey-carriage, things went better; for the obstinate little brown
gentleman could not get rid of that, of course, and there were many
delightful drives, with much jingling of harness and all manner of style
and splendor.
These were some of our friends, two-footers and four-footers. There were
many others, of course, but time and space fail to tell of them. After
all, perhaps they were just like other children’s friends. I must not
weary my readers by rambling on indefinitely in these long-untrodden
paths; but I wish other children could have heard Oggy purr!