address the old rascal gave me, a dirty court out of Hanover Street
No such person had ever lived there, and my white-haired saint was a
humbug. Harry laughed at me, and Mamma forbade me to bring any more
thieves to the house, and the girls scolded awfully.
“Well, I recovered from the shock, and, nothing daunted, went off to
the little Irishwoman who sells apples on the Common,--not the fat,
tosey one with the stall near West Street, but the dried-up one who
sits by the path, nodding over an old basket with six apples and
four sticks of candy in it. No one ever seems to buy anything, but
she sits there and trusts to kind souls dropping a dime now and
then; she looks so feeble and forlorn, 'on the cold, cold ground.'
“She told me another sad tale of being all alone and unable to work,
and 'as wake as wather-grewl, without a hap-worth av flesh upon me
bones, and for the love of Heaven gimme a thrifle to kape the breath
av loife in a poor soul, with a bitter hard winter over me, and
niver a chick or child to do a hand's turn.' I hadn't much faith in
her, remembering my other humbug, but I did pity the old mummy; so I
got some tea and sugar, and a shawl, and used to give her my odd
pennies as I passed. I never told at home, they made such fun of my
efforts to be charitable. I thought I really was getting on pretty
well after a time, as my old Biddy seemed quite cheered up, and I
was planning to give her some coal, when she disappeared all of a
sudden. I feared she was ill, and asked Mrs. Maloney, the fat woman,
about her.
“'Lord love ye, Miss dear, it's tuk up and sint to the Island for
tree months she is; for a drunken ould crayther is Biddy Ryan, and
niver a cint but goes for whiskey,--more shame to her, wid a fine
bye av her own ready to kape her daycint.'
“Then I WAS discouraged, and went home to fold my hands, and see
what fate would send me, my own efforts being such failures.”
“Poor thing, it WAS hard luck!” said Elizabeth, as they sobered down
after the gale of merriment caused by Marion's mishaps, and her
clever imitation of the brogue.
“Now tell of your success, and the scarlet runner,” added Maggie.
“Ah! that was SENT, and so I prospered. I must begin ever so far
back, in war times, or I can't introduce my hero properly. You know
Papa was in the army, and fought all through the war till
Gettysburg, where he was wounded. He was engaged just before he
went; so when his father hurried to him after that awful battle,
Mamma went also, and helped nurse him till he could come home. He
wouldn't go to an officer's hospital, but kept with his men in a
poor sort of place, for many of his boys were hit, and he wouldn't
leave them. Sergeant Joe Collins was one of the bravest, and lost
his right arm saving the flag in one of the hottest struggles of
that great fight. He had been a Maine lumberman, and was over six
feet tall, but as gentle as a child, and as jolly as a boy, and very
fond of his colonel.
“Papa left first, but made Joe promise to let him know how he got
on, and Joe did so till he too went home. Then Papa lost sight of
him, and in the excitement of his own illness, and the end of the
war, and being married, Joe Collins was forgotten, till we children
came along, and used to love to hear the story of Papa's battles,
and how the brave sergeant caught the flag when the bearer was shot,
and held it in the rush till one arm was blown off and the other
wounded. We have fighting blood in us, you know, so we were never
tired of that story, though twenty-five years or more make it all
as far away to us as the old Revolution, where OUR ancestor was
killed, at OUR Bunker Hill!
“Last December, just after my sad disappointments, Papa came home to
dinner one day, exclaiming, in great glee: 'I've found old Joe! A
messenger came with a letter to me, and when I looked up to give my
answer, there stood a tall, grizzled fellow, as straight as a
ramrod, grinning from ear to ear, with his hand to his temple,
saluting me in regular style. “Don't you remember Joe Collins,
Colonel? Awful glad to see you, sir,” said he. And then it all came
back, and we had a good talk, and I found out that the poor old boy
was down on his luck, and almost friendless, but as proud and
independent as ever, and bound to take care of himself while he had
a leg to stand on. I've got his address, and mean to keep an eye on
him, for he looks feeble and can't make much, I'm sure.'
“We were all very glad, and Joe came to see us, and Papa sent him on
endless errands, and helped him in that way till he went to New
York. Then, in the fun and flurry of the holidays, we forgot all
about Joe, till Papa came home and missed him from his post. I said
I'd go and find him; so Harry and I rummaged about till we did find
him, in a little house at the North End, laid up with rheumatic
fever in a stuffy back room, with no one to look after him but the
washerwoman with whom he boarded.
