face in her hands, and began to sob pitifully; but Mr. Skinflint tapped
her on the shoulder with his cane, and told her that nobody would hire
a cry-baby; so Letty sat up straight, and choked her tears down, and at
a signal from Mr. Skinflint took up her little bundle and followed Mrs.
Finley.
On she went, past a great many fine shops and fine houses, Letty
keeping close behind her. Letty's head felt quite giddy, and she was
very faint, for her naughty father had gone off, and poor Letty had had
no breakfast that morning.
After turning a great many squares, Mrs. Finley went down a very narrow
street, where a great many noisy, dirty children were playing on the
sidewalks,--where a great many women were leaning (on their red elbows)
out of the windows, and a great many coarse, rough men were sitting on
the steps, smoking pipes, in their shirt sleeves.
At one of these houses Mrs. Finley stopped, and Letty followed her up
the steps, through the entry, and into the parlor. A table stood in the
middle of the floor, covered with dirty breakfast dishes, where myriads
of flies were making a meal. A little baby with a pink nose and bald
head, was playing on the floor with a head-brush and a skillet; while a
boy, about Letty's age, was mopping out a sugar bowl with his fingers,
and two little girls, in yellow pantalettes and pink dresses, were
trying to hide away a dress cap of their mother's, which they had been
cutting up for their dollies. On a side table were Mr. Finley's
"shaving things," a dirty dickey, and sundry little bits of paper with
floating islands of soap-suds, left there by his razor.
"Well--here we are at last," said Mrs. Finley, fanning herself with a
great newspaper. "You see, Letty, there's plenty to do here. Now I'm
going up stairs, to put on a calico long-short, and take a nap; and you
are to wash these dishes, and put them in the closet; clear away the
table; sweep the room and dust it; wash these children's faces, and
keep them quiet; put some water in the tea-kettle and set it boiling;
tend the door, and keep a look out for the milk-man.
"Ma'am?" said Letty, looking bewildered.
"M-a-'a-m"--mocked Mrs. Finley, "where's your ears, child? let's see if
I can find 'em," and she gave Letty's little ear a smart pull.
"Please, ma'am, it is all so new to me," said Letty, trying to keep
from crying; "will you please tell me where to find the broom to sweep
with, or the water to wash the dishes, and which closet I am to put
them in, and where's the towel to wipe the children's faces?"
"Oh--my--senses!" said Mrs. Finley, "what a little fool;--use your eyes
a little more and your tongue less, and you'll find things, I guess;
and now let me see every thing right end up when I come down stairs.
_Do you hear?_"
"Yes, ma'am," said Letty, drawing a long sigh as Mrs. Finley closed the
door.
"Came from the poor-house, didn't you?" said Master John Finley,
cracking a whip over Letty's head. "Well, I'm glad you've come here at
any rate; I haven't known what to do with myself all vacation. It will
be prime fun, I'm thinking, to tease you, you little scared rabbit; and
I'll tell you, to begin with, that my name is Mr. John Finley, and that
I'm my mother's pet, and that whatever _I_ say is pretty likely to be
done in this house;--so you'd better be careful and keep on the right
side of me," said the wicked boy, as he gave her arm a knock, and sent
the waiter of dishes out of her hand upon the floor.
"Oh! Master John," said Letty; "see what you have done--oh!"--and Letty
wrung her little white hands.
"See what _I've_ done?" said John. "I like that, Miss Letty, or Hetty,
or whatever you call yourself; but what's that string round your neck
for?--what's on the end of it, hey?"--and he gave it a rude twitch,
snapped it in two, and picked up a little locket that Letty wore in her
bosom.
"Oh, Master John," said Letty, "give it back, do,--it's all I have to
make me happy now,--my mamma gave it me when she died. She used to wear
it once when she was rich. Oh, Master John, don't, please, take it away
from me."
