mine, and I know him to be as kind-hearted as a woman. His wife's
amiability and good temper are proverbial. Do let me speak a good word
for your son; I'm sure you will never repent it."
"I'll think about it, Michael; but don't believe I shall feel satisfied
to let Henry go anywhere out of Boston, even if I should be forced to
get him a place away from home this winter."
"Well, you can do as you please, Mrs. Gaston," said Michael, in a half
offended tone. "I shall not charge anything for my advice. But say! do
you intend trying some of these jackets?"
"Can't you give me some more pantaloons? I can do better on them, I
think."
"We sha'n't have any more coarse trowsers ready for two or three days.
The jackets are your only chance."
"If I must, I suppose I must, then," replied Mrs. Gaston to this, in a
desponding tone. "So let me have a couple of them."
The salesman took from a shelf two dark, heavy cloth jackets, cut out
and tied up in separate bundles with a strip of the fabric from which
they had been taken. As he handed them to the woman, he said--
"Remember, now, these are to be made extra nice."
"You shall have no cause of complaint--depend upon that, Michael. But
isn't Mr. Berlaps in this morning?"
"No. He's gone out to Roxbury to see about some houses he is putting up
there."
"You can pay me for them pantys, I suppose?"
"No. I never settle any bills in his absence."
"But it's a very small matter, Michael. Only a dollar and five cents,"
said Mrs. Gaston, earnestly, her heart sinking in her bosom.
"Can't help it. It's just as I tell you."
"When will Mr. Berlaps be home?"
"Some time this afternoon, I suppose."
"Not till this afternoon," murmured the mother, sadly, as she thought
of her children, and how meagerly she had been able to provide for them
during the past few days. Turning away from the counter, she left the
store and hurried homeward. Henry met her at the door as she entered,
and, seeing that she brought nothing with her but the small bundles of
work, looked disappointed. This touched her feeling a good deal. But
she felt much worse when Ella, the sick one, half raised herself from
her pillow and said--
"Did you get me that orange as you promised, mother?"
"No, dear; I couldn't get any money this morning," the mother replied,
bending over her sick child and kissing her cheek, that was flushed and
hot with fever. "But as soon as Mr. Berlaps pays me you shall have an
orange."
"I wish he would pay you soon, then, mother; for I want one so bad.
I dreamed last night that I had one, and, just as I was going to eat
it, I waked up. And, since you have been gone, I've been asleep, and
dreamed again that I had a large juicy orange. But don't cry, mother.
I know you couldn't get it for me. I'll be very patient."
"I know you will, my dear child," said the mother, putting an arm about
the little sufferer, and drawing her to her bosom; "you have been good
and patient, and mother is only sorry that she has not been able to get
you the orange you want so badly."
"But I don't believe I want it so very, very bad, mother, as I seem to.
I think about it so much--that's the reason I want it, I'm sure. I'll
try and not think about it any more."
"Try, that's a dear, good girl," murmured Mrs. Gaston, as she kissed
her child again, and then turned away to resume once more her wearying
task. Unrolling one of the coarse jackets she had brought home, she
found that it was of heavy beaver cloth, and had to be sewed with
strong thread. For a moment or two, after she spread it out upon
the table, she looked at the many pieces to be wrought up into a
well-finished whole, and thought of the hours of hard labor it would
require to accomplish the task. A feeling of discouragement stole into
her heart, and she leaned her head listlessly upon the table. But only
a moment or two elapsed before a thought of her children aroused her
flagging energies.
It was after eleven o'clock before she was fairly at work. The first
thing to be done, after laying aside the different portions of the
garment in order, was to put in the pockets. This was not accomplished
before one o'clock, when she had to leave her work to prepare a meal
for herself and little ones. There remained from their supper and
breakfast a small portion of the fish and potatoes. Both of these had
been boiled, and hashed up together, and, of what remained, all that
was required was to make it into balls and fry it. This was not a
matter to occasion much delay. In fifteen minutes from the time she
laid aside her needle and thimble, the table had been set, with its one
dish upon it, and Harry and little Emma were eating with keen appetites
their simple meal. But, to Mrs. Gaston, the food was unpalatable; and
Ella turned from it with loathing. There was, however, nothing more in
the house; and both Ella and her mother had to practice self-denial and
patience.
