Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Examples include peddler and peddlar, grandmere and
gran'mere, Mr. de Ronville and M. de Ronville.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
The "Little Girl" Series
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price, per Volume 60 Cents
A Little Girl in Old New York
A Little Girl of Long Ago
A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York"
A Little Girl in Old Boston
A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia
A Little Girl in Old Washington
A Little Girl in Old New Orleans
A Little Girl in Old Detroit
A Little Girl in Old St. Louis
A Little Girl in Old Chicago
A Little Girl in Old San Francisco
A Little Girl in Old Quebec
A Little Girl in Old Baltimore
A Little Girl in Old Salem
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on
receipt of price.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52, 58 Duane Street New York
A LITTLE GIRL IN
OLD PITTSBURG
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1909, by
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Published, September, 1909
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A LITTLE GIRL 1
II A JOYFUL RETURN 19
III WELCOME 39
IV OLD PITTSBURG 60
V HOW THE WORLD WIDENED 81
VI A NEW FRIEND 103
VII DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD 120
VIII IN SILK ATTIRE 141
IX WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH 152
X THE PASSING OF THE OLD 169
XI THE WOOF OF DAILY THINGS 189
XII SPINNING WITH VARIOUS THREADS 209
XIII THE SWEETNESS OF LOVE 227
XIV SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW 242
XV ANOTHER FLITTING 261
XVI SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 284
XVII OH, WHICH IS LOVE? 305
XVIII A REVELATION 320
CHAPTER I
A LITTLE GIRL
"Oh, what is it, grandad! Why is Kirsty ringing two bells and oh, what
is he saying?"
Grandfather Carrick had come out of his cottage and stood in the small
yard place that a young oak had nearly filled with a carpet of leaves.
He was a medium-sized man with reddish hair streaked with white, and a
spare reddish beard, rather ragged, bright blue eyes and a nose
_retroussé_ at the best, but in moments of temper or disdain it turned
almost upside down, as now.
"What is he sayin'. Well, it's a dirty black lee! Lord Cornwallis
isn't the man to give in to a rabble of tatterdemalions with not a
shoe to their feet an' hardly a rag to their back! By the beard of St.
Patrick they're all rags!" and he gave an insolent laugh! "It's a
black lee, I tell you!"
He turned and went in the door with a derisive snort. Daffodil stood
irresolute. Kirsty was still ringing his two bells and now people were
coming out to question. The street was a rather winding lane with the
houses set any way, and very primitive they were, built of logs, some
of them filled in with rude mortar and thatched with straw.
Then Nelly Mullin came flying along, a bright, dark-haired,
rosy-cheeked woman, with a shawl about her shoulders. She caught up
the child and kissed her rapturously.
"Oh, isn't it full grand!" she cried. "Cornwallis has surrendered to
General Washington! Our folks caught him in a trap. An' now the men
folks will come home, my man an' your father, Dilly. Thank the Saints
there wasna a big battle. Rin tell your mither!"
"But grandad said it was a--a lee!" and the child gave a questioning
look.
"Lie indeed!" she laughed merrily. "They wouldna be sending all over
the country such blessed news if it was na true. Clear from Yorktown
an' their Cornwallis was the biggest man England could send, a rale
Lord beside. Rin honey, I must go to my sisters."
The little girl walked rather slowly instead, much perturbed in her
mind. The Duvernay place joined the Carrick place and at present they
were mostly ranged round the Fort. That was much smaller, but better
kept and there were even some late hardy flowers in bloom.
"What's all the noise, Posy?" asked Grandfather Duvernay. He was an
old, old man, a bright little Frenchman with snowy white hair, but
bright dark eyes. He was a good deal wrinkled as became a
great-grandfather, and he sat in a high-backed chair at one corner of
the wide stone chimney that was all built in the room. There was a
fine log fire and Grandmother Bradin was stirring a savory mass of
herbs. The real grandfather was out in the barn, looking after the
stock.
"It was Kirsty ringing two bells. Cornwallis is taken."
"No!" The little man sprang up and clasped his hands. "You are sure
you heard straight! It wasn't Washington?"
