apples, a barrel of flour, a keg of butter, and a bag of buckwheat
flour; labelled, "For Mr. John Harris, ---- street."
John declared, (after pinching himself to see if he were really John,)
that he fastened the gate inside the very last thing before he put on
his night-cap. Mrs. Harris said somebody must have climbed over and
unfastened it; and I jumped right up and down, for a bright thought had
just struck me, and I was determined to hold on to it, for I didn't
have a bright thought _every_ day.
"What now?" said John, as I capered round the room.
"Oh! nothing," said I, "only it takes a woman, after all, to find out a
secret--and to _keep it, too_," I added, snapping my fingers at him.
That day I thought it would do me good to ride about in an omnibus. I
tried several. It didn't make much difference to me whether they went
up street or down, or where they finally stopped. I was looking more at
the passengers.
By and by I saw the person I wanted. Said I, in a whisper, sitting down
beside him, "House rent--clerkship--flour--butter--crackers and
buckwheat; all for giving you a seat in an omnibus!"
Didn't I know that "the fairy" was the nice old man with silver locks?
Didn't he bribe me to hold my tongue, by telling me that he would come
and drink tea with me, so that he might get a peep at John and his
mother? Didn't he come? and didn't I look as much astonished when he
called, as if it hadn't been all settled two days previous? But how was
_I_ to know that Mrs. Harris would turn out to be an old love of his?
How was _John_ to know, when he felt such an irresistible impulse to be
kind to the old man, that his hair had grown white loving his mother?
How was the _old man_ to know why he loved John so well, and thought
him one of the finest young men he had ever seen? How was _I_ to know
that I was to turn out to be what I always so mortally hated--a
feminine match-maker?
LITTLE GERTRUDE'S PARTY.
Little Gertrude wanted to have a party. Sarah and Julia Smith had had
one, and Eliza Doane, and the twin Smith girls, and their little cousin
Mary Vose; (parties were very delightful things, why shouldn't _she_
have one?) Gertrude's mother was a sensible woman; she did not approve
of children's parties; but she had found out that it was sometimes the
cheapest way to teach her little daughter _by experience_, that her
mother always knew best; so Miss Gertrude had leave to "have a party!"
How her tongue _did_ run! "She should not ask Louisa Loft because _she_
did not invite _her_; she should not ask Louisa Thompson, because she
borrowed her 'Arabian Nights' and tore out one of the pictures; she
should not ask Janie Jones, because she heard her call her new bonnet
'a perfect fright;' she should not ask George Sales, because he was
such a glutton he would eat up all the bon-bons."
As to "supper," she would like oysters, of course; "escalloped
oysters," with wine in them, and two pyramids of ice cream, one vanilla
and one lemon; and some Charlotte Russe, and some Jersey biscuit, and
all sorts of cakes, and sugar drops with "cordial" inside, and
"mottoes" for the little beaux to give the little belles, &c., &c., &c.
Then her dress--_that_ required a _great deal of thought_; her pink
dress was too shabby to be thought of a moment; her blue one had
neither tucks, nor flounces; (and who ever heard of a party dress with
a plain skirt?) her buff one was not gay enough; in short, she had
_been seen_ in all those dresses--she ought to have a bran new one--a
cherry silk, for instance, with swan's down round the neck and
shoulders; that would be charming. Mary Scott told her, that her
Philadelphia cousin had a dress like that, and looked lovely in it.
As to the time for the party she thought a week from that day would
suit all the dress-makers--next Thursday week; then there were the
notes of invitation--should they be written on plain or embossed paper?
gilt-edged or not gilt-edged? These important questions puzzled
Gertrude hugely.
Thursday came--and so did "the cherry dress and the swan's down." The
dress-maker pinched Gertrude into it, and Gertrude, catching her breath
between the hooks and eyes, said "it fitted beautifully;" the little
satin slippers were also laced and rosetted to her mind, and her kid
gloves properly _ruche-d_ and bow-d and her hair curled by Mons.
Frizzle, till she looked like his wife's little poodle dog "Apollo."
The bell began to ring! Gertrude ran _once_ more to the glass before
the door should open; it was all right, all but one curl on the left
temple that had veered round a little too much to the north-east, and
which had to be re-arranged.
In they came.