After the table was cleared away, Mrs. Gaston again resumed her labor;
but Emma was unusually fretful, and hung about her mother nearly the
whole afternoon, worrying her mind, and keeping her back a good deal,
so that, when the brief afternoon had worn away, and the deepening
twilight compelled her to suspend her labors, she had made but little
perceptible progress in her work.
"Be good children now until I come back," she said, as she rose from
her chair, put on her bonnet, and drew an old Rob Roy shawl around her
shoulders. Descending then into the street, she took her way with a
quick step towards that part of the city in which her employer kept his
store. Her heart beat anxiously as she drew near, and trembled lest she
should not find him in. If not?--but the fear made her feel sick. She
had no food in the house, no friends to whom she could apply, and there
was no one of whom she could venture to ask to be trusted for even a
single loaf of bread. At length she reached the well-lighted store, in
which were several customers, upon whom both Berlaps and his clerk were
attending with business assiduity. The sight of the tailor relieved
the feelings of poor Mrs. Gaston very much. Passing on to the back
part of the store, she stood patiently awaiting his leisure. But his
customers were hard to please. And, moreover, one was scarcely suited
before another came in. Thus it continued for nearly half an hour, when
the poor woman became so anxious about the little ones she had left at
home, and especially about Ella, who had appeared to have a good deal
of fever when she came away, that she walked slowly down the store,
and paused opposite to where Berlaps stood waiting upon a customer, in
order to attract his attention. But he took not the slightest notice of
her. She remained thus for nearly ten minutes longer. Then she came up
to the side of the counter, and, leaning over towards him, said, in a
half whisper--
"Can I speak a word with you, Mr. Berlaps?"
"I've no time to attend to you now, woman," he answered, gruffly, and
the half frightened creature shrunk away quickly, and again stood far
back in the store.
It was full half an hour after this before the shop was cleared, and
then the tailor, instead of coming back to where Mrs. Gaston stood,
commenced folding up and replacing his goods upon the shelves. Fearful
lest other customers would enter, the seamstress came slowly forward,
and again stood near Berlaps.
"What do you want here to-night, woman?" asked the tailor, without
lifting his eyes from the employment in which he was engaged.
"I brought home the other pair of trowsers this morning, but you were
not in," Mrs. Gaston replied.
"Well?"
"Michael couldn't pay me, and so I've run up this evening."
"You're a very troublesome kind of a person," said Berlaps, looking
her rebukingly in the face. Then taking a dollar and five cents from
the drawer, he pushed them towards her on the counter, adding, as he
did so, "There, take your money. One would think you were actually
starving."
Mrs. Gaston picked up the coin eagerly, and hurried away. It was more
than an hour since she had left home. Her children were alone, and the
night had closed in some time before. The thought of this made her
quicken her pace to a run. As she passed on, the sight of an orange in
a window reminded her of her promise to Ella. She stopped and bought a
small one, and then hurried again on her way.
"Here's half a dollar of what I owe you, Mrs. Grubb," said she, as she
stepped into the shop of that personage, and threw the coin she named
upon the counter. "And now give me a loaf of bread, quickly; some
molasses in this cup, and a pint of milk in this," drawing two little
mugs from under her shawl as she spoke.
The articles she mentioned were soon ready for her. She had paid for
them, and was about stepping from the door, when she paused, and,
turning about, said--
"Oh, I had like to have forgotten! I want two cent candles. I shall
have to work late to-night."
The candles were cut from a large bunch hanging above the narrow
counter, wrapped in a very small bit of paper, and given to Mrs.
Gaston, who took them and went quickly away.
All was dark and still in the room that contained her children, as she
gained the house that sheltered them. She lit one of her candles below,
and went up stairs. As she entered, Ella's bright eyes glistened upon
her from the bed; but little Emma had fallen asleep with her head in
the lap of Henry, who was seated upon the floor with his back against
the wall, himself likewise locked in the arms of forgetfulness. The
fire had nearly gone out, and the room was quite cold.
"Oh, mother, why did you stay so long?" Ella asked, looking her
earnestly in the face.
