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Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag
Louisa M. Alcott
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG.
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF
'LITTLE WOMEN,' 'AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL,' 'LITTLE MEN,'
'HOSPITAL SKETCHES.'
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION_
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
(_LIMITED_)
St. Dunstan's House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1892
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE.
As grandmothers rummage their piece-bags and bundles in search of gay
odds and ends to make gifts with which to fill the little stockings that
hang all in a row on Christmas Eve, so I have gathered together some
stories, old and new, to amuse the large family that has so rapidly and
beautifully grown up about me.
I hope that when they promenade in night-caps and gowns to rifle the
plump stockings, the little 'dears' will utter an 'Oh!' of pleasure, and
give a prance of satisfaction, as they pull out this small gift from
Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag.
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS,
1871-72.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MY BOYS. 1
TESSA'S SURPRISES. 45
BUZZ. 75
THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. 85
DANDELION. 116
MADAM CLUCK AND HER FAMILY. 127
A CURIOUS CALL. 141
TILLY'S CHRISTMAS. 156
MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 170
BACK WINDOWS. 188
LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 200
MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS. 222
OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 235
PATTY'S PATCHWORK. 244
_MY BOYS._
Feeling that I have been unusually fortunate in my knowledge of a choice
and pleasing variety of this least appreciated portion of the human
race, I have a fancy to record some of my experiences, hoping that it
may awaken an interest in other minds, and cause other people to
cultivate the delightful, but too often neglected boys, who now run to
waste, so to speak.
I have often wondered what they thought of the peculiar treatment they
receive, even at the hands of their nearest friends. While they are
rosy, roly-poly little fellows they are petted and praised, adorned and
adored, till it is a miracle that they are not utterly ruined. But the
moment they outgrow their babyhood their trials begin, and they are
regarded as nuisances till they are twenty-one, when they are again
received into favor.
Yet that very time of neglect is the period when they most need all
manner of helps, and ought to have them. I like boys and oysters raw;
so, though good manners are always pleasing, I don't mind the rough
outside burr which repels most people, and perhaps that is the reason
why the burrs open and let me see the soft lining and taste the sweet
nut hidden inside.
My first well-beloved boy was a certain Frank, to whom I clung at the
age of seven with a devotion which I fear he did not appreciate. There
were six girls in the house, but I would have nothing to say to them,
preferring to tag after Frank, and perfectly happy when he allowed me to
play with him. I regret to say that the small youth was something of a
tyrant, and one of his favorite amusements was trying to make me cry by
slapping my hands with books, hoop-sticks, shoes, anything that came
along capable of giving a good stinging blow. I believe I endured these
marks of friendship with the fortitude of a young Indian, and felt fully
repaid for a blistered palm by hearing Frank tell the other boys, 'She's
a brave little thing, and you can't make her cry.'
My chief joy was in romping with him in the long galleries of a piano
manufactory behind our house. What bliss it was to mount one of the cars
on which the workmen rolled heavy loads from room to room, and to go
thundering down the inclined plains, regardless of the crash that
usually awaited us at the bottom! If I could have played foot-ball on
the Common with my Frank and Billy Babcock, life could have offered me
no greater joy at that period. As the prejudices of society forbid this
sport, I revenged myself by driving hoop all around the mall without
stopping, which the boys could _not_ do.
I can remember certain happy evenings, when we snuggled in sofa corners
and planned tricks and ate stolen goodies, and sometimes Frank would put
his curly head in my lap and let me stroke it when he was tired. What
the girls did I don't recollect; their domestic plays were not to my
taste, and the only figure that stands out from the dimness of the past
is that jolly boy with a twinkling eye. This memory would be quite
radiant but for one sad thing--a deed that cut me to the soul then, and
which I have never quite forgiven in all these years.
On one occasion I did something very naughty, and when called up for
judgment fled to the dining-room, locked the door, and from my
stronghold defied the whole world. I could have made my own terms, for
it was near dinner time and the family must eat; but, alas for the
treachery of the human heart! Frank betrayed me. He climbed in at the
window, unlocked the door, and delivered me up to the foe. Nay, he even
defended the base act, and helped bear the struggling culprit to
imprisonment. That nearly broke my heart, for I believed _he_ would
stand by me as staunchly as I always stood by him. It was a sad blow,
and I couldn't love or trust him any more. Peanuts and candy,
ginger-snaps and car-rides were unavailing; even foot-ball could not
reunite the broken friendship, and to this day I recollect the pang
that entered my little heart when I lost my faith in the loyalty of my
first boy.