The two Misses Tarleton first, dressed in a cerulean blue, to set off
their "lint locks" and fair complexions, with their two hands encased
in white kids, crossed over their two sashes, and an embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, starched very stiffly, between their little
fingers. Close upon _their_ satin slippers came Miss Jenny Judkins,
whose father was "rich." Miss Jenny wore a black velvet waist trimmed
profusely with black bugles, that sparkled under the chandelier enough
to put your eyes out. Her skirt was pink satin trimmed with black lace
flowers, and her hair was drawn back tightly from the roots at her
forehead, and confined by tri-colored bows with long streamers like the
pennants of a ship. Gertrude felt very much afraid that Miss Jenny
would be voted "the belle."
Time would "give out" should I undertake to do justice to all these
young ladies, beside I must not omit the young gentlemen. I am not
quite sure that I have done right to keep them so long in "the
gentleman's dressing room."
In the first place, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Augustus Anthony,
who has been in the hands of Mons. Peruke for the last hour, as you
will perceive by his perfumed locks; the bows of his little silk
necktie, you please notice, are of the proper fashionable size, and his
jacket richly embroidered. His brother John, "just from college," fixed
his watch chain; so there's no use in my criticising _that_. Then,
there's Master George Harrison, Jr., with his patent pumps and silk
stockings, and his sister Jane's diamond ring outside his buff glove on
the third finger. He has frequent occasion to point about the room with
_that_ hand, you notice!
Next comes Master Simpkins, who is very bashful, and stood tweeddling
his thumbs, all of a cold sweat, before he ventured in; he knew that
his toes _ought_ to turn _out_, instead of _in_, but that was a defect
that couldn't be rectified in a minute, and so he made up his mind to
shuffle in behind Peter, the black waiter, who just passed in to
arrange the candelabras.
Well, they commenced dancing and all "went merry as a marriage bell"
for an hour, when Miss Tarleton was discovered crying, because "Master
Simpkins had trod on her blue dress and torn off one of the
flounces"--and Miss Jane Judkins was very red in the face, because one
of Mr. Augustus Anthony's jacket buttons had caught in a fine gold
chain upon her neck, and a little gold cross had snapped off, nobody
knew where, that belonged to her sister Julia, who made her promise
"certain true not to lose it;" and Miss Smith had burst her kid glove
right across the hand, and couldn't think of dancing after such a
disaster.
Gertrude ran to her mother in great trouble, proposing that harmony
should be restored by the supper table. It looked very gay--that supper
table, with its lights, and bouquets, and fancy confectionary; it
seemed almost a pity to put it in confusion; but Mr. George Sales did
not incline to that opinion; so he very quietly seized a dish of
oysters and commenced helping himself out of it, quite oblivious of
"the presence of the ladies."
Master Anthony was more gallant--he, under the influence of Miss Jane
Judkins' tri-colored bows and velvet spencer, valiantly attacked, knife
in hand, a fortress of ice-cream, and having freighted a gilt-edged
saucer with it, was in the act of presenting it to her, with a
dancing-school bow, when he unfortunately lodged the contents of the
saucer on her pink skirt and lace flounces. Gertrude retired to the
dressing-room with the afflicted Miss Jane, offering her all the
sympathy that such a melancholy occasion called for.
When Gertrude returned to the supper room she had the pleasure of
hearing Miss Taft remark, that it was "the stupidest party she ever
attended; and as to the supper, it was positively shabby--only _two_
pyramids of ice-cream! but then she had heard her mamma say that
Gertrude's mother had never been to parties much, so she supposed she
really didn't know any better; _she_ (Miss Taft) intended to have a
party herself, when she was twelve years old, which event was to come
off in a month or two, and _then_ they'd see a party worth dressing
for."
Poor Gertrude, after all the pains she had taken, her pretty supper
table "shabby," her party "stupid," and her mamma--"didn't know any
better!" She was perfectly miserable--her head ached violently, and had
it not been for shame, she would have cried outright.
The "ladies and gentlemen" having surfeited themselves at the "shabby
supper table," had one more dance, in which nobody was suited with
their partners, and several declared, pouting, that they would not
dance at all, "because the music was so miserable;" and then they
cloaked and hood-ed themselves, and the "rich" Miss Judkins rolled off
in her father's carriage, much to the dissatisfaction of some of the
other young ladies, who walked home with their little pinafore
admirers, cutting up Miss Gertrude's party in a manner that showed they
had not listened in vain to the remarks of their mammas about the
parties _they_ had attended.