"Look here! cry-baby," said John, putting the locket in his jacket
pocket, "you never'll see that locket again. I shall say, too, that
_you_ broke all those dishes, and if you contradict it, I'll take that
locket to a police-man, and tell him you stole it. Won't you look
pretty going to jail with your long black curls? Answer me _that_, Miss
Hetty Letty?"
Letty only answered by her sobs.
"What's all this?" said Mrs. Finley, opening the door; "one might as
well try to sleep in Bedlam. Merciful man! who broke all those dishes?
John Madison Harrison Polk! who broke all those dishes, I say?"
"I told her she'd catch it, mother, when you came down," said John;
"see if she dare deny it?"
"Letty," said Mrs. Finley, seizing her by the shoulders and giving her
a shake, "did you break that breakfast set?"
Letty thought of John, and the police-man, and the jail, and was
silent.
"John," said Mrs. Finley, "go bring me your father's horse-whip from
behind the kitchen door."
"Oh, Mrs. Finley," said Letty, growing very white about the mouth, and
trembling violently all over; "don't whip me; my mamma never whipped
me. Oh, mamma--mamma!"
Down came the heavy whip on Letty's fair head and
shoulders;--"There--take that, and that, and that!" said Mrs. Finley,
"and remember that I didn't take you into my house to quarrel with my
children, and break up dishes; and now take yourself up into the dark
garret, and get into bed, and don't you get up till Mr. Finley comes
home to dinner, and let's see if he can manage you."
Letty pushed her hair from before her eyes, and staggered to the door;
then, up the stairs where they told her, into the garret; then, she
groped her way to bed; then, she laid her head on the pillow; but she
didn't cry--no--not even when she thought of her mamma,--the tears
wouldn't come; but her head was very hot, and her hands burning. There
she lay, hour after hour, talking to herself about a great many things;
and had it been light enough you would have seen how flushed her cheeks
were, and how very strangely her eyes looked.
* * *
"The child has a brain fever," said the Doctor to Mrs. Finley.
"No wonder," said the wicked woman, "she had such a dreadful fall down
the cellar stairs. You see how she bruised her face and neck."
The Doctor looked very sharp at Mrs. Finley--so sharp that she stooped
down, pretending to pick something from the floor, that he needn't see
her blush.
"I don't know how I am to nurse a sick child," grumbled Mrs. Finley;
"there's John Madison Harrison Polk, and Sarah Jenny Lind, and Malvina
Cecelia Victoria, and Napoleon Bonaparte, four children of my own to
look after. It's a hard case, Doctor."
"Not so hard a case as little Letty's," said the kind Doctor. "Those
bruises never came from falling down stairs, Mrs. Finley; that child
has been cruelly abused. I _may_ tell of it, and I may _not_,--that
depends upon whether she lives or dies; but I am going to take her home
to my own house, and see what good doctoring can do for her. She looks
like my little dead Mary, and for her sake I'll be a father to her."
So Letty was carried on a litter to Doctor Harris' house; and there,
for a great many weeks, she lay in her little bed, quite crazy--her
beautiful hair shaved off, and her little head blistered to make her
well. The Doctor's wife was a sweet, kind lady;--_she_ thought, too,
that "Letty looked like her little dead Mary," and often, when she held
her little burning hand, the tears would come to her eyes, and she
would pray God to let her live, for she had no child to love now, and
she wanted Letty for her own little girl.
Well, after a long, long while, Letty's senses came slowly back. She
put her little hand to her forehead and tried to remember what had
happened;--she didn't know what to make of the nice, pretty room, and
soft bed with its silken curtains;--she thought she was dreaming, and
rubbed her eyes and looked again, and then hid her face in the sheet
for fear she should see Mrs. Finley, or John, or the police-man;--and
then Mrs. Harris put her finger on Letty's lip and told her not to talk
now, because she was sick and weak, but that she was always going to
live with her, and be, not her servant, but her own dear little girl;
and then Letty kissed Mrs. Harris' hand, and shut her eyes, and went to
sleep as quietly as if she were on her mother's bosom.