"I couldn't get back any sooner, my dear. But see! I've brought the
orange you have wished for so long. You can eat it all by yourself, for
Emma is fast asleep on the floor, and can't cry for it."
But Emma roused up at the moment, and began to fret and cry for
something to eat.
"Don't cry, dear. You shall have your supper in a little while. I have
brought you home some nice bread and molasses," said the mother, in
tones meant to soothe and quiet her hungry and impatient little one.
But Emma continued to fret and cry on.
"It's so cold, mamma!" she said. "It's so cold, and I'm hungry!"
"Don't cry, dear," again urged the mother. "I'll make the fire up nice
and warm in a little while, and then you shall have something good to
eat."
But--"It's so cold, mamma! it's so cold! and I'm hungry!" was the
continued and incessant complaint of the poor child.
All this time, Ella had been busily engaged in peeling her orange and
dividing it into four quarters.
"See here, Emma! Look what I've got!" she said, in a lively, cheerful
tone, as soon as her orange had been properly divided. "Come, cover up
in bed here with me, until the fire's made, and you shall have this
nice bit of orange."
Emma's complaints ceased in a moment, and she turned towards her
sister, and clambered upon the bed.
"And here's a piece for you, Henry, and a piece for mother, too,"
continued Ella, reaching out two other portions.
"No, dear, keep it for yourself. I don't want it," said the mother.
"And Emma shall have my piece," responded Henry; "she wants it worse
than I do."
"That is right. Be good children, and love one another," said Mrs.
Gaston, encouragingly. "But Emma don't want brother Henry's piece, does
she?"
"No, Emma don't want brother Henry's piece," repeated the child; and
she took up a portion of the orange as she spoke, and handed it to her
brother.
Henry received it, and, getting upon the bed with his sisters, shared
with them not only the orange, but kind fraternal feelings. The taste
of the fruit revived Ella a good deal, and she, with the assistance of
Henry, succeeded in amusing Emma until their mother had made the fire
and boiled some water. Into a portion of the water she poured about
half of the milk she had brought home, and, filling a couple of tin
cups with this, set it with bread and molasses upon a little table, and
called Henry and Emma to supper. The children, at this announcement,
scrambled from the bed, and, pushing chairs up to the table, commenced
eating the supper provided for them with keen appetites. Into what
remained of the pint of milk, Mrs. Gaston poured a small portion of
hot water, and then crumbled some bread, and put a few grains of salt
into it, and took this to the bed for Ella. The child ate two or three
spoonfuls; but her stomach soon turned against the food.
"I don't feel hungry, mother," said she, as she laid herself back upon
the pillow.
"But you've eaten scarcely anything to-day. Try and take a little
more, dear. It will do you good."
"I can't, indeed, mother." And a slight expression of loathing passed
over the child's face.
"Can't you think of something you could eat?" urged the mother.
"I don't want anything. The orange tasted good, and that is enough for
to-night," Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.
Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate
a small portion of bread and molasses. But this food touched not her
palate with any pleasurable sensation. She ate only because she knew
that, unless she took food, she would not have strength to perform her
duties to her children. For a long series of years, her system had been
accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the evening meal. A
cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to her. It braced her
system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after the unremitting toils
of the day. But, for some time past, she had felt called upon, for the
sake of her children, to deny herself this luxury--no, comfort--no,
this, to her, one of the necessaries of life. The consequence was that
her appetite lost its tone. No food tasted pleasantly to her; and the
labors of the evening were performed under depression of spirits and
nervous relaxation of body.
This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry
bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water in which a little milk
had been poured. As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon the
face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her eldest
born--the first pledge of pure affection, and the promise of a happy
wedded life. Sadly, indeed, had time changed since then. A young
mother, smiling over her first born--how full of joy was the sunlight
of each succeeding day! Now, widowed and alone, struggling with failing
and unequal strength against the tide that was slowly bearing her down
the stream, each morning broke to her more and more drearily, and each
evening, as it closed darkly in, brought another shadow to rest in
despondency upon her spirit. Faithfully had she struggled on, hoping
still to be able to keep her little ones around her. The proposition
of Michael to put out Henry startled into activity the conscious fear
that had for some months been stifled in her bosom; and now she had to
look the matter full in the face, and, in spite of all her feelings of
reluctance, confess to herself that the effort to keep her children
around her must prove unavailing. But how could she part with her boy?