The second attachment was of quite a different sort, and had a happier
ending. At the mature age of ten, I left home for my first visit to a
family of gay and kindly people in--well why not say right
out?--Providence. There were no children, and at first I did not mind
this, as every one petted me, especially one of the young men named
Christopher. So kind and patient, yet so merry was this good Christy
that I took him for my private and particular boy, and loved him dearly;
for he got me out of innumerable scrapes, and never was tired of amusing
the restless little girl who kept the family in a fever of anxiety by
her pranks. _He_ never laughed at her mishaps and mistakes, never played
tricks upon her like a certain William, who composed the most trying
nicknames, and wickedly goaded the wild visitor into all manner of
naughtiness. Christy stood up for her through everything; let her ride
the cows, feed the pigs, bang on the piano, and race all over the spice
mill, feasting on cinnamon and cloves; brought her down from housetops
and fished her out of brooks; never scolded, and never seemed tired of
the troublesome friendship of little Torment.
In a week I had exhausted every amusement and was desperately homesick.
It has always been my opinion that I should have been speedily restored
to the bosom of my family but for Christy, and but for him I should
assuredly have run away before the second week was out. He kept me, and
in the hour of my disgrace stood by me like a man and a brother.
One afternoon, inspired by a spirit of benevolence, enthusiastic but
short-sighted, I collected several poor children in the barn, and
regaled them on cake and figs, helping myself freely to the treasures of
the pantry without asking leave, meaning to explain afterward. Being
discovered before the supplies were entirely exhausted, the patience of
the long-suffering matron gave out, and I was ordered up to the garret
to reflect upon my sins, and the pleasing prospect of being sent home
with the character of the worst child ever known.
My sufferings were deep as I sat upon a fuzzy little trunk all alone in
the dull garret, thinking how hard it was to do right, and wondering why
I was scolded for feeding the poor when we were expressly bidden to do
so. I felt myself an outcast, and bewailed the disgrace I had brought
upon my family. Nobody could possibly love such a bad child; and if the
mice were to come and eat me then and there--a la Bishop Hatto--it
would only be a relief to my friends. At this dark moment I heard
Christy say below, 'She meant it kindly, so I wouldn't mind, Fanny;' and
then up came my boy full of sympathy and comfort. Seeing the tragic
expression of my face, he said not a word, but, sitting down in an old
chair, took me on his knee and held me close and quietly, letting the
action speak for itself. It did most eloquently; for the kind arm seemed
to take me back from that dreadful exile, and the friendly face to
assure me without words that I had not sinned beyond forgiveness.
I had not shed a tear before, but now I cried tempestuously, and clung
to him like a shipwrecked little mariner in a storm. Neither spoke, but
he held me fast and let me cry myself to sleep; for, when the shower was
over, a pensive peace fell upon me, and the dim old garret seemed not a
prison, but a haven of refuge, since my boy came to share it with me.
How long I slept I don't know, but it must have been an hour, at least;
yet my good Christy never stirred, only waited patiently till I woke up
in the twilight, and was not afraid because he was there. He took me
down as meek as a mouse, and kept me by him all that trying evening,
screening me from jokes, rebukes, and sober looks; and when I went to
bed he came up to kiss me, and to assure me that this awful circumstance
should not be reported at home. This took a load off my heart, and I
remember fervently thanking him, and telling him I never would forget
it.
I never have, though he died long ago, and others have probably
forgotten all about the naughty prank. I often longed to ask him how he
knew the surest way to win a child's heart by the patience, sympathy,
and tender little acts that have kept his memory green for nearly thirty
years.