“I was SO sorry we had forgotten him! but HE never complained, only
said, with his cheerful grin,' I kinder mistrusted the Colonel was
away, but I wasn't goin' to pester him.' He tried to be jolly,
though in dreadful pain; called Harry 'Major,' and was so grateful
for all we brought him, though he didn't want oranges and tea, and
made us shout when I said, like a goose, thinking that was the
proper thing to do, 'Shall I bathe your brow, you are so feverish?'
“'No, thanky, miss, it was swabbed pretty stiddy to the horsepittle,
and I reckon a trifle of tobaccer would do more good and be a sight
more relishin', ef you'll excuse my mentionin' it.'
“Harry rushed off and got a great lump and a pipe, and Joe lay
blissfully puffing, in a cloud of smoke, when we left him, promising
to come again. We did go nearly every day, and had lovely times; for
Joe told us his adventures, and we got so interested in the war that
I began to read up evenings, and Papa was pleased, and fought all
his battles over again for us, and Harry and I were great friends
reading together, and Papa was charmed to see the old General's
spirit in us, as we got excited and discussed all our wars in a
fever of patriotism that made Mamma laugh. Joe said I 'brustled up'
at the word BATTLE like a war-horse at the smell of powder, and I'd
ought to have been a drummer, the sound of martial music made me so
'skittish.'
“It was all new and charming to us young ones, but poor old Joe had
a hard time, and was very ill. Exposure and fatigue, and scanty
food, and loneliness, and his wounds, were too much for him, and it
was plain his working days were over. He hated the thought of the
poor-house at home, which was all his own town could offer him, and
he had no friends to live with, and he could not get a pension,
something being wrong about his papers; so he would have been badly
off, but for the Soldiers' Home at Chelsea. As soon as he was able,
Papa got him in there, and he was glad to go, for that seemed the
proper place, and a charity the proudest man might accept, after
risking his life for his country.
“There is where I used to be going when you saw me, and I was SO
afraid you'd smell the cigars in my basket. The dear old boys always
want them, and Papa says they MUST have them, though it isn't half
so romantic as flowers, and jelly, and wine, and the dainty messes
we women always want to carry. I've learned about different kinds of
tobacco and cigars, and you'd laugh to see me deal out my gifts,
which are received as gratefully as the Victoria Cross, when the
Queen decorates HER brave men. I'm quite a great gun over there, and
the boys salute when I come, tell me their woes, and think that Papa
and I can run the whole concern. I like it immensely, and am as
proud and fond of my dear old wrecks as if I'd been a Rigoletto, and
ridden on a cannon from my babyhood. That's MY story, but I can't
begin to tell how interesting it all is, nor how glad I am that it
led me to look into the history of American wars, in which brave men
of our name did their parts so well.”
A hearty round of applause greeted Marion's tale, for her glowing
face and excited voice stirred the patriotic spirit of the Boston
girls, and made them beam approvingly upon her.
“Now, Maggie, dear, last but not least, I'm sure,” said Anna, with
an encouraging glance, for SHE had discovered the secret of this
friend, and loved her more than ever for it.
Maggie blushed and hesitated, as she put down the delicate muslin
cap-strings she was hemming with such care. Then, looking about her
with a face in which both humility and pride contended, she said
with an effort, “After the other lively experiences, mine will sound
very flat. In fact, I have no story to tell, for MY charity began at
home, and stopped there.”
“Tell it, dear. I know it is interesting, and will do us all good,”
said Anna, quickly; and, thus supported, Maggie went on.
“I planned great things, and talked about what I meant to do, till
Papa said one day, when things were in a mess, as they often are at
our house, 'If the little girls who want to help the world along
would remember that charity begins at home, they would soon find
enough to do.'