As to Gertrude herself, when the last little foot had pattered out of
the entry, she threw herself, weeping, into her mamma's lap, quite worn
out with excitement and mortification.
Gertrude's mother considers the money laid out for that "party," and
the "cherry silk dress," as one of the most profitable investments she
ever made; for, although Miss Gertrude is now a wife and a mother, with
a house of her own, she has never been known since that night, to "have
a party," or to express the least desire to _go to one_. For, my dear
children, "grown-up parties" are not a whit more profitable or
satisfactory than the little miniature one that caused Gertrude so much
trouble and unhappiness.
FERN MUSINGS.
Morning again! and New-York is beginning to stir. Lazy creatures! they
_should_ have been up hours ago. That old rooster over the way has
crowed himself hoarse, trying to start them all out: and _he_ is not as
smart as he might be, for I saw the first streak of dawn myself, before
he was off his perch.
Now the carts begin to rumble by, with "fresh sweet milk," labelled on
the sides. Lucky they tell us of it, for we never should find it out
ourselves by _tasting_. There go the dray-carts, with baggage from the
just-arrived cars; then follows a carriage with the owners of the
baggage. How hollow-eyed they look, traveling all night. They are
evidently thinking of eggs and hot rolls. There go the boarding-house
women, basket in hand, to secure their dinner: hope they won't spoil it
with bad cooking-butter! There go the shop girls, shrouded in thick
brown veils: poor things! they got up late and couldn't stop to comb
their hair. There come the market carts from the country, laden with
cabbages, and turnips, and beets, and parsnips, and apples, and nobody
knows what else beside.
There comes a little boy, screeching "R-a-d-i-shes;" and a little girl
just behind him, shouting "Bl-a-ck-ber-ries," and a man in the middle
of the street, yelling "Tin-tin-tin--tin ware for sale." Oh dear! I
shall have to stuff my ears with cotton wool. I'm as crazy as a
Fourth-of-July orator who has forgotten his speech.
There come some business men, chewing the last mouthful of their
breakfast as they button the first button of their overcoats and hurry
down street. There go the laundresses with their baskets of clean
clothes,--hope they haven't ironed off all the shirt-buttons. There's a
man with a parcel of old umbrellas on his back: it would puzzle "a
Philadelphia lawyer" to find out what _he_ is shouting. Never mind, he
makes a noise in the world; so I suppose he is satisfied. There go two
or three women with _slip-shod feet_;--ugh! And there's a little girl
fresh from the country, (you may know that) for her eyes are as bright
as stars, and her cheeks look like June roses. She has a bunch of
flowers in her hand, but they are no prettier than herself;--she is a
perfect little rose-bud (if her shoes are clumsy and her bonnet
old-fashioned.) If you'll excuse me I'll run down a minute and speak to
her.
Well, I declare! she says her name is "Letty Hill," and she has come
into town to see Aunt Hopkins; and her aunt, and she, and her little
cousin Meg Hopkins, are all going to Barnum's Museum, (Uncle Hopkins
isn't going with 'em, because he says Burnum's a humbug;) and she is
going to wear a clean white apron, that is stowed away safe in her
carpet bag, with blue ribbon strings on it. She don't know whether she
shall stay over night, or not; her mother told her she _might_, if Aunt
Hopkins asked her, and she hopes she _will_ ask her, because she and
Meg Hopkins want to tell ghost-stories, and play "tent" with the sheets
after they get into bed. She has a whole ninepence in her pocket, which
Jake (the man on the farm) gave her, and she intends to buy out some of
the Broadway shop keepers with it before she sees Clover Farm again.
She hopes Aunt Hopkins will have mince pie for dinner, and make it real
sweet, too; and she hopes Cousin Tom Hopkins will be at home, because
he always gives her sixpences. There she goes, tripping along. God
bless her! _She_ don't care whether there's a revolution in Europe or
not.
Look over there at that street pump; isn't that a pretty sight
now?--that little girl in the short frock, with bare legs, and feet as
plump as little partridges. She has set down her basket, and stopped to
get a drink of water. The pump handle goes very hard. She concludes to
put it to a better use,--she will make a swing of it. So she lifts it
way up, and then seizing hold with both hands, swings herself down upon
the sidewalk. Ah! she has alighted in a puddle! She looks at her little
fat feet, and makes up her mind she will take a bath; so she pumps out
the water, and holds first one little plump foot under, then the other,
till they are as white and polished as marble, and her little
pink-tipped toes look all too dainty to touch the dirty sidewalk. Now,
she sees me looking at her, and blushing scampers off.
