careful to regard all her little wishes. She tidied up her little
bed-room very carefully, and always ran out in the garden and cut a
little bouquet to place in the vase upon her toilette table, to make
her room sweet and pleasant for her.
Fannie didn't require much waiting upon; she preferred being her own
waiter, (like a sensible little girl.) It was very well she did so,
because in a couple of years after Chloe went there to live, she was
left an orphan, and when the estate was settled up, it was found that
little Fannie had no money to live upon.
Chloe said, "don't be troubled, Miss Fannie; I am used to work. I'll
find you a boarding place, and then I'll go out to service, and pay
your bills. I can get high wages for a housekeeper's place, and you
will live like a lady. It would break my heart to see Master's daughter
work for her living."
Fannie said, "You are a dear, good Chloe, but I could not be happy to
live that way;--no--I must go to work, and that will keep me from
thinking of my troubles. I should become very miserable if I sat still,
with my hands folded, and thought only of so many sorrowful things. No,
no, dear Chloe--I shall teach in Mrs. ----'s school; and you will see,
the education that my dear mother has given me will be just as good as
so much money."
So Chloe said no more about supporting her, because she saw that she
_really_ would be happier to support herself; but she insisted upon
washing and ironing her clothes for her, and the day that she carried
them home, all nicely folded in a basket, was the happiest day in the
week to poor Chloe.
Chloe had taken a little room to herself, and cooked her own food. All
blacks are born cooks, I believe, and many a tempting little dainty she
stowed away of a Saturday night, to take up to school to Fannie.
Sometimes it would be a loaf of cake; sometimes a pie or two; sometimes
a few oysters, nicely cooked; for she said "it was poor fare enough
teachers had in boarding schools, and who knew but Miss Fannie might
get quite run down, on that and the hard work together."
Then she would go round her room, picking up the stockings and mending
them, and brushing her little gaiter boots; and then she would take the
comb out of her long hair and part it nicely, and brush it and dress it
all over as well as Madame Marmotte, the French hair dresser, could do.
If Fannie took cold, she'd come and make her some hot tea, and soak her
feet in mustard water, and leave her some nice hot lemonade to drink
when she went away; and if she had a letter to put in the post-office,
or was expecting one, then Chloe was on hand to do the errand, just as
promptly as an express man.
Now she did all this out of sheer love for Fannie, and because she had
been kind to her in her mother's house, and never put on airs and
ordered her about, as some children do.
By and by, Miss Fannie took it into her head to get engaged to be
married.
Chloe didn't half like it;--she was jealous. She was "afraid Massa Hale
wouldn't make a good husband enough. Miss Fannie ought to have a _very
nice one_, because she was such a fine young lady;" and Chloe shook her
woolly head, till her gold hoop ear-rings rung again, and advised Miss
Fannie to "wait a leetle longer." "Time enough yet, when she was only
eighteen, plenty more gemmen; no hurry _yet_ for Miss Fannie."
But Fannie had her own way that time, too, and married "Massa Hale;"
and when Chloe found there was no help for it, she said she would go
and be her cook, "just to look after the dear child a bit, and see that
she had everything she wanted," and that nothing was wasted.
You ought to have seen her in "Miss Fannie's" kitchen, (for she still
kept on calling her Miss Fannie;) with her gay bandanna handkerchief
twisted round her wool, and her neat check apron tied round her waist,
moving round among the shining pots, and pans, and kettles, as
important as if she were the great Mogul; turning out pies and hoe
cakes, and flap-jacks, (and every other Jack, too, for Chloe had no
beaux dangling after _her_, I promise you.)
If "Miss Fannie" put her head into the kitchen, she'd tell her it was
no place for _her_,--to go right up stairs, and sit in the parlor like
a lady, and not be worrying her little head about the cooking and such
matters; that she'd send up a dinner pretty soon that would make Massa
Hale open his eyes; and she didn't care if he brought the President
home with him to dine!
Chloe was scrupulously honest;--she took care of everything just as
carefully as "Miss Fannie"--never wasting, never giving slily away tea
or sugar, or bread, or meat, or coal, to her acquaintances, as I'm
sorry to say many unprincipled servants do.
So "Massa Hale" began to like her, as well as "Miss Fannie," and many a
nice calico dress, or handkerchief turban, found its way mysteriously
into Chloe's trunk.