"I'm quite sure. And Nelly Mullin said 'run and tell your mother, your
father'll be coming home.'"
"Thank the good God." He dropped down in the chair again and closed
his eyes, bent his head reverently and prayed.
"Your mother's asleep now. She's had a pretty good night. Run out and
tell gran."
Grandfather Bradin kissed his little girl, though he was almost afraid
to believe the good news. Three years Bernard Carrick had been
following the fortunes of war and many a dark day had intervened.
"Oh, that won't end the war. There's Charleston and New York. But
Cornwallis! I must go out and find where the news came from."
"Grandad don't believe it!" There was still a look of doubt in her
eyes.
Bradin laughed. "I d' know as he'd believe it if he saw the articles
of peace signed. He'll stick to King George till he's laid in his
coffin. There, I've finished mending the steps and I'll slip on my
coat and go."
"I couldn't go with you?" wistfully.
"No, dear. I'll run all about and get the surest news. I s'pose it
came to the Fort, but maybe by the South road."
He took the child's hand and they went into the house. The streets
were all astir. Grandfather stood by the window looking out, but he
turned and smiled and suddenly broke out in his native French. His
face then had the prettiness of enthusiastic old age.
"We'll shake hands on it," said Bradin. "I'm going out to see. There
couldn't be a better word."
The autumnal air was chilly and he wrapped his old friese cloak around
him.
"Mother's awake now," said Mrs. Bradin. "You may go in and see her."
The door was wide open now. It was as large as the living room, but
divided by a curtain swung across, now pushed aside partly. There was
a bed in each corner. A light stand by the head of the bed, a chest of
drawers, a brass bound trunk and two chairs completed the furnishing
of this part. The yellow walls gave it a sort of cheerful, almost
sunshiny look, and the curtain at the window with its hand-made lace
was snowy white. The painted floor had a rug through the centre that
had come from some foreign loom. The bedstead had high slender carved
posts, but was without a canopy.
A woman still young and comely as to feature lay there. She was thin,
which made the eyes seem larger and darker. The brown hair had a
certain duskiness and was a curly fringe about the forehead. She
smiled up at the little girl, who leaned over and kissed her on the
cheek.
"You are better, mother dear," she said as she seated herself with a
little spring on the side of the bed. "But you said so yesterday. When
will it be real, so you can get up and go out?" and a touch of
perplexity crossed the child's face.
"Gra'mere thinks I may sit up a little while this afternoon. I had no
fever yesterday nor last night."
"Oh, mother, I was to tell you that Cornwallis has--it's a long word
that has slipped out of my mind. Nelly Mullin said her husband would
come home and my father. Kirsty Boyle rang two bells----"
"Oh, what was it? Go and ask grandfather, child," and the mother half
rose in her eagerness.
"It was 'sur-ren-dered' with his army. Father has gone to see. And
then the war will end."
"Oh, thank heaven, the good God, and all the saints, for I think they
must have interceded. They must be glad when dreadful wars come to an
end."
She laid her head back on the pillow and the tears fringed her dark
lashes.
The child was thinking, puzzling over something. Then she said
suddenly, "What is my father like? I seem to remember just a
little--that he carried me about in his arms and that we all cried a
good deal."
"It was three years and more ago. He loved us very much. But he felt
the country needed him. And the good Allfather has kept him safe. He
has never been wounded or taken prisoner, and if he comes back to
us----"
"But what is surrendered?"
"Why, the British army has given up. And Lord Cornwallis is a great
man. England, I believe, thought he could conquer the Colonies. Oh,
Daffodil, you are too little to understand;" in a sort of helpless
fashion.
"He isn't like grandad then. Grandad wants England to beat."
"No, he isn't much like grandad. And yet dear grandad has been very
good to us. Of course he was desperately angry that your father should
go for a soldier. Oh, if he comes home safe!"
"Dilly," said gran'mere, pausing at the door with a piece of yellow
pumpkin in her hand which she was peeling, "you must come away now.
You have talked enough to your mother and she must rest."
The child slipped down and kissed the pale cheek again, then came out
in the living-room and looked around. The cat sat washing her face and
at every dab the paw went nearer her ear.