By and by, little by little, she got strong and well again; her checks
grew plump and rosy; her hair came out in little black, curls all over
her head, and she was just the happiest little girl--as happy as you
are when you climb on your mother's lap and kiss her, as if you never
wanted to stop.
She had a little room of her own, close by her new mother's, with a
cunning little bed, and wash-stand, and bureau, and rocking chair. She
had plenty of playthings, too,--(not little Mary's, for mothers can't
give away their little children's playthings when they are dead.) Letty
had playthings of her own;--but sometimes, Mrs. Harris would unlock a
little trunk, and show her a little cake, all dried up, _with the marks
of tiny little teeth in it_; and a slate on which was a word left
unfinished by little Mary; and a little chest of doll's clothes, with
such nice little womanly stitches in them; and a little fairy thimble;
and then the tears would fall into the trunk as she locked it up again,
and then Letty would throw her arms about her neck and say, "Don't
cry--Letty loves you."
And now, my little darling readers, there is one verse in the Bible
which Aunt Fanny wants you to remember; it is this:
"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take
thee up."
FRONTIER STORIES.
"Joseph," said his mother, "I want you to run over to Aunt Elsie's and
borrow a pair of flat-irons; she said she would lend them to me, till I
could get some from the settlement."
"Yes, mother," said little Joe; "and I can whittle my stick going
along. I'm afraid Bill Sykes will get _his_ arrows made first; and if I
ain't but eight years old, he shan't beat me at anything."
So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through
the woods, with his jack-knife for company.
"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's
mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do
a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have
run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.
Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and
trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked
forward to a better home than any _this_ world can furnish, and so she
bore her trials just as one would the little wearinesses and
discomforts of a journey, when every hour is bringing him nearer and
nearer to his own dear fireside, with its loving hearts.
Well, little Joe went whistling and whittling along, thinking of Bill
Sykes and his arrows. Half a mile was no great distance to go; he might
finish one arrow going along; that is, if his jack-knife didn't break,
or if he didn't whittle off one of his fingers by mistake. He wished
the wood wasn't quite so hard: he wondered whether Bill Sykes would
make _his_ arrows of hickory: he wondered whether Bill's brother Tom,
wouldn't make them for him--just as like as not, now, he would, and
then Bill would be _sure_ to have the best ones: too bad! Joe wished
_he_ had a brother, too; he wished----ph-e-w! What's that?
A _bear_! as sure as you are alive! (and may _not_ be long.) What's to
be done now? Joe was a nice fat little boy, and the bear might be
hungry. He wasn't afraid: pooh!--no. A little backwoods boy afraid?
They are made of different stuff than the little ruffled-collar boys
that tag about with the nursery maid at their heels, in Broadway.
Joe examined his jack-knife, and took another look at the bear, as he
lay behind the bushes. Old Bruin was fast asleep.
All right;--Joe's mother wouldn't have to wait for her flat-irons; so
he stepped carefully along (not to disturb Bruin's nap) and reached
Aunt Elsie's, with a whole skin.
Aunt Elsie was very glad to see Joe, for she loved children, and always
ran to the cupboard to get them a piece of wholesome frontier pie, or
gingerbread, or bit of hoe-cake; but Joe said he couldn't stop; because
his mother had her clothes already sprinkled and folded ready for the
irons, and had told him to hurry back as fast as ever he could.
Did he tell Aunt Elsie about the bear? Do you suppose a frontier boy
would take refuge under a woman's apron?
No, sir!
If you should mention such a thing to him, he would tuck up his
pinafore, roll up his jacket sleeves, and show you his little brown
fists, in a trice!
No, sir; he never _alluded_ to the bear, but taking a flat-iron in each
hand, went whistling along as if no such animal had ever walked out of
Noah's ark into the back woods.