“I was rather taken aback, and said no more, but after Papa had gone
to the office, I began to think, and looked round to see what there
was to be done at that particular moment. I found enough for that
day, and took hold at once; for poor Mamma had one of her bad
headaches, the children could not go out because it rained, and so
were howling in the nursery, cook was on a rampage, and Maria had
the toothache. Well, I began by making Mamma lie down for a good
long sleep. I kept the children quiet by giving them my ribbon box
and jewelry to dress up with, put a poultice on Maria's face, and
offered to wash the glass and silver for her, to appease cook, who
was as cross as two sticks over extra work washing-day. It wasn't
much fun, as you may imagine, but I got through the afternoon, and
kept the house still, and at dusk crept into Mamma's room and softly
built up the fire, so it should be cheery when she waked. Then I
went trembling to the kitchen for some tea, and there found three
girls calling, and high jinks going on; for one whisked a plate of
cake into the table drawer, another put a cup under her shawl, and
cook hid the teapot, as I stirred round in the china closet before
opening the slide, through a crack of which I'd seen, heard, and
smelt 'the party,' as the children call it.
“I was angry enough to scold the whole set, but I wisely held my
tongue, shut my eyes, and politely asked for some hot water, nodded
to the guests, and told cook Maria was better, and would do her work
if she wanted to go out.
“So peace reigned, and as I settled the tray, I heard cook say in
her balmiest tone, for I suspect the cake and tea lay heavy on her
conscience, 'The mistress is very poorly, and Miss takes nice care
of her, the dear.'
“All blarney, but it pleased me and made me remember how feeble poor
Mamma was, and how little I really did. So I wept a repentant weep
as I toiled upstairs with my tea and toast, and found Mamma all
ready for them, and so pleased to find things going well. I saw by
that what a relief it would be to her if I did it oftener, as I
ought, and as I resolved that I would.
“I didn't say anything, but I kept on doing whatever came along, and
before I knew it ever so many duties slipped out of Mamma's hands
into mine, and seemed to belong to me. I don't mean that I liked
them, and didn't grumble to myself; I did, and felt regularly
crushed and injured sometimes when I wanted to go and have my own
fun. Duty is right, but it isn't easy, and the only comfort about it
is a sort of quiet feeling you get after a while, and a strong
feeling, as if you'd found something to hold on to and keep you
steady. I can't express it, but you know?” And Maggie looked
wistfully at the other faces, some of which answered her with a
quick flash of sympathy, and some only wore a puzzled yet respectful
expression, as if they felt they ought to know, but did not.
“I need not tire you with all my humdrum doings,” continued Maggie.
“I made no plans, but just said each day, 'I'll take what comes,
and try to be cheerful and contented.' So I looked after the
children, and that left Maria more time to sew and help round. I did
errands, and went to market, and saw that Papa had his meals
comfortably when Mamma was not able to come down. I made calls for
her, and received visitors, and soon went on as if I were the lady
of the house, not 'a chit of a girl,' as Cousin Tom used to call me.
“The best of all were the cosey talks we had in the twilight, Mamma
and I, when she was rested, and all the day's worry was over, and we
were waiting for Papa. Now, when he came, I didn't have to go away,
for they wanted to ask and tell me things, and consult about
affairs, and make me feel that I was really the eldest daughter. Oh,
it was just lovely to sit between them and know that they needed me,
and loved to have me with them! That made up for the hard and
disagreeable things, and not long ago I got my reward. Mamma is
better, and I was rejoicing over it, when she said,' Yes, I really
am mending now, and hope soon to be able to relieve my good girl.
But I want to tell you, dear, that when I was most discouraged my
greatest comfort was, that if I had to leave my poor babies they
would find such a faithful little mother in you.'
“I was SO pleased I wanted to cry, for the children DO love me, and
run to me for everything now, and think the world of Sister, and
they didn't use to care much for me. But that wasn't all. I ought
not to tell these things, perhaps, but I'm so proud of them I can't
help it. When I asked Papa privately, if Mamma was REALLY better and
in no danger of falling ill again, he said, with his arms round me,
and such a tender kiss,--
“'No danger now, for this brave little girl put her shoulder to the
wheel so splendidly, that the dear woman got the relief from care
she needed just at the right time, and now she really rests sure
that we are not neglected. You couldn't have devoted yourself to a
better charity, or done it more sweetly, my darling. God bless
you!'”
Here Maggie's voice gave out, and she hid her face, with a happy
sob, that finished her story eloquently. Marion flew to wipe her
tears away with the blue sock, and the others gave a sympathetic
murmur, looking much touched; forgotten duties of their own rose
before them, and sudden resolutions were made to attend to them at
once, seeing how great Maggie's reward had been.