After a while, Chloe had _another_ Miss Fannie to look after. Was there
ever a baby like that? Certainly not--except the _original_ Miss
Fannie. Chloe forgot her pots, and pans, and pickles, and preserves,
and hoe-cakes; and said that "somebody else must do the cooking, or
else that baby never would thrive; for what did Miss Fannie know about
babies, she would like to know?"
So Chloe washed her hands, and walked up into the nursery, and when she
said that little Fan must have some peppermint, she had it; and when
she objected to its wearing caps, they were taken off; and when she
said it was time for her to go to sleep, she _went_ to sleep, as a
matter of course.
Chloe sent its mother out to take the air, and told her it was no use
for her to trouble her head about the baby, because it was a thing she
knew nothing about;--in fact "Miss Fannie" never was allowed to peep
into its cradle without Chloe's express permission.
But the time was coming when Sorrow's dark shadow should cross the
happy threshold. Death laid his icy finger on the little baby's lip,
(with scarce a moment's warning,) just as it had twined itself round
all their hearts with its winning little ways.
Who comforted poor Fannie then? Who arrayed the baby's dainty little
limbs for burial? Who placed the tiny flowers between its waxen little
fingers? Who folded away from the weeping mother's sight the useless
caps and robes? Who spoke words of cheer, while her own heart was
breaking?--who, but _Chloe_?
Ah, dear children, _never say that servants are without feeling_; never
say it spoils them to treat them like human beings. They all have their
trials--humble though they be--and (often, God knows,) _few joys
enough_.
A PEEP FROM MY WINDOW.
"Oh, stop! stop! Pray don't beat that child so," said I to a strapping
great woman in front of my window. "What has she done? What is the
matter? Don't strike her."
"Well, then tell her not to meddle with me again," said the virago,
shaking a stick at the child. "I got to that barrel of cinders on the
sidewalk, _first_, and had put my stick in it, to see if I could get
anything out worth saving; of course, if I came first, I had the first
right to what I could find; and then she came up and put _her_ stick in
it, without saying 'by your leave.' I'll teach her better manners"--and
the stick descended again on the child's shoulders.
"Run in here, run in here," said I. "I'll take care of you;" and I
opened the door for her. Poor little thing--all tears, and rags, and
dirt; her little bare feet cut and bruised with the stones, and her
hair streaming all over her face. You would have pitied her, too. She
gazed about the room, looked at the fire, then wistfully at the
breakfast table, from which I had just risen.
"You shall have some," said I, giving her a cup of hot coffee and some
egg and roll; "eat away, as much as ever you can."
She didn't need a second invitation, but swallowed the food as if she
were famished. She put on the shoes and stockings I gave her, and then
she told me that her father was killed on the railroad; that her mother
had four little children beside herself; that they lived in a cellar in
---- street, where the water often came in and covered the floor; that
her mother had a dreadful bad cough; that her baby brother was very
sick, and that they had nothing to eat except what they got begging.
"Why did you hunt in that old barrel?" said I.
"To find bits of coal, to burn. Sometimes the servants in the big
houses don't sift it, and then we find a great many pieces to carry
home and burn. Oh dear! that was such a _nice_ barrel, that the women
beat me for coming to!"
"Never mind the barrel," said I; "do you want this? and this? and this?
and this?"--giving her some old dresses, "and this loaf of bread, and
this bit of money for your mother?"
"Oh yes--yes. She will be _so_ glad!" And off she skipped, down street,
drawing her ragged shawl over her head.
Directly after, thinking of an errand I wished to do, I put on my
bonnet and walked out.
I had passed several blocks, when I came to an alley where I heard
voices. The speakers had their backs turned to me, but I could see
them. It was the child who had just left me, and the woman who had beat
her for meddling with the barrel of cinders.
"You did it _well_," said the woman. "I couldn't have _made believe
cry_ better myself. I knew she'd call you in. Did she give you all
these? and these? and these?" (holding up the dresses.) "That's good. I
can sell them to the second-hand clothes shop there, for money;--_you_
may have that bit of money she gave you, to buy yourself a string of
beads, because you cried so well. Which story did you tell her, hey?"
"The one you told me this morning"--said the child; "all about the
cellar, and the water in it, and how father was killed on the railroad
track. Didn't she give me a good breakfast, though?" And the child
stretched up her arms and yawned.
* * *
Well, I was not sorry that I gave her that breakfast, or those clothes,
or that money; I was sorry to see a little child so deceitful; but, do
you know it is better _sometimes_ to be mistaken than _never_ to
_trust_?--better sometimes even to _lose a little_, than with icy words
to crush from out a despairing heart, the last hope of a tempted,
starving, fellow creature!