"You shan't, Judy! We don't want rain, do we, grandfather?" She caught
up the cat in her arms, but not before pussy had washed over one ear.
Grandfather laughed. "Well, it _does_ make it rain when she washes
over her ear," the little girl said with a very positive air. "It did
on Sunday."
"And I guess pussy washes over her ear every day in the week."
"It's saved up then for the big storms;" with a triumphant air.
"Get the board and let's have a game. You're so smart I feel it in my
bones that you will beat."
She put Judy down very gently, but the cat switched her tail around
and wondered why. She brought out the board that was marked like "Tit
tat toe," and a box that she rattled laughingly. Pussy came when they
had adjusted it on their knees and put two white paws on it,
preparatory to a jump.
"Oh, Judy, I can't have you now. Come round and sit by the fire."
Judy went round to the back of Dilly's chair and washed over both ears
in a very indignant manner.
The play was Fox and Geese. There was one red grain of corn for the
fox and all the geese were white. One block at the side was left
vacant. If you could pen the fox in there without losing a goose or at
the most two or three, you were the winner. But if once you let the
fox out the geese had to fly for their lives. Grandfather often let
the little girl beat.
He was very fond of her, and he was a sweet-natured old man who liked
to bestow what pleasure he could. Just now he was feeling impatient
for the news and wanted to pass away the time.
Dilly was quite shrewd, too, for a little girl not yet seven. She
considered now and moved a far off goose, and the fox knew that was
sour grapes.
"Oh, you're a sharp one!" exclaimed grandfather. "I'll have to mind
how I doze on this bout."
But alas! On the next move she let him in a little way, then she
fenced him out again, and lost one goose repairing her defences. But
it wasn't a bad move. The great art was to keep one goose behind
another for protection. He couldn't jump over but one at a time.
She beat grandfather, who pretended to be quite put out about it and
said she'd do for an army general. Grandmother was making a pumpkin
pudding with milk and eggs and sugar and stick-cinnamon, which was
quite a luxury. Then she poured it into an iron pan that stood upon
little feet, drew out a bed of coal, and plumped it down. The cover
had a rim around the top, and she placed some coals on the top of
this. She baked her bread in it, too. Stoves were great luxuries and
costly. Then she laid some potatoes in the hot ashes and hung a kettle
of turnips on the crane.
Grandfather and the little girl had another game and she was the fox
this time and lost, getting penned up.
"Grandfather," she said sagely, "if you know the good early moves and
don't make any mistake, you're sure to win."
"I believe that is so. You're getting a stock of wisdom, Dilly. Oh,
won't your father be surprised when he comes home. You were a mere
baby when he went away."
She was an oddly pretty child. Her hair was really yellow, soft and
curly, then her eyes were of so dark a blue that you often thought
them black. The eyebrows and lashes were dark, the nose rather
piquant, the mouth sweet and rosy, curved, with dimples in the
corners. But in those days no one thought much about beauty in
children.
The door was flung open.
"Ugh!" ejaculated Gran Bradin. "It's fairly wintry. Fire feels good!
The news is just glorious! They headed off Cornwallis after having
destroyed their fortifications and dismantled their cannon. The
British works were so in ruins they tried escape. One section of
troops crossed over to Glous'ter Point, but a storm set in and
dispersed the boats. There was nothing left but surrender. So the
great army and the great general who were to give us the finishing
stroke, handed in their capitulation to General Washington. There are
between seven and eight thousand prisoners and all the shipping in the
harbor. Grandfather, you may be proud. We had, it is thought, seven
thousand French troops, with Count De Rochambeau, and Count De
Grasse."
He reached over and wrung grandfather's slim white hand with its
tracery of blue veins. Then he kissed his wife. "They've been good
friends to us. We'll never forget that!"
"And the war is over?"
"Not exactly that. We've yet to dislodge them from various places. But
they think now England will be willing to treat. And we'll have a
country of our own! Well, it was three weeks ago."
There were no telegraphs, and only the more important places had post
roads. Pittsburg was quite out of the way. It had no dreams of
grandeur in those days, and about its only claim to eminence was
Braddock's defeat.