“I didn't mean to be silly; but I wanted you to know that I hadn't
been idle all winter, and that, though I haven't much to tell, I'm
quite satisfied with my chore,” she said, looking up with smiles
shining through the tears till her face resembled a rose in a
sun-shower.
“Many daughters have done well, but thou excellest them all,”
answered Anna, with a kiss that completed her satisfaction.
“Now, as it is after our usual time, and we must break up,”
continued the President, producing a basket of flowers from its
hiding-place, “I will merely say that I think we have all learned a
good deal, and will be able to work better next winter; for I am
sure we shall want to try again, it adds so much sweetness to our
own lives to put even a little comfort into the hard lives of the
poor. As a farewell token, I sent for some real Plymouth mayflowers,
and here they are, a posy apiece, with my love and many thanks for
your help in carrying out my plan so beautifully.”
So the nosegays were bestowed, the last lively chat enjoyed, new
plans suggested, and goodbyes said; then the club separated, each
member going gayly away with the rosy flowers on her bosom, and in
it a clearer knowledge of the sad side of life, a fresh desire to
see and help still more, and a sweet satisfaction in the thought
that each had done what she could.
AN IVY SPRAY AND LADIES' SLIPPERS
“IT can't be done! So I may as well give it I up and get a new pair.
I long for them, but I'm afraid my nice little plan for Laura will
be spoilt,” said Jessie Delano to herself, as she shook her head
over a pair of small, dilapidated slippers almost past mending.
While she vainly pricked her fingers over them for the last time,
her mind was full of girlish hopes and fears, as well as of
anxieties far too serious for a light-hearted creature of sixteen.
A year ago the sisters had been the petted daughters of a rich man;
but death and misfortune came suddenly, and now they were left to
face poverty alone. They had few relations, and had offended the
rich uncle who offered Jessie a home, because she refused to be
separated from her sister. Poor Laura was an invalid, and no one
wanted her; but Jessie would not leave her, so they clung together
and lived on in the humble rooms where their father died, trying to
earn their bread by the only accomplishments they possessed. Laura
painted well, and after many disappointments was beginning to find a
sale for her dainty designs and delicate flowers. Jessie had a
natural gift for dancing; and her former teacher, a kind-hearted
Frenchwoman, offered her favorite pupil the post of assistant
teacher in her classes for children.
It cost the girl a struggle to accept a place of this sort and be a
humble teacher, patiently twirling stupid little boys and girls
round and round over the smooth floor where she used to dance so
happily when she was the pride of the class and the queen of the
closing balls. But for Laura's sake she gratefully accepted the
offer, glad to add her mite to their small store, and to feel that
she could help keep the wolf from the door. They had seemed to hear
the howl of this dreaded phantom more than once during that year,
and looked forward to the long hard winter with an anxiety which
neither would confess to the other. Laura feared to fall ill if she
worked too hard, and then what would become of this pretty young
sister who loved her so tenderly and would not be tempted to leave
her? And Jessie could do very little except rebel against their hard
fate and make impracticable plans. But each worked bravely, talked
cheerfully, and waited hopefully for some good fortune to befall
them, while doubt and pain and poverty and care made the young
hearts so heavy that the poor girls often fell asleep on pillows wet
with secret tears.
The smaller trials of life beset Jessie at this particular moment,
and her bright wits were trying to solve the problem how to spend
her treasured five dollars on slippers for herself and paints for
Laura. Both were much needed, and she had gone in shabby shoes to
save up money for the little surprise on which she had set her
heart; but now dismay fell upon her when the holes refused to be
cobbled, and the largest of bows would not hide the worn-out toes in
spite of ink and blacking lavishly applied.
“These are the last of my dear French slippers, and I can't afford
any more. I hate cheap things! But I shall have to get them; for my
boots are shabby, and every one has to look at my feet when I lead.
Oh dear, what a horrid thing it is to be poor!” and Jessie surveyed
the shabby little shoes affectionately, as her eyes filled with
tears; for the road looked very rough and steep now, when she
remembered how she used to dance through life as happy as a
butterfly in a garden full of sunshine and flowers.
“Now, Jess, no nonsense, no red eyes to tell tales! Go and do your
errands, and come in as gay as a lark, or Laura will be worried.”