Well, he had got through "Hail Columbia," and "Auld Lang Syne," when he
spied Bruin again; and this time he was wide awake, too.
He began whistling Yankee Doodle; first, to show his independence, and
secondly, because he knew if anything would take the nonsense out of
the letter _B_, it was Yankee Doodle!
"I'll iron him with these flat-irons, anyhow," said Joe to himself, "if
he comes here to eat _me_." But whether the bear wasn't hungry, or
whether he didn't like the looks of the flat-irons, or whether Joe's
house was a little too near, or whether it was all three, I can't say;
all I know is that he never touched a paw to him, and Joe and his
flat-irons arrived home in perfect safety.
"I'm _so_ glad you are come, Joe," said his mother, taking the irons
and putting them over the fire to heat. "I've a heap of work to do, and
besides I felt uneasy like, after you went off alone through the woods,
for fear you might _possibly_ meet a bear."
"I did," said Joe, quietly whittling away at his arrow.
"_Did?_ Sakes alive! Where? how? when? Did he bite you?" and she caught
him up by the waistband and held him up to the light, and turned him
round to see where he was damaged.
Joe told her all about it, and she flew and bolted all the doors, and
every now and then she'd set down her flat-iron, and putting her arms
a-kimbo, say, "Sakes alive! 'spose that bear had ate him up?" That
night she insisted on his eating a _whole_ pie for supper, gave him two
lumps of white sugar, and put an extra blanket on his bed, and all
night long she was traveling back and forth in her night cap, from her
bed to his, to feel if Joe was safe between the sheets.
Now, while Joe's asleep, if you like that story, I will tell you
another about Aunt Elsie.
* * *
One day she went to her door and blew her horn, as if all creation was
let loose; (you know I told you that when frontier folks want to call
the neighbors together that's the way they manage.)
Well, there was a general stampede to see what was to pay with Aunt
Elsie. Some said the bears must have run off with her little
girl;--some said an Indian might have strayed into her log hut, and
frightened her;--some said the house might be on fire, and they all
said they'd stand by Aunt Elsie as long as there was a timber left of
them, _whatever_ was to pay. Zeke Smith said, (Zeke was an old
bachelor,) that "he'd thought for a great while, that it wasn't safe
for Elsie to live there alone without some _man_ to protect her;" and
Jim Brown who was a widower, said "it _was_ a lonesome piece of
business and no mistake;" and they all rushed through the woods to see
which should pitch into the house first and help her the fastest.
Well--what do you think _was_ to pay when they got there?
Her old cow was choking with a turnip!
Now I'm going to tell you one more backwoods story while I'm about it.
* * *
A great roaring fire was burning in Zeke Smith's log house; and all the
Tims, and Joes, and Bills, and Jacks, and Sams had come in to see him.
They peeled chestnuts and threw the shells into the fire, and the
shells cracked and snapped, and the blaze lit up all their
weather-beaten, bronzed faces, and they drank cider out of a great mug,
and talked about one thing and another that you and I don't care about;
and then Zeke Smith said he lost a sheep last night.
"So did I," said Pete Parker.
"I lost two hens," said Joachim Jones.
"I lost a _ram_," said Bill Bond.
"Don't _say_ so!" said Zeke. "Well, that _is_ a loss. There's a bear
about,--that's certain; and it's just as certain that we are the boys
to kill him. I should like to see a bear get out of the way of _my_
rifle!"
"Or mine"--
"Or mine," said they all.
Well, they agreed to start the next morning, by daylight, to hunt up
the bear. They fixed their rifles the night before, and in the morning
got up bright and early, and got into their great boots, and buttoned
up their coats and strided off, with provisions in their pouches, for
they were determined not to come back without him.
On they tramped, over bush and bog and briar; the dogs running before
and scenting round among the bushes. All day, no luck. Night came on,
and still no luck; so they "camped out," and started fresh again the
next morning.
