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A Little Girl in Old Chicago
THE "LITTLE GIRL" SERIES
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK.
HANNAH ANN; A SEQUEL.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW ORLEANS.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD DETROIT.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD ST. LOUIS.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD CHICAGO.
A LITTLE GIRL
IN OLD CHICAGO
BY
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1904
Copyright, 1904,
By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
Published September, 1904
CONTENTS
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I THE LITTLE GIRL 1
II GETTING DINNER 15
III THROUGH THE WINTER 30
IV A POLITICAL DIFFERENCE 44
V OF COMMON DAILY THINGS 61
VI THEN THE UNCOMMON 85
VII FROM THE LITTLE GIRL'S SIDE 100
VIII WITHOUT NORMAN 117
IX WAS EVER LETTER HALF SO DEAR? 130
X A WILD RIDE 147
XI A TIME FOR LOVE 165
XII NOT MERRY, BUT WEDDING BELLS 179
XIII A SHADED SIDE 194
XIV A TURN IN THE LANE 209
XV HOW MUCH WAS LOVE 224
XVI HER RIVALS 243
XVII POLLY 262
XVIII DAN 276
XIX HOW NORMAN CAME HOME 294
XX THE PASSING OF OLD CHICAGO 312
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE GIRL
It is one of the compensations of Providence that after the storm and
stress of active life is through, one can go back to the beautiful world
of memory and live over the earlier joys with a delight not experienced
in youth.
So the time I first saw the Little Girl is one of the pictures that
line the halls of remembrance, softened, and it may be rendered more
beautiful, by the intervening years, and love.
It was a late September evening, at least the day had waned. All the
west still held the peculiar rich glow of a magnificent sunset that had
melted now into one great sheet of softened tints, with no one distinct
color predominating, and changing every instant. Over the great lake
it dropped iridescent hues, and even the river, with its muddy banks,
shimmered in a glorified light. And I, Norman Hayne, sat idly outside
the log end of the house, that was our real living place, though the
frame addition had been added, for we had long ago outgrown the other.
There was a rude porch over the door, where the Michigan rose rioted in
the early summer, and morning-glories later on. Beyond this was a bench
with a pail, one or two basins and a dishpan piled with dishes, where my
mother would presently stand, washing up. Various utensils hung from the
edge of a narrow shelf, a gourd dipper and one of cocoanut. Out beyond,
on the garden fence, was the churn dasher and the churn on a low pole.
Early August had been hot and dry, then had fallen copious rains and
everything had taken a new lease of life. I was looking idly over to
the eastward, wondering what the "States" were like, though it would
seem from the influx of emigrants and their tales that they held every
variety of climate and productions known to the world.
I watched a great covered wagon lumbering along, drawn by two not over
large but stocky horses. In a vague fashion I said to myself—"Some one
from the States." It had not the air of a near-by native.
The driver jumped down with a loud "whoa," and the animals, nothing
loth, stood still. We were back perhaps fifty feet from the road, though
it had a name as a street.
Mother came out just as the man walked up the path. She was rather
stout, somewhat weather-beaten with our fierce winds, but fresh and
wholesome looking, with a kindly smile, that had not been banished
by the scoldings she had found necessary to use. Her hair was a soft
dun-colored brown, her eyes brown also, with a sort of twinkle in them
that sometimes flashed in the heat of anger.
The man gave his faded wool hat a tug. He was of medium height, much
seamed and wrinkled by exposure, with shrewd blue eyes, rather reddish
hair and a sparse ragged beard, the sort of man who would hardly attract
a second look.
"Ma'am," he began, in a respectful tone, "can you tell me just how I
shall find the Towner place, and can I reach it to-night?"
"Well—" mother looked over westward—"I can't say I should advise you to
attempt it. It's crost the river. An' ther' ain't much but a tumble-down
log hut. Be you the man goin' to live ther'? Towner traded off the place
an' was in high feather 'bout his bargain."
The man looked rather crestfallen. "I was in hopes I could. But then
it's good to be so near," with a sigh of content in the voice. "There's
some taverns about, I suppose, though, for that matter, we could take
another night in the wagon."
"What fambly is ther'?" and mother peered out rather curiously.
"Only me and my little gal. There's such big stories told about Chicago."
"An' they're comin' out the little end of the horn," said mother with
a short laugh. "You can hardly give lots away."
The man stood rather uncertain.