How could she see him put out among strangers? How could she bear to
let him go away from her side, and be henceforth treated as a servant,
and be compelled to perform labor above his years? The very thought
made her sick.
Her frugal meal was soon finished, and then the children were put
to bed. After laying away their clothes, and setting back the table
from which their supper had been eaten, Mrs. Gaston seated herself
by the already nearly half burned penny candle, whose dim light
scarcely enabled her failing eyesight to discern the edges of the
dark cloth upon which she was working, and composed herself to her
task. Hour after hour she toiled on, weary and aching in every limb.
But she remitted not her labors until long after midnight, and then
not until her last candle had burned away to the socket in which it
rested. Then she put aside her work with a sigh, as she reflected
upon the slow progress she had made, and, disrobing herself, laid her
over-wearied body beside that of her sick child. Ella was asleep; but
her breathing was hard, and her mother perceived, upon laying her hand
upon her face, that her fever had greatly increased. But she knew no
means of alleviation, and therefore did not attempt any. In a little
while, nature claimed for her a respite. Sleep locked her senses in
forgetfulness.
(To be continued.)
THE NEW SEWING-MACHINE.
It may interest some of our readers to know how this ingenious
invention is applied to such various purposes of utility. The following
brief account will explain the mode of operation:--
[Illustration]
The sewing-machine, of which a representation is now given, is about
twelve inches square, and is driven by a wheel at the end of a main
shaft which passes through the machine. The wheel can be driven either
by the hand, foot, or steam-engine. From the top plate of the machine
and at the side on which the wheel is placed, an arm rises to about
ten inches and extends to the opposite or front side, in which arm
is worked a lever which drives the vertical needle. This needle is
attached to a sliding bar, worked by the arm. Underneath and below
the plate of the machine is another needle of horizontal shape, which
is fed by a bobbin or reel of thread also out of sight. Imagine the
vertical needle as being threaded and supplied by a reel on the top
of the arm, and the horizontal needle threaded as described, and the
machine put in motion; the vertical needle would penetrate the cloth or
other material, say half an inch below the surface, and, on being drawn
back by the action of the machine, would leave a loop; when this loop
is formed, and at the exact time, the horizontal needle enters it and
holds the thread until the stitch is formed, when by a counter action
it revolves back and throws the loop off and takes another. The machine
is capable of stitching every part of any garment, except the buttons
and button-holes, whether the work be _light_ or _heavy_, _coarse_ or
_fine_; also for gaiters, boots, shoes, sacks, bags, sailcloths, tents,
&c. &c. It is so _simple_ in its construction and action that it may
be worked by a _child_, and will sew a circle, curve, or turn a square
corner, equally as well as a straight line. It is only twelve inches
square, and is driven by the hand or foot. By the action of a screen
in the machine, the stitch can be either lengthened or shortened, as
may be desired. The machine feeds itself with both cloth and thread,
and it is only necessary for the operator to guide the material to the
needle to sew. It will with ease sew a yard per minute, stronger, more
uniform, and consequently better than it is possible to be done by
hand.
LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:
BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL,
AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.
EDITED BY HORACE MATHEW.
THE SECOND LETTER LEFT.
(_Dated February 11th._)
SHOWING HOW KITTY FARED (OR SCARCELY FARED AT ALL) THE FIRST DAY AT
SCHOOL, AND THE DREADFUL DISASTER THAT BEFELL HER.
Oh! my dear Nelly, I'm in such a mess, and can't think how I am to get
out of it. I would run away, only I don't know where to run to: and,
besides, all the doors are fast; and more than that, I feel ma would
only bring me back again if I were to get away. Only think of that
shabby Mrs. ---- (you know whom I mean) opening all the letters; and I
never knew this until my letter was in her bag. Mrs. Sharpe (who has
promised to give this to some one who will drop it in the post on the
sly for me) says every word we write home, and every word we receive
from home, is pried into, and very often kept back if it does not
exactly please the Lady Principal! A pretty lady! I wonder she isn't
ashamed of herself! A nice example to set us young girls--actually
teaching as to go a peeping into other persons' secrets! Meggy (that's
Miss Sharpe's name) says she intends speaking to her papa about it. He
is a Scotch lawyer; and she has often heard him say that there's a fine
of 100_l._ for any one who breaks a seal upon trust papers! What fun it
would be if we could make the Lady Principal pay 100_l._! I'm sure it
would only serve her right.