That's the way I comforted myself, dear children, as I walked along
home.
THE BOY PEDLAR.
Rain, rain, rain! How the drops come down! I wonder if anybody beside
myself will get out doors to-day?
Ah, yes! There's a little boy, not much bigger than Tom Thumb. He's a
little merchant, as true as the world, and has a box strapped on his
back. Now he wants to sell me something.
"Corset lacings?" Never use such things, my dear.
"Paste blacking?" Wear patent leather.
"Ear-rings?" I leave those to the Indians.
"Combs? hooks and eyes? pins? needles? tape? scissors? spools?"
Oh, you little rogue--come in here; where did you come from, hey?
"I am an Englishman."
No, you are not.
"Well, my father was. I was born in Hamburgh."
That's it; now, how came you to be selling these things?
"I'm doing it to try to pay my own board. I pay ten shillings a week.
My brother has gone to California. By and by, perhaps, he will come
home, and send me to school. Buy anything, to-day, ma'am?"
Of course I shall. I haven't seen such an enterprising young man since
I left off pinafores. I'll buy all the pins you have; for since I came
here to New-York, I see so many things to make me sigh, that my hooks
and eyes keep flying off like Peggotty's buttons. There--run along,
now, and don't you come this way again, with that little glib tongue,
and those bright eyes, or you'll empty my purse entirely!
* * *
Oh dear! oh dear, he is knocked down crossing the street; he's killed!
No he is not!--
Yes he is!--
No--he's up--safe and sound. Now he rubs the mud out of his eyes, and
says, just as coolly as if he had not barely escaped with his skin.
"Where's my box?"
"Never mind the box," say the crowd, "as long as _you_ are not hurt."
"But I _do_," said the little Dutchman, "for that's the way I get my
living, selling these things. Oh dear--the box is broke, and everything
is spoiled."
"Make up a purse for him," says a gentleman, passing round his hat.
Coppers, and shillings, and quarters, and half dollars flow into the
hat, and finally a dollar bill.
"There," said the gentleman, smiling, "now take that home to your
mother, my boy."
"My mother is dead," sobbed the child.
"Pass round the hat _again_," said the gentleman--a tear in his eye.
The crowd responded with another handful of coppers and shillings and
quarters.
Ah, little Hans, who is it who saith, "Leave thy fatherless children
with me; I will preserve them alive?"
THE NEW COOK.
"What a funny new cook Mamma has!"
"Yes, and how she starts every time the bell rings, as if somebody were
coming to catch her, and what a wild look she has in her eyes. She
makes good cake, though, don't she, Louise? a great deal better than
black Sally's;--and then Sally had such a temper! Do you remember how
she sent the gridiron across the kitchen, after the chamber-maid,
because she had mislaid the dish-cloth?--how I _did_ laugh!"
"I remember it. But what do you suppose makes this new cook act so
oddly when the bell rings? I heard Mamma say she was 'one of the
nervous sort.' It would be good fun to play a trick on her and frighten
her; wouldn't it? You know the dark entry by the parlor door, Louise?"
"Yes."
"Well, you know there are plenty of old clothes, and things, hanging up
there, and she has to pass by them, when she goes up and down stairs."
"Yes."
"Well, suppose we hide behind those coats, and just as she comes along,
both of us make a spring at her?--won't that be fun?"
"Capital!" said Louise, "but won't Mamma punish us?"
"Of course, if she finds us out; but we mustn't _get_ found out. What
is the use of having feet, if you can't scamper with them? Betsey of
course will be too frightened to see who did it, and before anybody
else comes, we shall get out of the way."
The new cook, "Betsey," whom these two little sisters were talking
about, was a widow. Her husband was an industrious, temperate man, a
carpenter by trade. He loved Betsey very much, and they lived in a
snug, comfortable little house, which they hoped to be able to buy some
day, when Tom had earned money enough at his trade.
Betsey made Tom a good wife. If _he_ worked hard in the shop, _she_
worked hard in the house. Everything was just as neat as a new pin. You
might have eaten off her floors, they were scrubbed so white and clean.