"See here," began mother, who was hospitality itself, "we can put you
up for the night. S'pose you unhitch and take a bite of supper. It's
tough goin' to a strange place in the dark, an' a tavern ain't jest the
place for a little gal. Norme, you great lazy lout, stir your stumps,
and show the way to the barn. Bring your little gal in here, Mister. I
declare for it, a gal is quite a treat. I've five boys an' I'm countin'
on the time they get married so's I can see a petticoat around."
"Do I come up here?"
"Yes." I was off with a bound and began to turn the tired beasts up the
roadway. Just at the stoop I paused.
"I'm mighty obliged to you," he began, bowing to mother. "'Tisn't
everybody you find willing to take in a stranger. But I'm going to stay
if I can squeeze out any sort of a living. Times are hard everywhere.
Seems as though the bottom's fallen out of everything."
"When the bottom falls out 'er Chicago we fill it in agen," returned
mother with a heartsome laugh. "You've come to a queer place, stranger.
First, we're way out top of the chimbly wavin' defiance to everybody and
braggin' like all possessed, then down we come kerflunk! But we rub our
bruises and knock off the soot an' go at it agen."
"That's the way you have to do," was the almost cheerful response. Then
he went to the side of the wagon and chirped, and lifted out the Little
Girl and put her down. I looked intently at her and she was impressed
upon my brain.
A little girl of seven or eight in a faded blue cotton frock that came
two or three inches from her ankles, and her dainty feet were encased
in a pair of beaded moccasins. Her light hair, more flaxen than golden,
hung about in short loose curls. Her skin was very fair, her mouth like
an opening rosebud. But her eyes transfixed one even in the growing
darkness. They seemed bathed in dewy sunshine and were of the depth
of sapphire, or the blue of a winter night. The brows and lashes were
much darker than the hair, the eyes large and clear, but after she had
once glanced up fearlessly they drooped and seemed to shine through the
lashes.
"You are just a little dear," said mother, and she stooped to kiss her,
though she was not at all given to caresses. "And now while they go
out to look after the horses I'll fix some supper. I've just cleared it
away. My, but it's dark as a pocket in here. I'll light a candle. Have
you had a long journey?"
"Oh, days and days! Sometimes we stayed at houses and sometimes in the
wagon. There were wolves one night and father shot two, and we stayed
one night in an Indian wigwam. The squaws were kind, but the babies were
so funny, tied to a board and standing round. I didn't like the food
though. I can cook some."
"Haven't you any mother?"
The child sighed. "Mother died a long, long while ago. Why do they have
to be put in the ground? I should think they'd be carried up on some
high mountain, where it would be easier for the angels to get them."
"And who took care of you?"
"Aunt Getty did. Then she married Silas Bowers and he had seven
children. I didn't like them though. Then Gran came out of the
poorhouse, and after that some of the things were sold, only what we
could pack in the wagon. It was very nice at first. We stopped by the
woods and made fires and broiled fish and birds that father shot. You
make a little stone fireplace so—" and she described the outline with
her hands. "And when the wood gets all burned to coals you can broil,
or you can fry in a skillet."
"You're a smart little thing," declared mother in amazement. "Why you're
not much bigger than a minute."
"Why a minute is sixty seconds, and what do you suppose the seconds are?"
"I'm sure I don't know," and mother laughed.
It looked cheery enough when I came in. It should have been painted as
an "Interior in Old Chicago." The room was large with a great fireplace
at one end, the logs had been chinked in with plaster and then plastered
over again, quite roughly to be sure. Every spring and fall mother
whitewashed it. Now it was rather smoky. Dan and I had put up a kind of
dresser on one side, shelves braced up by side brackets and a curtain
hung over them. Our chairs had tough reed grass bottoms, braided in a
fashion learned from the Indians. There were several gun racks, and some
trophies of hunting. On one side was a roomy settle that did duty as
a bed, with dried grass pillows and cured skins, some quite valuable.
Mother had two candles lighted on the table, and they shed a sort of
weird light around. She was warming up some chicken potpie, and there
was a great plate of brown bread and white, and another of gingerbread
and an appetizing sauce of wild grapes.
Mr. Gaynor had stopped at the bench and washed face and hands with a
great flourish of enjoyment. Now he sniffed at the savory fragrance with
the eagerness of a hungry man.
"Jest draw up," said mother, nodding to a chair. But she placed one for
the Little Girl and would have lifted her in it, only she slipped by
with the litheness of a fairy.
"What is your name, Sissy?"
"Ruth—Ruth Gaynor," was the gentle reply.
