to let her play horse with; and that he used to sit a long while at the
table with gentlemen, drinking wine and eating fruit after dinner; and
that often, he would ring for the nurse to bring _her_ in, to show her
to the gentlemen when her curls had been nicely smoothed and her little
embroidered frock put on; and that then he would stand her up on the
table and make her sing a little song, and that the gentlemen would
clap their hands and laugh, and grow very merry about it.
Then she remembers that one day there was a great running to and fro in
the house; and she saw her father lifted from a carriage in the arms of
two gentlemen, and that blood was flowing from his side; and then her
nurse caught her up, and carried her into the nursery, and she didn't
go down stairs or see her papa again for many days; and she remembers
that one day, getting tired waiting for him to come up and see her, she
crept down _by herself_ to his room, and found him lying on the bed,
with his hands crossed over his breast, and only a linen sheet thrown
over him, though it was very cold weather; and she said, "Papa?"--but
he didn't answer; and she got a chair and climbed up in it to put her
hand on his face, to wake him, but he was as cold as the marble image
in the hall; and then her nurse called, "Cicely!--Cicely!" and seemed
frightened, when she found her _there_; but wouldn't tell her _why_ her
papa laid there so still, or _why_ he wouldn't speak to his little
girl.
And then she remembers going away from the big house, and bidding
good-bye to her black nurse; and ever since that they had lived in poor
places, and people spoke harshly to them; and though her mamma never
answered them back, she sighed heavily, and sometimes leaned her head
on her hand and wept.
And one night it snowed in on the bed, and Cicely caught cold and had a
fever, which left her with the dreadful lameness that I told you about;
and then Cicely's mother groaned because she had no money; for she
thought some of the great doctors, if they were well paid for it, might
think it worth their while to try and cure Cicely.
Cicely's limb was less painful now than it had been for two years,
although it was quite useless; but her mother, as I told you, helped
her to limp to school. Cicely kept hoping it would get _quite_ well,
and she wanted to learn as fast and as much as she could; because she
thought if she got all the medals, the Committee might say, "Cicely, we
must have you for a teacher here, some day."
Yes; why not? Stranger things than that have happened; and then,
perhaps, she could earn enough to (and here Cicely had to stop to
think, because there were so _many_ things they wanted,)--earn enough
to buy a pair of warm blankets for their bed; and enough to have a cup
of tea Sunday nights; and enough to keep a fire and a light through the
long winter evenings, and not have to go to bed because they were so
cold, and because candles were so dear.
Yes; Cicely was looking forward to all that, when she limped along to
school. She thought it would be so delightful to empty her purse in her
kind mother's lap, and say: "Dear mother, you needn't work any more.
_I_ will support you, now."
Oh, what a nice thing hope is! Sometimes, to be sure, she leads us a
long dance for nothing; but I am very certain that were it not for
hope, we shouldn't be good for much. Many a poor groaner has she
clapped on the back, and made him leap to his feet and set his teeth
together, and spring over obstacles as if he had on "seven league
boots." She is a little coquettish, but _I_ like her. She has helped
_me_ out of many a hobble.
Well, as the great speakers say, this is a digression. Do you know what
that is? It is leaving off what you are about, to dance off to
something else--just as I did up there about hope. Now I'm going on!
One day the committee came to Cicely's school, to hear the scholars
recite; and Cicely stood up in her patched gown as straight as she
could, and recited her lessons.
One of the gentlemen who came in with the committee asked, "Who is that
young girl who said her lessons so well?"
"Cicely Hunt?" he repeated, after the teacher,--"Cicely Hunt! _She_ was
not lame; and then--why--no--it _can't_ be: the thing is quite
impossible," and he leaned back in his chair, and looked at Cicely.
After school was over he said to her, "Do you sing, Cicely?"
"Not now," said Cicely, blushing. "I used to sing, a long while ago,
when I was little."
"When, Cicely?"
"I sang to--to--my papa," said Cicely--tears springing to her eyes. "I
used to sing, 'Blue eyed Mary,' for the gentlemen who dined with papa."
Then the gentleman (pretending to look out the window) wiped his eyes,
and turning to the teacher, they whispered a long while together, now
and then looking at Cicely.
That evening, when Cicely and her mother were warming their fingers
over a fire of shavings, somebody knocked at the door.
Cicely blushed, when she saw the same gentleman she had seen at the
school coming in, and looked anxiously about the room.