There were no finger marks on her doors or windows, no broken panes of
glass, with paper or rags stuffed in, to keep out the air, and her
closets and cupboards would bear looking at, in the brightest sunlight
that ever found its way into a kitchen. Her dishes and tumblers never
stuck to your fingers; her table never had on soiled table-cloths; her
walls were never festooned with cobwebs; her hearth never was littered
with ashes. Well might Tom work cheerfully for _such_ a wife; for he
knew that every penny he saved, and gave her, was put to the best
possible use. It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she
knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair
of pants, as nicely as a tailor.
Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a
straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine
Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh.
The truth was Tom was one of Nature's gentlemen; he always did and said
just the right thing, and made everybody about him feel perfectly
satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.
Well, they lived together as contented as two oysters. Tom didn't grit
his teeth when a carriage rolled by with a rich man in it, or when
another man passed him in a finer suit of broadcloth than his own. Not
he. He stepped off to his shop, on the strength of Betsey's nice coffee
and biscuit, as grand as the President. Why not? He owed nobody a cent,
and that's more than many a man can say, who would knock you down as
quick as a flash, if you should intimate he wasn't a _gentleman_.
One fine day, Tom proposed to Betsey to go a fishing, he said she
needed something of that sort, by way of change, for she was quite worn
out. Betsey said, "No, Tom, I am well enough; besides, the water will
make me sick; but I want _you_ to go; you and Phil Dolan; you need it
more than I, a great deal."
Tom didn't like to go without Betsey; he didn't believe in husband's
frolicking about, and leaving their poor tired wives to mend their old
duds, at home. No; he knew that there is no woman, be she ever so kind
and good, who does not _sometimes_ want to see something beside a mop,
a gridiron, and a darning needle; so Tom said, "No, I'll think of some
pleasure you can share with me."
But Betsey persuaded him to go without her. She fancied, (good kind
soul,) that Tom was looking less well than usual, and the thought of
_his_ getting sick, made her quite miserable; so Tom said he'd go. Then
Betsey got Tom his fishing tackle, and put him up some biscuit, for he
and Phil intended to get out on a little island to make some chowder;
and then Tom----kissed her; (as true as you are alive, though she was
his _wife_!) and then he went for Phil, and they got into a little
boat, and floated off down the river.
Betsey worked away, thinking all the time how much good the fresh air
on the water was doing Tom. She got along very well through the
forenoon; cleaning up the house, and putting things in place, till
dinner-time; then how lonesome it was not to have Tom's handsome face
opposite her! and nobody to say, "Betsey, dear, here's your favorite
bit;" or, "Betsey, dear, where's your appetite to-day?" It made her so
dull, that she couldn't eat her dinner.
I am sorry to say that Betsey had no darling little girl or boy, to
climb up in her lap, and talk to her about papa. Betsey was sorry too,
and so was Tom.
Well, the afternoon wore away. It was five o'clock;--time Betsey had
begun to get tea, for Tom would soon be home. Let's see!--she would
make some flap-jacks. Tom was fond of flap-jacks. She'd make him a
_real_ strong cup of coffee: he liked that better than tea. She would
cook him a bit of beef steak too, for she knew that fishing always gave
people a good appetite. So she stepped around briskly, and spread her
snow-white table-cloth, and put on her cups and saucers, and plates,
and the castor--(yes, the _castor_ on the _tea_ table! for they didn't
care a pin for fashion); and when she had cooked her supper, she looked
at the clock. Yes, it was quite time he was there; and then she looked
out the front door, just as if she could _look_ him home.
An hour went by--an hour after the time he said he'd come; and Tom
always punctual to the minute, too. Betsey grew nervous. Somebody rang
the bell. She flew to the door. (Tom never rang the bell.) It was only
a boy inquiring for the next neighbor. Betsey pulled a little wrinkle
out of the table-cloth, set Tom's chair up to the table, and peeped
into the coffee-pot. It was all right. He would soon be there. But
somehow she couldn't keep still a minute. She had a great mind (if she
were not afraid of being laughed at) to run down to Phil Dolan's
brother's, to see if Phil had got back.
There's the bell again! Betsey trembled so she could hardly get to the
door, though she couldn't tell why.
It is Phil's brother.
Why don't Betsey speak to him? Why don't _he_ speak to Betsey? Why are
his lips so ashen white?
Poor Betsey! she knew it all; though he has not spoken a word.
Tom is drowned.
Phil lifts Betsey from the floor, chafes her hands, and speaks to her
pitifully. Betsey does not answer: she does not even hear him.