"And I am John Gaynor from old Massachusetts. I've wondered along the
route what evil spirit enticed me to leave the State where I was born,
but somehow luck turned against me, and the farm was a bed of rocks, as
one may say—worn-out land. There's to be a great wheat-growing country
out here, folks say, and bread is one of the things that doesn't seem
to go out of fashion. Jerusalem! but there's a sight of folks growing
up all the time. When the world gets full I s'pose it'll have to come
to an end, for if it is full of folks, stands to reason there won't be
no room for wheat growing."
"Laws a' massy, I never thought of that," said mother. "But ther's wars
and plagues an' what not. Sissy, you ain't eating no supper."
"I'm eating slow, tastes so good," returned Ruth gravely, looking up
with shining eyes.
There was a sudden rush and howl and she started in terror, turning pale.
"It's them dratted boys," explained mother, going to the door. "Boys—"
one or two of them had a resounding cuff—"you air worse'n a pack of
wolves! Now jes' wash up in some sort o' quiet or you'll get your
father's horsewhip. An' then go straight to bed. Go round 'tother way."
"Who's here?" both in a breath.
"That's nothin' to you. Do as I tell you."
"There air three of the noisiest boys in all Chicago. Dan, he's quiet
and grouty like when things don't go to suit, but he's smart. This here
boy's slow an' easy like, an' not given to tantrums, an' I guess we'll
have to make a 'pason' out of him. Then there's Homer an' Ben 'n Chris,
an' they'd tear the house down if they got at the underpinnin'. Norman
here should have been a gal! My! but I was disappointed when he come.
I'd jes' set my heart on a gal. Then I got kinder hardened and didn't
care. Boys!"
She went out again and presently there was a giggling and a scuffling
off. There was an outside covered stairs leading to the attic over this
end of the house and the boys slept there.
I had been watching the Little Girl. I had no word for it then, but
I knew afterward it was daintiness that enveloped her. She sat up so
straight and ate so quietly, even in drinking her glass of milk she made
no noise. Then she looked up at mother and smiled.
"It was such a good supper," she said, and her eyes shone with dewy
softness. Then she turned a little and glanced at me, and I felt my
cheek burn from some unwonted cause. Not but what girls had looked at
me before, and I had romped with them.
"I'm wonderfully obliged, ma'am," and Mr. Gaynor rose from the table.
"The beasts, too, are thankful no doubt. Hoping presently you'll be
better paid, though I take it that kindness isn't ever made quite
straight with money, and I'm glad enough to be so near my journey's end.
What sort of a place is Towner's?"
Mother looked at me. "You can tell best, Norme," she said with a nod.
"It's just a little 'tother side of the river. The log house isn't much.
There's quite a garden spot, then it runs out on the prairie, and up
the lake. He cut some of it up in blocks and sold, but I heard pop say
he had to take it back."
"Is it the town proper?"
"'Twould be hard to tell what's town and what isn't," said mother,
"though they're talkin' 'bout organizin' something, an' it's high
time there was some sort of head to things. They've been surveying and
surveying and laying out streets that cut up gardens and farms. Some
people think it'll be a great place, an' others say it can't be anything
but a mud hole. You see, the river rises in a freshet, and the wind
drives the lake in. It's a mighty good place for ducks. They can sit on
the stoop of Tremont tavern and shoot them."
John Gaynor laughed heartily at that.
Mother meanwhile had been putting away the food and gathering up dishes.
Now she said:
"Light the lantern, Norman, it's grown so dark. Then bring out the
towels. You see," with a light laugh, "I have to train my boys to do
some gal's work. I don't see when they have to eat why they shouldn't
help clear it away. They'll make all the better husbands."
"Would you mind if I came out and smoked my pipe?"
"Oh, dear no," returned mother cheerfully.
The lantern shed a light down on the bench, I brought out the teakettle
and filled the pan, and she began to wash and put the dishes in another
pan to drain. Mr. Gaynor seated himself on the round of a tree at a
little distance. There was a slight touch on my elbow.
"Couldn't I help dry them?" inquired a soft voice. "If you would find
me a towel—"
"Oh, you dear little housemaid!" cried mother admiringly. "But you ought
to play lady to-night."
"I used to do it for Gran. And there's so many here. Isn't it fun to
have a good many dishes! Oh, please do!" in a coaxing tone.
"Get her a fresh towel," said mother, amused. So Ruth Gaynor and I dried
the dishes the first time we saw each other, and with that began a great
friendship.
"You'll do for a housekeeper," commented mother. "What a sweet little
thing you are! Why I think I shall have to buy you of your father."
"Oh, he couldn't spare me, could you, father?"
She ran and slipped on his knee and put her arms about his neck.
"No, little one," he made answer.