"Sweep, ho--sweep, ho! want any chimneys swept, ma'am?"
"No, indeed! not if that poor child behind you has got to crawl up the
chimney to do it. Why, he can't be more than five years old."
"He's used to it--it don't hurt his _complexion_."
Very like, poor little African; but it would hurt my _feelings_;
besides I haven't got any chimney--no, nor a house;--don't own
_anything_, I'm happy to say, but a bandbox and a tooth-brush; don't
care a snap of my thumb for the "first of May" in New-York; it don't
_move_ me!
There's a little boy, under the window, holding up his hand for a
penny. He's trying to _cry_; but it is very hard work. Never mind,
Johnny, or Sammy, or whatever your name is, don't shed a tear for me,
for mercy's sake; but there's a penny for making up such an awful face.
I'll send you to puzzle the barber in the avenue, who advertises to
"_cut hair to suit the countenance_!"
CRAZY TIM.
What in the world is that?--a poor old man, almost bent double, drawing
a little wooden horse upon the pavement, and laughing and talking to it
as if he were seven years old, instead of seventy! How white his hair
is; and see--his hat is without a crown, and one of the flaps of his
coat is torn off. Now one of the boys has pelted him with a stone, that
has brought the blood from his wrinkled cheek; another asks him "how
much he will take for his hat," while all the rest surround him,
shouting, "Old crazy Uncle Tim--old crazy Uncle Tim!"
Come here, boys, won't you?--and let poor Uncle Tim go home, while I
tell you his story.
Uncle Tim used to be the village shoemaker, hammering away at his
lap-stone in that little shop with the red eaves, as contentedly as if
he owned a kingdom. He always had a pleasant smile and a merry story
for his customers, and it was worth twice the money one paid him, to
see his sunshiny face and hear his hearty laugh.
[Illustration: CRAZY TIM.]
But the light of Uncle Tim's eyes was his little daughter Kitty. Kitty
was not a beauty. No--her little nose turned right up, like a little
dogs; her hair was neither soft nor curly; and her little neck and arms
were almost as brown as the leather in her father's shop,--still,
everybody loved Kitty, because she had such a warm, good heart, and
because she was so kind to her honest old father.
Uncle Tim had no wife. She had been dead many years. I shouldn't wonder
if Uncle Tim didn't grieve any, for she was a very cross, quarrelsome,
disagreeable person, and made him very unhappy.
Little Kitty was his housekeeper now, although she was only seven years
old. She and her father lived in a room back of the shop, and Uncle Tim
did the cooking, while Kitty washed the dishes, made the bed, and
tidied up the small room with her own nimble little fingers. When she
had quite done, she would run into the shop, steal behind her father,
throw her chubby brown arms about his neck, and give him a kiss that
would make him sing like a lark for many an hour after.
While his fingers were busy at his lap-stone he was thinking--not of
the coarse boots and shoes he was making, but of little Kitty--how he
meant to send her to school--how he meant she should learn to read and
write, and know a great deal more than ever _he_ did, when he was
young--and how he meant to save up all his money in the old yarn
stocking, till he got enough to put in the bank for Kitty,--so that
when he died she needn't go drifting round the world, trying to earn
her bread and butter among cold, stony-hearted strangers.
Uncle Tim found some time to play, too. When it came sundown, he and
Kitty, and the old yellow dog Jowler, would start off on a stroll. It
was very funny to see little Kitty fasten down the windows with an old
nail, before she started, like some old housekeeper, and put the
tea-kettle in the left-hand corner of the fire-place, and take such a
careful look about to see if everything was right, before turning the
key. When they got out into the fields they both enjoyed the fresh air
as only industrious people can. Every breath they drew seemed a luxury;
and as to Uncle Tim, I don't know which was the younger, he or Kitty. I
am sure he went over fences and stone walls like a squirrel; and as to
Kitty, her merry laugh would ring through the woods till the little
birds would catch it up and echo it back again.
Then, when they reached home, they had such a good appetite for their
brown bread and milk. Oh! I can tell you, Uncle Tim and Miss Kitty
wouldn't have thanked Queen Victoria for the gift of her scepter, they
were so happy.
