THE LOST FLY.
Now we must go back and see what has become of the little one.
At first her heart had swollen with rage. Anger had set her going, just
as a blow from a battledoor sends off a shuttlecock. And, once being
started, the poor little shuttlecock couldn't stop.
"Auntie gave me that skipt. Hollis is a very wicked boy; steals skipt
from little gee-urls. I don't ever want to see Hollis no more."
What she meant to do, or where to go, she had no more idea than the blue
clouds overhead. She had no doubt her brother was close behind, trying
to overtake her. Her sole thought was, that she "wouldn't ever see
Hollis no more." She knew nothing could make him so unhappy as that.
"I'll lose me, and then how'll he feel?"
"Lose me!" A wild thought, gone in a moment; but meanwhile she was
already lost.
"I hope auntie won't give Hollis nuffin to eat, 'cause he's took away my
skipt; nuffin to eat but meat and vertato, athout any pie."
Flyaway shook her head so hard, that the "war-plume" under her bonnet
would have nodded, if the air could have got at it. "Why, where's
Hollis?" said she, looking back, and finding, to her surprise, he was
not to be seen. "I spected he'd come. I thought I heard him walking
ahind me."
Flyaway's anger had died out by this time. It never lasted longer than
a Fourth of July torpedo.
"He didn't know I runned off. Guess I'll go back, and he'll give me the
skipt; and then I'll forgive him all goody."
A very nice plan; only, instead of going back, she turned a corner, and
tripped along towards University Place. She had twisted her head so much
in looking for Horace, that it was completely turned round. And,
besides, a little farther on was a man playing a harp, and a small boy a
violin. Fly paused and listened, till she no longer remembered Horace or
the "skipt." She forgot this was New York, and dreamed she had come to
fairy-land. Her soul was full of music. Happy thoughts about nothing in
particular made her smile and clap her hands. Birds, flowers, Santa
Clauses, Flipperties, and "pepnits" seemed to hover near. Something
beautiful was just going to happen, she didn't know what.
After the man had played for some time without attracting attention from
any body but Flyaway and a poor old beggar woman, he put his harp in a
green bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked off. Flyaway followed
without knowing it. Down Sixth Avenue went the music-man, and close at
his heels went she. By and by she saw a little girl, no larger than
herself, with a great bundle on her shoulders.
"You don't s'pose she's got a music on _her_ back?--No, not a music;
it's too soft all swelled out in a bunch."
Fly went nearer the little girl, to see what she was carrying; and as
she did so, some gray coals, mixed with ashes, fell out of the bundle
upon her nice cloak.
"Why, she's been and carried off her mother's fireplace," thought Fly,
shaking her cloak in disgust; "what you s'pose she wanted to do that
for?"
But far from carrying off her mother's fireplace, the ragged little girl
had only been picking up old coal out of barrels, and was taking it home
to burn. It had already been burned once, and picked over and burned
again, and thrown away; but perhaps this poor child's mother could coax
it into a faint glow, warm enough to fry a few potatoes.
While Flyaway was shaking her cloak, and staring at some old silk
dresses and bed-quilts, which were hung before a shop-door, the man with
the harp on his back, and the boy with a violin under his arm, had
turned a corner, and passed out of sight. Flyaway rubbed her eyes, and
looked again. They must have gone down through the brick pavement, but
she couldn't see any hole. Far away in the distance she heard their
music again, and it did not come from under ground. She ran to overtake
it, and turned into Bleecker Street. No music-man there, but a good
supply of oranges and apples.
"Needn't folks put their hands in, and take some out the barrels? Then
why for did the folks put 'em on' doors?"
While pondering this grave question, she was jostled by a man carrying a
rocking-chair, and very nearly fell down stairs into an oyster-saloon. A
minute more and she was back on Broadway, the very street, where Aunt
Madge and Prudy were waiting for her, but so much lower down that she
might as well have been in the State of Maine.
"Now, I'll go find my Hollis," said she turning another corner, and
running the wrong way with all her might. Past candy-stalls, past
toy-shops, past orange-wagons. Hark, music again! Not the soft strains
of a harp, but the stirring notes of bugle, fife, and drum. Fly kept
time with her feet.
"Here we go marchin' on," hummed she. But the crowd "marchin' on" with
her was a strange one. Carts full of hammers, pincers, and all sorts of
iron tools, and men in gray shirts, with black caps on their heads. Some
of the men had banners, with great black words, such as "Equal Rights,"
or something like them, in German; but of course Fly could not tell one
letter from another. She only knew it was all very "homebly," in spite
of the music. She began to think she had better get away as soon as she
could; so she tried to cross the street, but some one held her back; it
was a lady, carrying a small dog in her arms, like a baby.