Cy was a comrade after my own heart, and for a summer or two we kept the
neighbourhood in a ferment by our adventures and hair-breadth escapes. I
think I never knew a boy so full of mischief, and my opportunities of
judging have been manifold. He did not get into scrapes himself, but
possessed a splendid talent for deluding others into them, and then
morally remarking, 'There, I told you so!' His way of saying 'You
dars'nt do this or that' was like fire to powder; and why I still live
in the possession of all my limbs and senses is a miracle to those who
know my youthful friendship with Cy. It was he who incited me to jump
off of the highest beam in the barn, to be borne home on a board with a
pair of sprained ankles. It was he who dared me to rub my eyes with red
peppers, and then sympathisingly led me home blind and roaring with
pain. It was he who solemnly assured me that all the little pigs would
die in agony if their tails were not cut off, and won me to hold
thirteen little squealers while the operation was performed. Those
thirteen innocent pink tails haunt me yet, and the memory of that deed
has given me a truly Jewish aversion to pork.
I did not know him long, but he was a kindred soul, and must have a
place in my list of boys. He is a big, brown man now, and, having done
his part in the war, is at work on his farm. We meet sometimes, and
though we try to be dignified and proper, it is quite impossible; there
is a sly twinkle in Cy's eye that upsets my gravity, and we always burst
out laughing at the memory of our early frolics.
My Augustus! oh, my Augustus! my first little lover, and the most
romantic of my boys. At fifteen I met this charming youth, and thought I
had found my fate. It was at a spelling school in a little country town
where I, as a stranger and visitor from the city, was an object of
interest. Painfully conscious of this fact, I sat in a corner trying to
look easy and elegant, with a large red bow under my chin, and a
carnelian ring in full view. Among the boys and girls who frolicked
about me, I saw one lad of seventeen with 'large blue eyes, a noble
brow, and a beautiful straight nose,' as I described him in a letter to
my sister. This attractive youth had a certain air of refinement and
ease of manner that the others lacked; and when I found he was the
minister's son, I felt that I might admire him without loss of dignity.
'Imagine my sensations,' as Miss Burney's Evelina says, when this boy
came and talked to me, a little bashfully at first, but soon quite
freely, and invited me to a huckleberry party next day. I had observed
that he was one of the best spellers. I also observed that his language
was quite elegant; he even quoted Byron, and rolled his eyes in a most
engaging manner, not to mention that he asked who gave me my ring, and
said he depended on escorting me to the berry pasture.
'Dear me, how interesting it was! and when I found myself, next day,
sitting under a tree in the sunny field (full of boys and girls, all
more or less lovering), with the amiable Augustus at my feet, gallantly
supplying me with bushes to strip while we talked about books and
poetry, I really felt as if I had got into a novel, and enjoyed it
immensely. I believe a dim idea that Gus was sentimental hovered in my
mind, but I would not encourage it, though I laughed in my sleeve when
he was spouting Latin for my benefit, and was uncertain whether to box
his ears or simper later in the day, when he languished over the gate,
and said he thought chestnut hair the loveliest in the world.
Poor, dear boy! how innocent and soft-hearted and full of splendid
dreams he was, and what deliciously romantic times we had floating on
the pond, while the frogs sung to his accordion, as he tried to say
unutterable things with his honest blue eyes. It makes me shiver now to
think of the mosquitoes and the damp; but it was Pauline and Claude
Melnotte then, and when I went home we promised to be true to one
another, and write every week during the year he was away at school.
We parted--not in tears by any means; that sort of nonsense comes
later, when the romance is less childish--but quite jolly and
comfortable, and I hastened to pour forth the thrilling tale to my
faithful sister, who approved of the match, being a perfect 'mush of
sentiment' herself.
I fear it was not a very ardent flame, however, for Gus did not write
every week, and I did not care a bit; nevertheless, I kept his picture
and gave it a sentimental sigh when I happened to think of it, while he
sent messages now and then, and devoted himself to his studies like an
ambitious boy as he was. I hardly expected to see him again, but soon
after the year was out, to my great surprise, he called. I was so
fluttered by the appearance of his card that I rather lost my head, and
did such a silly thing that it makes me laugh even now. He liked
chestnut hair, and, pulling out my combs, I rushed down, theatrically
dishevelled, hoping to impress my lover with my ardour and my charms.
I expected to find little Gus; but, to my great confusion, a tall being
with a beaver in his hand rose to meet me, looking so big and handsome
and generally imposing that I could not recover myself for several
minutes, and mentally wailed for my combs, feeling like an untidy
simpleton.