And springing up, the girl began to sing instead of sob, as she
stirred about her dismal little room, cleaning her old gloves,
mending her one white dress, and wishing with a sigh of intense
longing that she could afford some flowers to wear, every ornament
having been sold long ago. Then, with a kiss and a smile to her
patient sister, she hurried away to get the necessary slippers and
the much-desired paints, which Laura would not ask for, though her
work waited for want of them.
Having been reared in luxury, poor little Jessie's tastes were all
of the daintiest sort; and her hardest trial, after Laura's feeble
health, was the daily sacrifice of the many comforts and elegances
to which she had been accustomed. Faded gowns, cleaned gloves, and
mended boots cost her many a pang, and the constant temptation of
seeing pretty, useful, and unattainable things was a very hard one.
Laura rarely went out, and so was spared this cross; then she was
three years older, had always been delicate, and lived much in a
happy world of her own. So Jessie bore her trials silently, but
sometimes felt very covetous and resentful to see so much pleasure,
money, and beauty in the world, and yet have so little of it fall to
her lot.
“I feel as if I could pick a pocket to-day and not mind a bit, if it
were a rich person's. It's a shame, when papa was always so
generous, that no one remembers us. If ever I'm rich again, I'll
just hunt up all the poor girls I can find, and give them nice
shoes, if nothing else,” she thought, as she went along the crowded
streets, pausing involuntarily at the shop windows to look with
longing eyes at the treasures within.
Resisting the allurements of French slippers with bows and buckles,
she wisely bought a plain, serviceable pair, and trudged away,
finding balm for her wounds in the fact that they were very cheap.
More balm came when she met a young friend, who joined her as she
stood wistfully eying the piles of grapes in a window and longing to
buy some for Laura.
This warm-hearted schoolmate read the wish before Jessie saw her,
and gratified it so adroitly that the girl could accept the pretty
basketful sent to her sister without feeling like a spendthrift or a
beggar. It comforted her very much, and the world began to look
brighter after that little touch of kindness, as it always does when
genuine sympathy makes sunshine in shady places.
At the art store she was told that more of Laura's autumn-flowers
were in demand; and her face was so full of innocent delight and
gratitude it quite touched the old man who sold her the paints, and
gave her more than her money's worth, remembering his own hard times
and pitying the pretty young girl whose father he had known.
So Jessie did not have to pretend very hard at being “as gay as a
lark” when she got home and showed her treasures. Laura was so happy
over the unexpected gifts that the dinner of bread and milk and
grapes was quite a picnic; and Jessie found a smile on her face when
she went to dress for her party.
It was only a child's party at the house of one of Mademoiselle's
pupils, and Jessie was merely invited to help the little people
through their dancing. She did not like to go in this way, as she
was sure to meet familiar faces there, full of the pity, curiosity,
or indifference so hard for a girl to bear. But Mademoiselle asked
it as a favor, and Jessie was grateful; so she went, expecting no
pleasure and certain of much weariness, if not annoyance.
When she was ready,--and it did not take long to slip on the white
woollen dress, brush out the curly dark hair, and fold up slippers
and gloves,--she stood before her glass looking at herself, quite
conscious that she was very pretty, with her large eyes, blooming
cheeks, and the lofty little air which nothing could change. She was
also painfully conscious that her dress was neither fresh nor
becoming without a bit of ribbon or a knot of flowers to give it the
touch of color it needed. She had an artistic eye, and used to
delight in ordering charming costumes for herself in the happy days
when all her wishes were granted as if fairies still lived. She
tossed over her very small store of ribbons in vain; everything had
been worn till neither beauty nor freshness remained.
“Oh dear! where CAN I find something to make me look less like a
nun,--and a very shabby one, too?” she said, longing for the pink
corals she sold to pay Laura's doctor's bill.
The sound of a soft tap, tap, tap, startled her, and she ran to open
the door. No one was there but Laura, fast asleep on the sofa. Tap,
tap, tap! went the invisible hand; and as the sound seemed to come
from the window, Jessie glanced that way, thinking her tame dove had
come to be fed. Neither hungry dove nor bold sparrow appeared,--only
a spray of Japanese ivy waving in the wind. A very pretty spray it
was, covered with tiny crimson leaves; and it tapped impatiently, as
if it answered her question by saying, “Here is a garland for you;
come and take it.”