"Lang brought some copies of the Philadelphia _Gazette_, but you
couldn't get near one, they were rushed off so. But we'll hear it all
in a few days. Too much good news might puff us up with vain glory.
We may look for letters any day. Such a splendid victory!"
Grandfather was wiping the tears from his eyes. Marc Bradin went in to
comfort his daughter, though he could hardly forbear smiling with a
sense of inward amusement as he thought of Sandy Carrick, who had as
good as disowned his son for joining the Colonial army. He'd be glad
enough to have him back again. Though he had been rather disgruntled
at his marrying Barbe Bradin because she had French blood in her
veins, as if the Irish Bradin could not in some degree counteract
that!
Sandy Carrick had been in the sore battle of Braddock's defeat. But
after all the cowardly French had thought retreat the better part of
valor and left the Fort that had been partly burned, left that section
as well, and the government had erected the new Fort Pitt. He insisted
that the French had been really driven out. They certainly had been
checked in their advance to the Mississippi.
Pittsburg was a conglomerate in these early days. Welsh, Irish, and
English had contributed to its then small population of the few
hundreds whose history and beginning were like so many other
emigrants. The houses were ranged largely about the Fort for
protection from the Indians. There were small crooked lanes, a few
dignified by-streets, Penn Street, Duquesne way, Water and Ferry
streets. Colonel George Morgan had built a double-hewn log house of
considerable dimensions, the first house in the settlement to have a
shingle roof. Though the "Manor of Pittsburg" had been surveyed and
Fort Pitt had been abandoned by the British under orders of General
Gage and occupied by Virginia troops under Captain John Neville.
There were some French residents, some Acadians as well, and a few
Virginians who were mostly refugees. The houses were of very primitive
construction, generally built of logs, but made comfortable on the
inside. The emigrants had brought their industries with them. The
women spun and knit, there were several rude looms, but they depended
largely on Philadelphia for supplies.
Pierre Duvernay had fled to Ireland in one of the Huguenot
persecutions, but more fortunate than many, he had been able to take
some of his worldly possessions. Here his only daughter had married
Marc Bradin, his only son had died, and his wife had followed.
Broken-hearted he had accompanied his daughter and son-in-law to the
new Colonies. They had spent a few years in Virginia, then with some
French friends had come to Pittsburg and bought a large holding, which
seemed at the time a misadventure, and so they had built in nearer to
the Fort. Here pretty Barbe Bradin had grown up and married Bernard
Carrick, their neighbor's son, but they had not let the hospitable
Bradin home. Here Daffodil had been born, and the French and Irish
blended again.
"What made you call me Daffodil?" the child said one day to her
mother. "You were named after your mother and gran'mere after hers,
and you should have called me Barbe."
"It would have made no end of confusion. You see it does with
great-grandfather. And when you were born it was lovely sunshiny
weather and the daffodils were in bloom with their tender gold. Then
you had such a funny fuzzy yellow head. I loved the Daffodils so. They
come so early and look so cheerful, and you were such a cheerful baby,
always ready to smile."
"Do you suppose my hair will always stay yellow?"
"Oh, no. It will grow darker."
"Like yours?"
"Well, perhaps not quite as dark. I like it. You are my spring. If I
were in any sorrow, your brightness would comfort me."
Then the sorrow came. The young husband felt it his duty to join the
struggling army and fight for his country. It was in doubtful times.
This queer, rural, primitive settlement knew little about the great
causes. Since the new fort had been built and the French repulsed,
absolutely driven out of their strongholds, there had been only the
infrequent Indian encounters to rouse them. The stern resolves, the
mighty enthusiasm of the Eastern Colonies had not inspired them. Even
the Declaration of Independence, while it had stirred up their alien
and contradictory blood, had not evoked the sturdy patriotism of the
larger towns having so much more at stake. They added to their flocks
and herds, they hunted game and wild animals, and on the whole enjoyed
their rural life.
Sandy Carrick had never known which side to affiliate with the most
strongly. There was the brave old Scottish strain that his mother had
handed down in many a romantic tale, there was the Irish of his father
that had come down almost from royalty itself, from the famous Dukes
that had once divided Ireland between them. Why the Carricks had
espoused the English side he could not have told. He was glad to come
to the new countries. And when, after being a widower for several
years, he married pretty buxom widow Boyle, he was well satisfied with
his place in life.