I don't know whether he thought me a little cracked or not, but he was
very friendly and pleasant, and told me his plans, and hoped I would
make another visit, and smoothed his beaver, and let me see his
tail-coat, and behaved himself like a dear, conceited, clever boy. He
did not allude to our love-passages, being shy, and I blessed him for
it; for really, I don't know what rash thing I might have done under
the exciting circumstances. Just as he was going, however, he forgot
his cherished hat for a minute, put out both hands, and said heartily,
with his old boyish laugh,--
'Now you will come, and we'll go boating and berrying, and all the rest
of it again, won't we?'
The blue eyes were full of fun and feeling, too, I fancied, as I
blushingly retired behind my locks and gave the promise. But I never
went, and never saw my little lover any more, for in a few weeks he was
dead of a fever, brought on by too much study,--and so ended the sad
history of my fourth boy.
After this, for many years, I was a boyless being; but was so busy I did
not feel my destitute condition till I went to the hospital during the
war, and found my little sergeant. His story has been told elsewhere,
but the sequel to it is a pleasant one, for Baby B. still writes to me
now and then, asks advice about his future, and gladdens me with good
news of his success as a business man in Kansas.
As if to atone for the former dearth, a sudden shower of most superior
boys fell upon me, after I recovered from my campaign. Some of the very
best sort it was my fortune to know and like--real gentlemen, yet boys
still--and jolly times they had, stirring up the quiet old town with
their energetic society.
There was W., a stout, amiable youth, who would stand in the middle of a
strawberry patch with his hands in his pockets and let us feed him
luxuriously. B., a delightful scapegrace, who came once a week to
confess his sins, beat his breast in despair, vow awful vows of
repentance, and then cheerfully depart to break every one of them in the
next twenty-four hours. S., the gentle-hearted giant; J., the dandy;
sober, sensible B.; and E., the young knight without reproach or fear.
But my especial boy of the batch was A.--proud and cold and shy to other
people, sad and serious sometimes when his good heart and tender
conscience showed him his short-comings, but so grateful for sympathy
and a kind word.
I could not get at him as easily as I could the other lads, but, thanks
to Dickens, I found him out at last.
We played Dolphus and Sophy Tetterby in the 'Haunted Man,' at one of the
school festivals; and during the rehearsals I discovered that my Dolphus
was--permit the expression, oh, well-bred readers!--a trump. What fun we
had to be sure, acting the droll and pathetic scenes together, with a
swarm of little Tetterbys skirmishing about us! From that time he has
been my Dolphus and I his Sophy, and my yellow-haired laddie don't
forget me, though he has a younger Sophy now, and some small Tetterbys
of his own. He writes just the same affectionate letters as he used to
do, though I, less faithful, am too busy to answer them.
But the best and dearest of all my flock was my Polish boy, Ladislas
Wisniewski--two hiccoughs and a sneeze will give you the name perfectly.
Six years ago, as I went down to my early breakfast at our Pension in
Vevey, I saw that a stranger had arrived. He was a tall youth, of
eighteen or twenty, with a thin, intelligent face, and the charmingly
polite manners of a foreigner. As the other boarders came in, one by
one, they left the door open, and a draught of cold autumn air blew in
from the stone corridor, making the new-comer cough, shiver, and cast
wistful glances towards the warm corner by the stove. My place was
there, and the heat often oppressed me, so I was glad of an opportunity
to move.
A word to Madame Vodoz effected the change; and at dinner I was rewarded
by a grateful smile from the poor fellow, as he nestled into his warm
seat, after a pause of surprise and a flush of pleasure at the small
kindness from a stranger. We were too far apart to talk much, but, as he
filled his glass, the Pole bowed to me, and said low in French--
'I drink the good health to Mademoiselle.'
I returned the wish, but he shook his head with a sudden shadow on his
face, as if the words meant more than mere compliment to him.
'That boy is sick and needs care. I must see to him,' said I to myself,
as I met him in the afternoon, and observed the military look of his
blue and white suit, as he touched his cap and smiled pleasantly. I have
a weakness for brave boys in blue, and having discovered that he had
been in the late Polish Revolution, my heart warmed to him at once.