I sat on the end of the bench looking at them, and envying him. I
wondered how the soft arms would feel about my neck, the rose-leaf cheek
pressed against mine. I was past fifteen and not over fond of browsing
about and noisy games, though I was well grown and strong. I liked to
read and dream, and I was fond of hearing the men talk when they did not
swear too much, or call each other fools too often. I did enjoy their
aspirations about Chicago and the boundless west. Chicago was even then
an entrepôt for St. Louis, and also the Mississippi, from upper Michigan
with its endless stack of furs to Canada, and from thence to Europe.
When all these great reaches were waving cornfields and wheat fields,
and there should be a port extensive enough to accommodate them all, a
gate through which the treasures of the earth and rain and sun should
pass, and the gold and silver of the world return!
Well, it was a splendid dream to be laughed at then. But had not
voyagers a hundred years before had dreams akin to it?
The Little Girl had fallen fast asleep when her father carried her in.
It was very foolish, but I wished I could have kissed the soft, slightly
parted smiling lips as mother had.
Mother lighted them into the new part, where there was a small sleeping
chamber off the best room which, no doubt, would have been called a
parlor if Dan and I had been girls.
"What a sweet little thing!" mother said with a sigh. "Too nice to come
to a wild town like this."
Dan and father were down to the Tremont playing cards and talking
politics. Andrew Jackson was still President, a man who had warm
partisans and bitter enemies. Then, too, Chicago was beginning to feel
the birth throes of a city.
We were up early the next morning. Dan was employed in one of the
trading companies, father at the mill, and they were off by six in
summer. It was true that I partly did a girl's work helping mother,
being deft and light-handed for a boy. I ran out to the stable to see
if I had dreamed this wonderful event of the night before. No, there
were the horses, who greeted me with a cheerful whinny, and there was
the wagon with its patched cover.
Ruth Gaynor was as sweet and charming in the morning as she had been
at night. Soon after breakfast they prepared to leave. My mother would
accept nothing for her hospitality except a promise that Ruth should
come over and visit us. The three younger ones stared at her with boyish
bashfulness, and she did not seem to be inclined to make friends with
them. I was selfishly glad of it.
I was to pilot them over. Everything has changed so now that it is
difficult to find an old landmark. There had been great changes even
in my remembrance. Gurdon Hubbard had moved his business to Chicago
and erected a brick building on the corner of South Water and LaSalle
streets, the first in the town. Then he had built a warehouse on Kinzie
Street and was doing a flourishing commission and forwarding business
with vessels plying between Buffalo and the upper lakes, the Eagle
line. Back of this a little was the space a block square that Towner
had traded for the Massachusetts farm near a thriving city. Then, still
farther away, was the tract of prairie.
The house we found in a poor condition. But as if Mr. Gaynor's luck was
to begin at once, some parties wished to buy half of this plot and a
bargain was struck. That would leave him the house and a garden. There
was such a little money that trade and barter was often resorted to,
and through a third party he could have lumber enough to build two new
rooms on the house and repair the other. There was a tolerable barn and
stable.
We cleared up the best room. It was astonishing to see the useful
articles and bedding that were stored in the great wagon. We found some
second-hand furniture, and by night they were fairly comfortable. It
was still pleasant, but we built a roaring fire in the old fireplace to
drive away the dampness.
What a day it was to me! How fascinating the Little Girl was in every
movement, in her shrewd sayings, her wisdom that seemed much too old
for her years, yet she was such a frank, eager child.
"Must you go home?" she asked pleadingly. "Your mother has other boys.
Can't some of them help her?"
"I suppose they could be trained to. They have always kept together and
are so full of play."
"And do you work all the time?"
"Oh, no, I have been to school. But I am old enough to go to work
regularly and mean to soon." I felt as if I would like to be a man at
once, though I could give no reason for it.
"I hate to have you go." She caught hold of my hand and swung herself
gently to and fro. "I like you very much."
She glanced up out of such clear, shining eyes that she seemed to fill
my whole being with their light. My mother had a right to me—had any
one ever really wanted me before?
"Will you come to-morrow? There is so much work to do," sighing with a
fascinating air.
"I will come to-morrow," I was glad to promise.
"Let me walk down to the end of the street, and then I will turn and
run back, and instead of saying good-by say 'to-morrow, to-morrow,' and
just watch for the sunrise."
She kept my hand until we reached the corner, then like a fleet little
fawn skimmed over the ground, never once glancing back, and I had known
her only twenty-four hours.
"I hope you were well paid for your day's work," said my mother
laughingly.