One day Kitty asked Uncle Tim to let her go huckleberrying. She said
she knew a field where they were "as thick as blades of grass." Uncle
Tim couldn't go with her, because Sam Spike, the blacksmith, was in a
hurry for a pair of boots to be married in, and of course Sam couldn't
wait for all the huckleberries in creation; so Tim staid at home,
humming and singing, and singing and humming, while Kitty tied on her
calico sun-bonnet, slung her basket on her little brown arm, and
trudged off with her dog Jowler.
Jowler was very good company. Kitty and he used to have long
conversations about all sorts of things. Kitty always knew by the way
he wagged his tail whether he agreed with her or not. When any other
dog came up to speak to him, he'd look up into Kitty's little freckled
face, to see if she considered the new dog a proper acquaintance, and
if she shook her head, he'd give him a look out of his eyes, as much as
to say, "It's no use," and trot demurely on after Kitty.
Well, Jowler and she picked a quart of huckleberries, and then Kitty
started for home, Jowler carrying the basket in his mouth part of the
way, when Kitty spied any flowers she wished to pick. When she had
plucked all she wanted she concluded to take a shorter cut home across
the fields, and down on the railroad track. So they trotted on, Kitty
singing the while.
By and by they reached the track. Kitty looked,--there were no cars
coming as far as she could see. To be sure there was a curve in the
road just behind her, (round which the eye couldn't look,) but she
wasn't afraid. Just then Jowler dropped the basket and spilt her
huckleberries. Kitty was _so_ sorry,--but she stooped down to gather
them up, when a train of cars whisked like lightning round the curve on
the road, and poor little Kitty was crushed to death in an instant!
Jowler wasn't killed--faithful Jowler,--he trotted home to Uncle Tim,
who sat singing at his work, and leaped upon him, and whined, and
tugged at his coat, till Uncle Tim threw down the blacksmith's boots
and followed him, for he knew something must be the matter. Perhaps
Kitty had fallen over a stone wall, and lamed her foot--who knew? So
Jowler ran backwards and forwards, barking and whining, till he brought
Uncle Tim to the railroad track.
Was _that_ crushed mass of flesh and bone little Kitty?--_his_
Kitty?--all he had in the wide earth to love?
Uncle Tim looked once, and fell upon the earth as senseless as a stone.
Ever since he has been quite crazy. All he cares to do is to draw up
and down through the road that little wooden horse that Kitty used to
play with, hoping to coax her back to him.
Poor old Tim! Would you throw another stone at him, boys? Would you
hunt the weary old man through the streets like some wild beast? Would
you taunt, and sneer, and shout in his ears, "Old crazy Tim"--"Old
crazy Tim?" Oh, no--no! Pick a flower and give him, as Kitty used; take
his hand--poor, harmless old man--and walk along with him; maybe he'll
fancy that you are little Kitty, (who knows?) and smile once more
before he dies. Poor Uncle Tim!
CICELY HUNT;
OR,
THE LAME GIRL.
What a holy and beautiful thing is a mother's love!
Every morning, about eight o'clock, I have noticed, limping past my
window to school, a little lame girl. A woman goes with her; supporting
her gently by the arm and carrying her satchel of books.
The girl is very poorly clad. Sometimes her dress will be patched with
two or three different colors; but it is always very clean; and I have
observed that her stockings, though coarse, are always whole, and that
her shoes are neatly tied up. The woman who goes with her looks tidy,
too; though she wears a rusty black bonnet, of an old-fashioned make,
and a faded shawl.
Cicely's little school-mates bound past her; skipping, hopping, jumping
and running, as if they could not exercise their legs enough. The lame
girl looks at them, smiles a sad, quiet smile, and looks up tearfully
in her mother's face. The mother answers back with a look so _full_ of
love, and lays her hand upon her child's arm, as much as to say, "I
love you all the more, because you are a poor, little helpless
cripple."
And so they travel over the icy pavements to school; (stepping very
carefully, for it would be a sad thing if Cicely should slip and fall;)
until, at last, they reach the school house.
What a blessing are free schools! What a difference it makes in the
life of that poor girl, to be able to read! How many weary hours of
pain will a nice book beguile! And, beside, if one has not a cent in
the world, if one has a good education, it is worth as much as money in
the bank,--and more, too, because banks often turn out great humbugs,
and then people lose all the money they have placed in them.
Cicely was not always poor. She can remember (just as you can a dream,
when you first rub open your eyes in the morning) a great big house
with richly carpeted halls, and massive chandeliers, and rich sofas and
curtains, and gilded mirrors, and silver vessels, and black servants.