The beauty of it is, Nelly, she says she only looks at the signatures
of the letters that come here, to see if they are from proper persons.
This is very likely! How, then, _does she know all that is going on in
the girls' homes, if she never reads their letters_? I've no patience
with her! I'm sure that I shall never be able to look the mean creature
in the face again.
Now, Nelly, I must tell you all about the young ladies; for I may not
have another opportunity, dearest, of smuggling out a letter.
Well, then, when we went to breakfast, Mrs. Rodwell was seated on a
sort of raised throne at the end of the table, and all the girls walked
up to her to courtesy, and "_souhaiter le bon jour, Madame_," and show
her--this is a positive fact, dearest--their teeth and nails! Meggy
told me this was to teach us to keep them sharp and in good fighting
condition, as _woman's natural weapons_; but she was only laughing
at me, for I learnt afterwards it was to see that they were properly
cleaned every morning. But I think the practice might well be dispensed
with, as not being over and above complimentary to young ladies!
When my turn came, I was preparing to show my teeth in real
earnest--for I felt both indignant and ashamed of such treatment--when
she took me kindly by the hand, and instantly, at that touch of
kindness, my mouth shut of its own accord. She asked me how I had
slept, and introduced me to Miss Plodder, who, she said would cheer my
spirits and make me feel more at home. She is such a fat, round, little
sleepy, and looks as stupid, too, as she is fat! If my spirits have to
wait for Miss Plodder to cheer them, I'm afraid they'll have to wait
long enough.
Well, my own darling Nell knows I am not dainty, and that I should
think it wicked to be fanciful over good food; but I never did see such
thick slices of bread, smeared over with what they called butter. I
have not been so petted at home as to quarrel at any time with my bread
and butter; but, on my word, I should as soon have thought of munching
a deal board, as taking up one of the long slices--planks, rather--that
were piled up, as in a timber yard, before me; and yet, to see the poor
hungry girls! If it had been wedding-cake, they could not have devoured
it more greedily!
I thought of the dear delicious hot rolls, soaked through and through
with the best Fresh (at sixteen pence a pound) that I had been in the
habit of having every morning for breakfast, and sighed that I was not
at home.
Meggy asked me which I liked best, "_hay or beans?_" Before I could
answer that I had never tasted either, the Lady Principal inquired "if
I took cocoa or coffee?" A basin of the latter was brought to me, but
unless I had been told it was coffee, I'm sure I should never have
guessed it. It looked more like water taken from the Regent's-canal.
Meggy whispered into my ear, "Hay's best;" and seeing me puzzled, she
explained, shortly afterwards, that, in their school dictionary, hay
meant cocoa, and that beans was the English for coffee, from a popular
belief, which she said "was extremely well grounded" (in their coffee
cups), that "those agricultural commodities formed the principal
ingredients of their matutinal beverages."
Meggy Sharpe is such a nice girl, so clever, and so full of fun, and
such large bright, black eyes, and a face laughing all over with
mischief, it puts one in good-humor merely to look at it. I feel I
shall love her very much, but not so much as you, dearest Nelly.
After breakfast, she told Miss Plodder that she would "take care of
me, and introduce me to the Elders." Then bidding me not to be afraid,
she led me by the hand to a group of tall young ladies, and in a set
speech, delivered in a mock tone, such as I've heard my brothers
imitate Mr. John Cooper in, "begged to present a humble candidate to
their friendship and favor." The tallest, a Miss Noble, who seemed the
head girl, and as stiff as a backboard, made me welcome, and then began
questioning me in the following manner: "Did I live in London?--at the
Westend, of course?--perhaps in Belgrave-square? No! then near Hyde
Park? No! then in one of the squares? Yes! Well, some of the squares
were still respectable. In which of the squares did I live, pray?"
I mumbled out, as well as I could, "Torrington-square."