"Don't go there, child; that's a strike, you'll get killed."
Fly knew but one meaning for the word _strike_; and, tearing herself
from the lady, ran screaming down Broadway, with the thought that every
man's hand was against her.
On she went, and on went the strike, close behind her. A little while
ago she had been following music, and now music was following her. But
the fifes and drums were rather slow, and Flyaway's feet were very
swift; so it was not long before the gray men, with their white banners
and clattering carts, were far behind her. No danger now that any of the
wicked creatures would strike her; so she slackened her pace.
She did begin to wonder why she had not found Horace; still, she was not
at all alarmed, and there was a dreadful din in the streets, which
confused her thoughts. It seemed as if people were making it on purpose.
Once, at Willowbrook, she had heard boys banging tin pans, grinding
coffee mills, and pounding with mortars. She had liked that,--they
called it the "Calathumpian Band,"--and she liked this too; it sounded
about as uproarious.
While she sauntered along, spying wonders, her eye was attracted by some
balancing-toys, which a man was showing off at one of the corners. What
a pleasant man he was, to set them spinning just to amuse little girls!
Fly was delighted with one wee soldier, in a blue coat with brass
buttons, who kept dancing and bowing with the greatest politeness.
"Captain Jinks, of the horse-marines," said the toy-man, introducing
him. "Buy him, miss; he'll make a nice little husband for you; only
fifteen cents."
Fly felt quite flattered. It was the first time in her life any one had
ever asked her to buy anything, and she thought she must have grown tall
since she came from Indiana. She put her fingers in her mouth, then took
them out, and put them in her pocket.
"Here's my porte-monnaie-ry," said she, dolefully; "but I haven't but
two cents--no more. Hollis carried it off."
"Well, well, run along, then. Don't you see you're right in the way?"
Fly was surprised and grieved at the change in the man's tone: she had
expected he would pity her for not having any money.
"Come here, you little lump of love," called out a mellow voice; and
there, close by, sat a wizened old woman, making flowers into nosegays.
She had on a quilted hood as soft as her voice, but everything else
about her was as hard as the door-stone she sat on.
"See my beautiful flowers," said the old crone, pointing to the table
before her; "who cares for them jumping things over yonder? I don't."
The flowers were tied in bouquets--sweet violets, rosebuds, and
heliotrope. Fly, whose head just reached the top of the table, smelt
them, and forgot the "little husband, for fifteen cents."
"He's a cross man, dearie," said the old woman, lowering her voice, "or
he wouldn't have sent you off so quick, just because you hadn't any
money. Now, I love little girls, and I'll warrant we can make some kind
of a trade for one of my posies."
Fly smiled, and quickly seized a bouquet with a clove pink in it.
"Not so fast, child! What you got that you can give me for it? I don't
mind the money. That old pocket-book will do, though 'tain't wuth much."
It was very surprising to Fly to hear her port-monnaie called old; for
it was bought last week, and was still as red as the cheeks of the
painted lady.
"I don't _dass_ to give folks my porte-monnaie-ry," said she, clutching
it tighter, but holding the flowers to her nose all the while.
"O, fudge! Well, what else you got in your pocket? A handkerchief?"
"No, my hangerfiss is in my muff."
"That? Why, there isn't a speck o' lace on it. Nice little ladies always
has lace. Here's a letter in the corner; what is it?"
"Hollis says it's K; stands for Flyaway."
"Well, you're such a pretty little pink, I guess I'll take it; but
'tain't wuth lookin' at," said the crafty old woman, who saw at a glance
it was pure linen, and quite fine.
"Now run along, baby; your mummer will be waitin' for you."
Fly walked on slowly. Ought she to have parted with her very best
hangerfiss!
"Nice ole lady, loved little gee-urls; but what you s'pose folks was
goin' to cry into now?"
Tears started at the thought. One of them dropped into the eye of the
squirrel, who sat on the muff, peeping up into her face.
"Nice ole lady, I s'pose; but folks never wanted to buy my
_hangerfisses_ byfore!" thought Fly, much puzzled by the state of
society in New York. "And I've got some beau-fler flowers to my auntie's
house. Wake up--wake up!" added she, blowing open a pink rose-bud;
"you's too little for me."
But the bud did not wish to wake up and be a rose; it curled itself
together, and went to sleep again.
"I don't see where Hollis stays to all the time," exclaimed the little
one, beginning to have a faint curiosity about it.