That evening he came to me in the salon, and expressed his thanks in the
prettiest broken English I ever heard. So simple, frank, and grateful
was he that a few words of interest won his little story from him, and
in half an hour we were friends. With his fellow-students he had fought
through the last outbreak, and suffered imprisonment and hardship rather
than submit, had lost many friends, his fortune and his health, and at
twenty, lonely, poor, and ill, was trying bravely to cure the malady
which seemed fatal.
'If I recover myself of this affair in the chest, I teach the music to
acquire my bread in this so hospitable country. At Paris, my friends,
all two, find a refuge, and I go to them in spring if I die not here.
Yes, it is solitary, and my memories are not gay, but I have my work,
and the good God remains always to me, so I content myself with much
hope, and I wait.'
Such genuine piety and courage increased my respect and regard
immensely, and a few minutes later he added to both by one of the little
acts that show character better than words.
He told me about the massacre, when five hundred Poles were shot down by
Cossacks in the market-place, merely because they sung their national
hymn.
'Play me that forbidden air,' I said, wishing to judge of his skill, for
I had heard him practising softly in the afternoon.
He rose willingly, then glanced about the room and gave a little shrug
which made me ask what he wanted.
'I look to see if the Baron is here. He is Russian, and to him my
national air will not be pleasing.'
'Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I should rather enjoy
that little insult to your bitter enemy,' said I, feeling very indignant
with everything Russian just then.
'Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are also
gentlemen,' returned the boy, proving that _he_ at least was one.
I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as the Baron was not
there he played the beautiful hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spite
of the danger to his weak lungs. A true musician evidently, for, as he
sung his pale face glowed, his eyes shone, and his lost vigor seemed
restored to him.
From that evening we were fast friends; for the memory of certain dear
lads at home made my heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me in
return the most grateful affection and service. He begged me to call him
'Varjo,' as his mother did. He constituted himself my escort,
errand-boy, French teacher, and private musician, making those weeks
indefinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his charming little
confidences, and faithful friendship.
We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped him about his English.
With a great interest in free America, and an intense longing to hear
about our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue did not long stand
between us.
Beginning with my bad French and his broken English, we got on
capitally; but he outdid me entirely, making astonishing progress,
though he often slapped his forehead with the despairing exclamation,--
'I am imbecile! I never can will shall to have learn this beast of
English!'
But he did, and in a month had added a new language to the five he
already possessed.
His music was the delight of the house; and he often gave us little
concerts with the help of Madame Teiblin, a German St. Cecilia, with a
cropped head and a gentlemanly sack, cravat, and collar. Both were
enthusiasts, and the longer they played the more inspired they got. The
piano vibrated, the stools creaked, the candles danced in their sockets,
and every one sat mute while the four white hands chased one another up
and down the keys, and the two fine faces beamed with such ecstasy that
we almost expected to see instrument and performers disappear in a
musical whirlwind.
Lake Leman will never seem so lovely again as when Laddie and I roamed
about its shores, floated on its bosom, or laid splendid plans for the
future in the sunny garden of the old chateau. I tried it again last
year, but the charm was gone, for I missed my boy with his fun, his
music, and the frank, fresh affection he gave his 'little mamma,' as he
insisted on calling the lofty spinster who loved him like half-a-dozen
grandmothers rolled into one.
December roses blossomed in the gardens then, and Laddie never failed to
have a posy ready for me at dinner. Few evenings passed without
'confidences' in my corner of the salon, and I still have a pile of
merry little notes which I used to find tucked under my door. He called
them chapters of a great history we were to write together, and being a
'_polisson_' he illustrated it with droll pictures, and a funny mixture
of French and English romance.
It was very pleasant, but like all pleasant things in this world of
change it soon came to an end. When I left for Italy we jokingly agreed
to meet in Paris the next May, but neither really felt that we should
ever meet again, for Laddie hardly expected to outlive the winter, and I
felt sure I should soon be forgotten. As he kissed my hand there were
tears in my boy's eyes, and a choke in the voice that tried to say
cheerfully--
'_Bon voyage_, dear and good little mamma. I do not say adieu, but _au
revoir_.'