He had been in the fateful encounter at Braddock's defeat at his first
introduction to the country. The French were well enough in Canada,
which seemed not very far from the North Pole, and a land of eternal
snow, but when they came farther down with their forts and their
claims it was time to drive them out, and nothing gave him greater
satisfaction than to think they were mostly out.
He took a great fancy to his next-door neighbor, Marc Bradin, but he
fought shy of the old black-eyed Frenchman. Pierre Duvernay had passed
through too many vicissitudes and experiences to believe that any one
party had all the right; then, too, he was a sweet-natured old man,
thinking often of the time when he should rejoin friends and
relatives, not a few of whom had died for their faith.
Sandy had not liked his son's marriage with Barbe Bradin, who
certainly was more French than Irish, but she had a winsome brightness
and vivacity, and indulged in many a laughing tilt with her
father-in-law. Nora Boyle openly favored them all. They spun and knit
and made lace and wove rugs of rags and compared cookery, and she and
Mrs. Bradin were wildly happy over Daffodil.
"If 't had been a boy now!" exclaimed Sandy. "A gal's good for naught
when it comes to handin' down the name. Though if its hair'll turn out
red, an 't looks so now, it may flout t'other blood," putting a strong
expletive to it.
"Don't now, Sandy!" said his wife's coaxing voice. "There's sorts and
kinds in the world. The good Lord didn't mean us all to be alike or
he'd made 'em so to start with."
"Did make 'em so, woman. There was only two of 'em!"
"Well, some others came from somewhere. And Cain went off an got
himself a wife. An' when you think of the baby there's good three
parts Irish to the one French. An' I'm sure no one keeps a tidier
house, an' the little old man sittin' by the chimney corner hurts no
one. And it's handy to have a neebur to play at cards."
When there came an urgent call for men to join what seemed almost a
lost cause Bernard Carrick went to Philadelphia with perhaps twenty
other recruits, to the sorrow of his wife and the anger of his father.
"For they can't win, the blunderin' fules! D'y spose King George's
goin' to let a gran' country like this slip out of his fingers.
Barbery, if you were half a woman you'd 'a' held onto him if y'd had
to spit on yer han's to do it. You'll never see him agen, an' it
comforts me for the loss of my son that you've lost your husband. Ye
can git anither one, but I'll have no more sons to comfort me in my
old age."
Poor Barbe was wild with grief, yet somehow Bernard's sense of duty to
his country _had_ inspired her, and then she had her little darling,
her mother, and father, and grandfather, who had not outlived a
certain heroic strain if his blood had come through French channels.
The people of Pittsburg had no tea to throw overboard. The Stamp Act
bore lightly on them. They could brew good beer, they could distil
whiskey and make passable wine. Fish and game were in abundance, the
fields laughed with riotous harvests, so what if a few did go to war?
Sandy relented after a little and they took up the evenings of
card-playing, with the cider or beer and doughnuts, or a brittle kind
of spice cake that Mrs. Bradin could make in perfection. They had
arguments, to be sure: Marc Bradin was on the side of the Colonies,
and he had taken pains to keep informed of the causes of disaffection.
It was going to be a big country and could govern itself since it must
know better what was needed than a king thousands of miles away!
Sandy held his spite against the French sufficiently in abeyance to
learn to play piquet with great-grandfather. It interested him
wonderfully, and since two could play a game the women could knit and
sew and gossip. News came infrequently. Bradin often went to the Fort
to hear. If there were reverses, he held his peace in a cheerful sort
of way--if victories, there was rejoicing among themselves. For they
tried not to ruffle Sandy Carrick unnecessarily.
Daffodil went often to see grandad and Norry, as they called the
merry-hearted second wife, who nearly always had some tidbit for her.
And grandad took her on journeys sitting in front of him on an
improvised pillion, teaching her to sit astride and buckling a strap
around both bodies.
"For you'll have to be my boy, Dilly. My other boy'll never come back
to us."
"Where will he go?" in her wondering tone.
"The Lord only knows, child."