But Mr. Raymond was not looking at the room. I doubt if he saw
anything, his eyes were so full of tears; but he held Cicely's mother
by the hand several minutes, without speaking, and led her back to the
chair with as much deference as if she had been a Duchess; and then
Cicely found out, as they talked, that he was one of her father's old
friends, and that, as sometimes happens, even between friends, they had
a quarrel, and that then they were both mistaken enough to think that
the most gentlemanly way to settle it, was to fight a duel; and that
Mr. Raymond wounded her father, and had to go away as fast as possible,
because there was so much noise about it, and that he had been very
unhappy ever since, and would have given all he had to have brought him
to life again, and that when he returned to his native city he had
searched everywhere for Mrs. Hunt and Cicely, without finding them.
Well, now he wanted to support Cicely and her mother, but Mrs. Hunt did
not like that. She forgave him the sorrow he had brought upon her
because he had suffered so much; but she did not wish to be supported
by him. However, she allowed him to find her a better place to live in,
and get her some scholars to teach, who paid her high prices, and by
and by Cicely helped her, and so they supported _themselves_; which is
a far pleasanter way of living than to be dependent.
Cicely was never entirely cured of her lameness; but a physician made
her much more comfortable; so she could walk by herself, with the help
of a crutch; and Mrs. Hunt's last days, after all, were her best days;
for, we should never know, my dear little pets, how brightly the sun
shines, if it _were never clouded_.
THE LITTLE TAMBOURINE PLAYER.
I was sitting at my window one fine morning, at a farm house in the
country, enjoying the sweet air, the soft blue clouds, and far-off
hills, and watching the hay-makers in their large, straw hats, as they
tossed the hay about, piled it upon the cart, or "raked after," or
drove along home through the meadow, crushing the sweet breath from the
clover blossoms that lay scattered in their path; and enjoying the song
of the little robin in the linden tree opposite, who was thrilling my
heart with his gushing notes.
* * *
A hand organ! What a nuisance! I fancied I had left them all behind me
in the city, where one has such a surfeit of them. A hand organ in the
_country_! where the little birds never make a discord, or charge us a
fee, either! I'll get up and shut the window, or run off into the back
woods, where such a thing as a hand organ was never heard of.
I got up to put my threat into execution, when my eye was attracted by
the musicians. There was a coarse, stout, sun-burned Irish woman, with
an immense straw hat flapping over her freckled face, tied with a gaudy
ribbon under her _three chins_, singing, "I'd be a butterfly!" At her
side, stood a little girl about six years old, holding an inverted
tambourine, to catch windfalls in the shape of pennies.
The little creature was as delicate as a rose leaf; her eyes were large
and of a soft hazel; her skin fair and white, and her hair waved over
her graceful little head as sweetly as your own. Her hands were small
and white, and her coarse shoes could not hide her pretty little feet.
She was not _that_ woman's child; I was sure of if; for her voice was
as sweet as a wind harp.
"How far have you come, to-day?" asked I of the Irish "butterfly."
"From the city, sure," said she; "would your leddyship give me a
saxpence?"
I'd have given her five times that amount, if she wouldn't have sung to
me again. So I tossed her the "saxpence," and asked if the child had
walked from the city (four miles) too?
"Sure," said the woman, looking a little confused. "Biddy would be
afther going with her mother wheriver she went."
_Her_ mother? I didn't believe it. That child had been delicately
brought up, as sure as my name was Fanny. All my motherly feelings were
roused in an instant.
"If that is the case," said I, carelessly, "I suppose she is hungry,
and her mother, too; if you will let her go down in the orchard with
me, I will bring you back some nice ripe apples."
The little girl looked timidly at the woman, who took a good look at me
out of her bold, saucy, black eyes, and asked, "Is it far you'll be
going?"
"Just to yonder tree," said I, pointing down the meadow; "but if you
think it will weary her to go, I will bring them to her myself."
"You can go with the lady," said the woman, giving her a look that the
child seemed to understand, "and I will just sit on the fence and look
afther ye."
"Is that your mother?" said I, stooping to pluck a daisy at the little
one's feet.
"Y-e-s," she said slowly, but without looking me in the face.
"_No she is not_," said I. "Don't be afraid of me; if you want to get
away from her I can help you. Didn't she steal you away?"
The child nodded her head, without speaking, and looked timidly over
her shoulder, to see if any one was near to hear me.