About dark the dogs scented the bear, sure enough,--and what a
monstrous fellow he was--black as Topsy, too! Never mind, his time had
come _now_. He ran up an old stub, and sat perched on the top. They
pointed their rifles--took aim--not a rifle went off! and Bruin sat
grinning at them.
Wern't they furious? I wouldn't undertake to repeat what they said,
'cause it wouldn't answer. The bear came down from the stub, and ran
off into a swamp; so they had the hunt all over again. They primed
their guns anew and picked the flints (for percussion locks had not
then been invented,) so that their rifles would be sure to go off; for
you may be certain that they wouldn't have that story told in "the
settlement," for a barrel of their best cider. So taking their
newly-primed rifles, off they started again, with their teeth set
together, looking as fierce as so many Hospidars. If Bruin had
understood what stuff _a disappointed backwoodsman_ is made of, he
would have kept out of their way--but he didn't; and as their rifles
this time had the genuine "stand and deliver" in 'em, there was nothing
left for him to do, but to cross his paws and surrender.
Didn't they drink cider and crack nuts over the old fellow's remains?
Certainly; they never would have showed _their_ heads at "a raising"
again, I can tell you, hadn't they captured him.
A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS.
Well, I don't know as there is any use in my sitting here at the window
any longer. Bricks and mortar, mortar and bricks! and little strips of
yards not big enough to swing a cat round in. You may, perhaps you
will, ask with the Frenchman, "Vat for you _want_ to swing a cat
round?"
But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them--there
is _one_, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat,
with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle,
from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine
creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling
for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little
fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore
tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass
plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How
glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and
provides her that pretty little garden.
Now just look in the next yard--it is just the same size as the other,
but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while
strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg
covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old
tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand
on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of
"Bogles Hyperian."
There's a little child dancing out _that_ door, too; now he stands
poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard; _unpromising_,
isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is
sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I
know very well what _you_ would tell _her_; that mamma lies in bed
asleep--although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfast
_alone_ and gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it
all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over
the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little
fellow--I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and
introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and
flowers--yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a
little hot-house plant.
I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my
quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am
afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is
anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)
Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window
sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I
know nobody _finds_ old maids). There now, didn't I tell you so?
See,--she moves a little table up to the window and holds the
table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of
dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and
plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with only
_one_ cup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then
she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns
about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips
out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little
cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the
table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and
bows her head--and _now_ I am sorry for what I've said about her,
because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a
blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out
to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long
evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she
fancies going. Don't you?
There's an old bachelor's room;--fussy old thing! he has been one good
hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it
off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman
don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't
Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers--(red ones, too!) I could warm my
hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to
find its latitude; that you see will be a work of _time_. He has got it
in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to
his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so--he is too
busy shaving himself, to go down there to _shave_ them! that's a
settled point.
Look now at that window!--a young mother comes to it with a little new
baby,--its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look
just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She
loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and
bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs its _five_ hairs, and
thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has got _her_ work cut out for the
winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and
put down--washed--dressed and undressed--nursed, rocked and
trotted--laid on its back, and laid on its stomach--and laid on its
side. Just as if _I_ didn't know!--I could tell her a great many things
she don't know about taking care of that baby.
Young mothers are very _experiment-y_. Do you know what _that_ means?
Well, they worry a baby out of a year's growth, for fear it _will_
worry; _your_ mother knows all about it--ask her if she didn't do just
that way with you till Grandma and Aunt Charity taught her better?
First babies are poor little victims. I can remember how _I_ used to be
plagued! Stifled alive for "fear I should get cold;" trotted up and
down when there was a great pin sticking into my shoulder--and held so
close to the candle to be looked at, that I came near being blind as a
mole. It's a wonder to me that I am here now, writing this juvenile
book; if I hadn't been a baby of spirit, I should have keeled over, and
died of sheer torment long before I got into short clothes.