Then the carriage rolled away, the wistful face vanished, and nothing
remained to me but the memory of Laddie, and a little stain on my glove
where a drop had fallen.
As I drew near Paris six months later, and found myself wishing that I
might meet Varjo in the great, gay city, and wondering if there was any
chance of my doing it, I never dreamed of seeing him so soon; but, as I
made my way among the crowd of passengers that poured through the
station, feeling tired, bewildered, and homesick, I suddenly saw a blue
and white cap wave wildly in the air, then Laddie's beaming face
appeared, and Laddie's eager hands grasped mine so cordially that I
began to laugh at once, and felt that Paris was almost as good as home.
'Ah, ha! behold the little mamma, who did not think to see again her bad
son! Yes, I am greatly glad that I make the fine surprise for you as you
come all weary to this place of noise. Give to me the billets, for I am
still mademoiselle's servant and go to find the coffers.'
He got my trunks, put me into a carriage, and as we rolled merrily away
I asked how he chanced to meet me so unexpectedly. Knowing where I
intended to stay, he had called occasionally till I notified Madame D.
of the day and hour of my arrival, and then he had come to 'make the
fine surprise.' He enjoyed the joke like a true boy, and I was glad to
see how well he looked, and how gay he seemed.
'You are better?' I said.
'I truly hope so. The winter was good to me and I cough less. It is a
small hope, but I do not enlarge my fear by a sad face. I yet work and
save a little purse, so that I may not be a heaviness to those who have
the charity to finish me if I fall back and yet die.'
I would not hear of that, and told him he looked as well and happy as if
he had found a fortune.
He laughed, and answered with his fine bow, 'I have. Behold, you come
to make the fete for me. I find also here my friends Joseph and
Napoleon. Poor as mouses of the church, as you say, but brave boys, and
we work together with much gaiety.'
When I asked if he had leisure to be my guide about Paris, for my time
was short and I wanted to see _everything_; he pranced, and told me he
had promised himself a holiday, and had planned many excursions the most
wonderful, charming, and gay. Then, having settled me at Madame's, he
went blithely away to what I afterwards discovered were very poor
lodgings, across the river.
Next day began the pleasantest fortnight in all my year of travel.
Laddie appeared early, elegant to behold, in a new hat and buff gloves,
and was immensely amused because the servant informed me that my big son
had arrived.
I believe the first thing a woman does in Paris is to buy a new bonnet.
I did, or rather stood by and let 'my son' do it in the best of French,
only whispering when he proposed gorgeous _chapeaus_ full of flowers and
feathers, that I could not afford it.
'Ah! we must make our economies, must we? See, then, this modest,
pearl-colored one, with the crape rose. Yes, we will have that, and be
most elegant for the Sunday promenade.'
I fear I should have bought a pea-green hat with a yellow plume if he
had urged it, so wheedlesome and droll were his ways and words. His good
taste saved me, however, and the modest one was sent home for the
morrow, when we were to meet Joseph and Napoleon and go to the concert
in the Tuileries garden.
Then we set off on our day of sight-seeing, and Laddie proved himself
an excellent guide. We had a charming trip about the enchanted city, a
gay lunch at a cafe, and a first brief glimpse of the Louvre. At
dinner-time I found a posy at my place; and afterward Laddie came and
spent the evening in my little salon, playing to me, and having what he
called 'babblings and pleasantries.' I found that he was translating
'Vanity Fair' into Polish, and intended to sell it at home. He convulsed
me with his struggles to put cockney English and slang into good Polish,
for he had saved up a list of words for me to explain to him. Hay-stack
and bean-pot were among them, I remember; and when he had mastered the
meanings he fell upon the sofa exhausted.
Other days like this followed, and we led a happy life together: for my
twelve years' seniority made our adventures quite proper, and I
fearlessly went anywhere on the arm of my big son. Not to theatres or
balls, however, for heated rooms were bad for Laddie, but pleasant trips
out of the city in the bright spring weather, quiet strolls in the
gardens, moonlight concerts in the Champs Elysees; or, best of all, long
talks with music in the little red salon, with the gas turned low, and
the ever-changing scenes of the Rue de Rivoli under the balcony.