"Is your own mother alive?" I asked.
She nodded her head again, and her sweet little lip quivered.
"Hush!" said I, "don't cry. I'll get you away from her. Keep quiet.
Don't talk any more now. Just pick up the pears in your apron, that I
knock off this tree."
I climbed the pear tree and peeping over the fence, saw good honest
"Jim," the "man of all work" at the farm, sitting down in the shade to
rest, with old Bruno curled up at his feet.
I tossed a pear at his red head. Jim looked up. I put my finger on my
lip, saying, "Creep round by the fence, Jim, and get up to the house;
go in at the back door and wait till I come up. Don't say a word to
anybody. I'll tell you why when I get back."
Jim gave me a sagacious nod, and commenced going on all fours behind
the fence.
Little "Biddy," as her pretended mother called her, filled her apron
with the pears and we started across the field to where Bridget still
sat, perched upon the garden fence, with her hand organ unstrapped at
her feet.
I emptied the pears in her lap, and she thanked me in her uncouth way,
between the big mouthsful, and sat down on the grass with Biddy.
Presently I asked her if she would like some ginger beer; of course she
said yes, and of course I had to go into the kitchen to get it, and of
course I found Jim there, and telling him my story in a dozen words, he
brought his hand down with a thump on his waistband, exclaiming,
"Je-ru-sa-lem!"
When Jim said _that_ you might know he was going to do something
terrible!
Well, I went back with the beer, and just as Bridget was tipping the
glass up to her thick lips, Jim bounded behind her like a panther, and
held her arms tight while I took little Biddy and scampered into the
house.
Having locked little Biddy safe in my chamber, I returned and picked up
off the grass, two silver spoons of Jim's mother's, that Bridget had
taken from the parlor closet while we were getting the pears.
That gave us a right to shut her up in jail--to say nothing of her
carrying off poor little Biddy--and you may be sure that Jim was not
long in sending her there, spite of her vociferations that, "If there
was law in the counthry she'd have the right of him yet, for meddling
with an honest woman like Bridget Fliligan."
"Thank you for telling us your name," said Jim, coolly; "it is just
what we wanted to know."
But it is time I let out my little prisoner, poor little Edith, (that
was her real name.)
"Is she gone a great _way_ off? Can't she get me _ever_?" said the
frightened child, peeping round the room as if she expected to see her
jump out of the closet, or spring from under the bed. "Will you keep
hold of my hand all the time when it comes night? Can't they get me
_then_?"
"No, no, my darling--never, never. Come here and sit on my knee. Now,
tell me, how came you to live with Bridget?"
"I was going to school," said Edith, "and I stopped to look at some
pretty pictures in a shop window, when this Bridget came up to me and
said, 'Which of them do you like best, dear?'--and I said, 'The little
boy asleep on the dog's neck;' and she said, 'If you will come round
the corner with me, I will give you one just like it;' and I said, 'No;
I shall be late at school, and my mamma wouldn't like it;' and then she
said it wouldn't take but a minute, and she led me into an alley, and
when she got there she threw her shawl over my head, and ran with me;
and when she took the shawl off, I was in a house with some Irish
people, and Bridget said, 'I've got her!--she will do nicely, sure, to
play the tambourine. Won't the pretty face of her bring the shillings?'
"And then I cried, and begged them to take me back to mamma; and
Bridget held up a great stick, and said, 'Do you see that?' and then
she took off the clothes I had on, and put on these, and brought the
tambourine, and told me how to play it; and when my fingers trembled so
that I couldn't, she shook me, and pulled my hair, and said I should
have nothing to eat till I learned to do it; and I begged and begged
her to take me home. I told her mamma would cry all night, and papa,
too, and little Henry,--but she hurt me with the stick so (pulling up
her sleeve, and showing me the blue spots on her arms); and then I was
afraid she would kill me, and so I tried to learn, because I thought if
I minded her, perhaps she would let me see mamma;--but she never did;
and I slept in the cellar with her nights, and in the day time, before
light, she takes me out into the country to play. See, my feet are very
sore"--(and she pulled off the heavy, coarse shoes and showed me the
blisters on them.)
"Won't _you_ take me to see my mamma, _quick_?" said Edith, putting her
little arms round my neck, as if she were afraid I would feel hurt
because she wanted to leave me so soon.