By and by she comes to herself and opens her eyes. She sees the little
supper table. She looks at Phil, and then she puts her hand over his
mouth, and says, "Not yet, not yet."
Phil's kind heart is wrung with pity. He knows they will soon bring in
Tom's dead body. He loved Tom. Everybody loved him. It was only that
very morning that he left home so bright, so full of life. Poor Tom!
Dear children, you can imagine how poor Betsey hung, weeping, over her
husband's dead body; how dreadful it was to see the earth close over
it, and to leave her dear little happy home, and go out among
strangers, with such a sorrowful heart, to earn her bread.
She heard that Minnie's mother wanted a cook; she called and Minnie's
mother engaged her; and now, perhaps, you'd like to hear the end of the
trick the two little girls were planning to play on poor, heart-broken
Betsey. You know now _why_ she started whenever a bell rang, and _why_
her nerves were in such a state.
"Now is the time," said Minnie; "Betsey has just gone in after the
tea-waiter. Quick! get behind the coat, Louise."
Betsey soon came out with the tea-tray of dishes, and Minnie and Louise
jumped at her, from behind the coats, seizing rudely hold of her arm.
Betsey uttered a loud scream, and fell to the bottom of the stairs,
with the tray of dishes; while Minnie and Louise, terrified at the
broken dishes, ran off up chamber, to hide under the bed.
Minnie's mother had not gone out, as she supposed, and was the first to
find Betsey, whose face was badly cut with the broken dishes, and who
was taken up quite senseless.
The doctor came and bandaged Betsey's head, and said she might die.
Their mother nursed her through a brain fever, and in her delirium,
Betsey raved about her husband, and told, in fragments, all that her
poor heart had suffered.
Minnie's mother, without saying a word to her little girls about their
naughtiness, led them into the room and let them hear poor Betsey call
for "Tom--dear Tom," to come and "pity and love her, and take the dull,
weary pain out of her heart." And then they wept, and wanted to do
something for Betsey, if it were only to bring her a glass of water to
moisten her lips. After a long time, when their kind mother got nearly
worn out with watching and nursing, Betsey got better. When she had
quite recovered, their mother took her for a sempstress, and gave her a
nice little comfortable room up stairs, with a fire in it, all to
herself; and Minnie and Louise used to sit and read to her, and tell
her over and over again, with their arms around her neck, how sorry
they were they had been so wicked, and gave her nice books to read
evenings, and tried to make poor Betsey's lonely life as happy as ever
they could.
LETTY.
Did you ever hear of an Intelligence Office? Well, it's a place where
servant girls go, to hear of families who wish to hire help. They pay
the man who keeps the office something, and then he finds a place where
they can work and earn money.
In one of these offices, one pleasant summer morning, twenty or more
servant girls were seated,--some of them modest looking and tidily
dressed, others bold and slatternly.
Wedged among them, in a dark corner, was a little girl about thirteen
years old. Her face was pale, and her features, which were small and
delicate, were half hidden by her thick, black hair. Her little hands
were small and white, and from under her dress (which had evidently
been made for some one else, as it was much too long and too wide for
her) peeped as cunning a little pair of feet as you ever saw.
Little Letty--for that was her name--looked frightened and distressed.
She had never been in such a place before, and it made her cheeks very
hot to have those rude girls stare at her so. Then, the air of the room
was very close, and that made her head ache badly; and she felt afraid
that nobody would hire her, because she was so little. Her mother had
died only a week before, and Letty had a drunken father,--so, you see,
that, young as she was, she had to earn her own bread and butter.
[Illustration: LETTY.]
By and by, a woman came in. Some people, I suppose, would have called
her a lady, as she had on a silk dress, and a great many shiny chains
and pins. Letty's mother was a lady, although she was poor. She had
sweet, gentle manners, and a soft, low voice. Letty did not like Mrs.
Finley's looks; she wore too many bows and flounces; and then her voice
was loud and harsh, and her forehead had an ugly frown on it, that
didn't go away even when she smiled and tried to look gracious. No,
Letty didn't like her, and she almost hoped she wouldn't take a fancy
to her, much as she needed a place to live in.
But Mrs. Finley liked Letty's looks; so she sailed across the room,
with her six flounces, and asked her so many questions, in such a loud
voice, that Letty was quite bewildered; then she heard her say to Mr.
Silas Skinflint, who kept the office, that she would take her, and that
it was a very nice thing that her mother was dead, for mothers were
always bothering.
"Very nice that her mother was dead!"