"Just as fast as old Dobbin can carry you, my darling," said I, "if you
will only tell me where to find her."
Little Edith began to cry.
"Perhaps she is dead," said she, sobbing.
"Oh, I hope not," said I, (the thought of restoring the little one had
been so delightful to me); "cheer up, my darling,--now tell me where to
find your father. What does he do for a living, Edith?"
"He has a shop," said Edith, "and knives, and forks, and scissors, and
iron things in it."
"Oh, I know; he is what we call a hardware merchant."
"Yes," said Edith, "that's it."
"Well, where's the shop?"
"In the city," said Edith, "in ---- street. My papa's name is ----
Grosvenor, Esquire."
"Well, we'll find him, Jim and I. Here's the horse and wagon, my little
musician, so jump in."
Jim whipped up, and away we jolted into town, little Edith clinging
tightly to my arm, for fear of Bridget.
Two hours and we were in ---- street. I went into a confectioner's with
little Edith, while Jim drove to her father's store.
Edith grew very impatient--a bright red spot came upon her cheek--and
she walked often to the window and looked out.
In about half an hour I saw Jim coming back up the street, and at his
side a fine looking, tall man, of thirty.
"There's Jim," said I to Edith--
"And papa! and papa!--oh, _it is_ papa--my own papa"--and she rushed to
the door with the speed of an antelope.
How can I describe to you that meeting, when I couldn't see it for my
tears? but I heard kisses and sobs, thick and fast, and the words,
"Dear papa," and "My blessed, lost Edith."
Well, nothing would do, but Jim and I must go home and see mamma, too,
who had never been outside of the door since her poor little girl was
taken away.
We drove to the house--Edith, and I and Jim, staying below stairs,
while Mr. G---- went to prepare his wife for the joyful news.
Presently we heard a heavy fall upon the floor. The joy was too
intense. Edith's mother had fainted! She opened her eyes--it was not a
dream! There was her little lost darling before her! She held her at
arm's length--she clasped her to her breast--she kissed my hands--then
she ran weeping to her husband--then back to Edith, till the pantomime
became too painful.
"Je-ru-sa-lem!" said Jim.
THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT.
Last evening I was walking in Broadway. The shop windows were brilliant
with gas, and bright silks, and satins, and jewels were all spread out
in the windows in the most tempting manner; all was gayety, bustle,
hurry, drive, and confusion; omnibuses, carts, carriages, drays,
military, music; people flocking to concerts, shows, and theatres;
people flocking _in_ town, and people flocking _out_; fashions in _one_
window--coffins in the _next_; beggars and millionaires, ministers and
play-actors, chimney-sweeps and ex-presidents, all in a heap.
I sauntered along dreamily, looking at them all, and wondering where
all those myriads of people ate, and drank, and slept; how they had all
laughed and wept; how soon they would all die off, one by one, without
being missed, while strangers, just as busy, would fill their places,
and die in turn, to give place to others.
Over my head the stars shone on, just as brightly as they did ages ago,
when Bethlehem's babe was born--just as they will ages hence, when
nobody will know that you or I ever thrilled with joy, or sighed with
sorrow, beneath them.
But I am not going to preach to you;--the panorama made me _think_;
that's all. Well, I sauntered along, and presently came in sight of a
broker's window, (ask your papa what a broker is,) in a basement, quite
down upon the pavement. The window seat was covered with black velvet,
and on it lay little glittering heaps of money, in gold and
silver;--some quarters--some half-dollars--some dollars--some five
dollar and some ten dollar pieces.
I shouldn't have looked twice after _them_, but, crouched down upon the
sidewalk, so close to the broker's window that his face almost touched
it, was a little boy about ten years old. His ragged little cap was
pushed carelessly back; his long, dark hair fell round his face, and
his eyes were fixed upon that money with an intensity of gaze, that
seemed to render him perfectly unconscious of the presence of any one
about him.
I touched my companion's arm, and we stopped and looked at the boy some
moments, and then passed on. But I couldn't go away, I wanted so much
to know what that little boy was thinking about. So we went back again,
and watched him a few minutes longer. He had not moved from his
position. There he sat, with his little chin in his hand, building air
castles.
"What are you thinking about, dear?" said I, touching him gently on the
shoulder.
He started, and the bright color flushed to his very temples. I fancied
that I had frightened him, or wounded his feelings. Perhaps he imagined
that I thought he was trying to _steal_ that money. So I said quickly,
"Don't be afraid of me; I only felt curious to know what your thoughts
were. I love little children. Now tell me--you were wishing all that
bright money was _yours_, were you not?"
"Yes," said he, veiling his great dark eyes with their long lashes.
"I thought so," said I; "and now, supposing you had it, what would you
do with it, my darling?"
Now, very likely you think he told me of the kites, and tops, and
balls, and horses, and marbles that he would buy with it.
No--he looked up earnestly in my face for a minute, as if he would read
_my_ thoughts, and then he said, with his great eyes swimming in tears,
"I would give it all to my mother."
I didn't care _whose_ boy he was--he was _mine_ then. So I just kissed
him, and tried to keep from crying myself, while I asked him where he
lived.
He told me in ---- Court; and then we took hold of his hands and went
home with him.
Such a home!
A little low room, with one small window, and no furniture in it,
except an old rickety bedstead, upon which lay a woman about thirty
years old, wasting away in a consumption.
Her large eyes glittered like stars, and on each cheek burned a bright
red fever-spot. An old shawl was thrown on the bed for a counterpane.
She had neither sheets nor blankets, and the chill night air blew
through the broken window-panes, making her cough so fearfully that I
thought she must die _then_.
Little Angelo crept to my side, and pointing to the bed, said, "That's
why I wanted the money."
Well, this was her story, which (in broken English) she told us
(between her coughing spells): About a year before, she came over to
this country from Italy with her husband. He was a very bad man, and as
soon as he landed from the ship he ran off with all their money, and
left his wife to take care of herself and little Angelo.
They wandered all about, and came near getting into some very bad
places, (which was what her naughty husband _wished_ her to do, I
suppose.) Sometimes they slept in old sheds, and behind barrels, or
anywhere where they could find a shelter for the night out of harm's
way. Poor Mrs. Cicchi was delicate, and could not bear such cruel
exposure. She took a violent cold, and that brought on a quick
consumption; and now there she lay, in that miserable room, in a
strange country, _dying_!
Poor little Angelo! well might he look wistfully at the money in the
broker's window.
Mrs. Cicchi told us that Angelo was a good boy, and would much rather
work than beg, if he could get anything to do. She said his father made
images in Italy, and that Angelo was always trying to do it too,
whenever he got a bit of clay; and sometimes she thought he could get a
living in that way when she was dead, if he had any friends; but, "poor
boy!" she said, and turned her face to the pillow. "Poor boy! oh, how
can his father forget him?"
We comforted her, and told her that Angelo should be taken care of, and
then she wiped away her tears, and said she "could die happy"--and she
did die a few days after; for cold, and hunger, and trouble had done
more mischief, than the doctor who was sent to her could undo, with all
his skill.
How poor Angelo clung to her dead body! How he kissed her hands and
face, and sobbed, "My _poor, poor_ mother!" He grieved so much that we
almost feared _he_ would die too.
By and by he listened to me. I told him that his mother was always near
him, though he could not _see_ her; and that every time he thought a
good thought, or put away an evil one, she sang a sweeter song. Angelo
liked that! His great dark eyes glittered through his tears; he smiled
and kissed my hand;--often he sits still and listens, as if he heard
his mother's song.
Angelo is a _good_ boy. When he is out of school he works with an image
maker. It is all play to _him_, he likes it so much. The old man stares
to see him go on, but don't say anything. I know very well what he is
thinking: he thinks that one of these days Congress will send Angelo an
order for a statue for the Capitol!
I think so myself.
Dear little Angelo! his father will be very glad to own him by and by.
Oh, I can tell you, _good luck_ is an _excellent "town crier," to find
people with bad memories_!
BLACK CHLOE.
I wonder how you treat the servants in your mother's house? Do you
order them round, as if they were so many dray-horses?--or do you speak
pleasantly to them when you desire they should wait on you? I know
there are a great many bad servants, but there are a great many good
ones, too.
I am going to tell you about one.
Her name was Chloe Steele. She lived with a lady by the name of Mrs.
Kumin. Fannie Kumin was fifteen years old when Chloe came to live with
her mother. Chloe loved to do little services for Fannie, because she
was so smiling and good natured. She never rang the bell, just to warn
Chloe that she was her mistress; and when she called her for anything,
always tried to remember everything she wanted, at once, that she need
not make her take any extra steps, up and down stairs.