Never were pleasures more cheaply purchased or more thoroughly enjoyed,
for our hearts were as light as our purses, and our 'little economies'
gave zest to our amusements.
Joseph and Napoleon sometimes joined us, and I felt in my element with
the three invalid soldier boys, for Napoleon still limped with a wound
received in the war, Joseph had never recovered from his two years'
imprisonment in an Austrian dungeon, and Laddie's loyalty might yet
cost him his life.
Thanks to them, I discovered a joke played upon me by my '_polisson_'.
He told me to call him 'ma drogha,' saying it meant 'my friend,' in
Polish. I innocently did so, and he seemed to find great pleasure in it,
for his eyes always laughed when I said it. Using it one day before the
other lads, I saw a queer twinkle in their eyes, and suspecting
mischief, demanded the real meaning of the words. Laddie tried to
silence them, but the joke was too good to keep, and I found to my
dismay that I had been calling him 'my darling' in the tenderest manner.
How the three rascals shouted, and what a vain struggle it was to try
and preserve my dignity when Laddie clasped his hands and begged pardon,
explaining that jokes were necessary to his health, and he never meant
me to know the full baseness of this 'pleasantrie!' I revenged myself by
giving him some bad English for his translation, and telling him of it
just as I left Paris.
It was not all fun with my boy, however; he had his troubles, and in
spite of his cheerfulness he knew what heartache was. Walking in the
quaint garden of the Luxembourg one day, he confided to me the little
romance of his life. A very touching little romance as he told it, with
eloquent eyes and voice and frequent pauses for breath. I cannot give
his words, but the simple facts were these:--
He had grown up with a pretty cousin, and at eighteen was desperately in
love with her. She returned his affection, but they could not be happy,
for her father wished her to marry a richer man. In Poland, to marry
without the consent of parents is to incur lasting disgrace; so Leonore
obeyed, and the young pair parted. This had been a heavy sorrow to
Laddie, and he rushed into the war, hoping to end his trouble.
'Do you ever hear from your cousin?' I asked, as he walked beside me,
looking sadly down the green aisles where kings and queens had loved and
parted years ago.
'I only know that she suffers still, for she remembers. Her husband
submits to the Russians, and I despise him as I have no English to
tell;' and he clenched his hands with the flash of the eye and sudden
kindling of the whole face that made him handsome.
He showed me a faded little picture, and when I tried to comfort him, he
laid his head down on the pedestal of one of the marble queens who
guard the walk, as if he never cared to lift it up again.
But he was all right in a minute, and bravely put away his sorrow with
the little picture. He never spoke of it again, and I saw no more
shadows on his face till we came to say good-bye.
'You have been so kind to me, I wish I had something beautiful to give
you, Laddie,' I said, feeling that it would be hard to get on without my
boy.
'This time it is for always; so, as a parting souvenir, give to me the
sweet English good-bye.'
As he said this, with a despairing sort of look, as if he could not
spare even so humble a friend as myself, my heart was quite rent within
me, and, regardless of several prim English ladies, I drew down his tall
head and kissed him tenderly, feeling that in this world there were no
more meetings for us. Then I ran away and buried myself in an empty
railway carriage, hugging the little cologne bottle he had given me.
He promised to write, and for five years he has kept his word, sending
me from Paris and Poland cheery, bright letters in English, at my
desire, so that he might not forget. Here is one as a specimen.
'MY DEAR AND GOOD FRIEND,--What do you think of me that I do not
write so long time? Excuse me, my good mamma, for I was so busy in
these days I could not do this pleasant thing. I write English
without the fear that you laugh at it, because I know it is more
agreeable to read the own language, and I think you are not
excepted of this rule. It is good of me, for the expressions of
love and regard, made with faults, take the funny appearance; they
are _ridicule_, and instead to go to the heart, they make the
laugh. Never mind, I do it.
'You cannot imagine yourself how _stupide_ is Paris when you are
gone. I fly to my work, and make no more fetes,--it is too sad
alone. I tie myself to my table and my Vanity (not of mine, for I
am not vain, am I?). I wish some chapters to finish themselfs
_vite_, that I send them to Pologne and know the end. I have a
little question to ask you (of Vanity as always). I cannot
translate this, no one of _dictionnaires_ makes me the words, and I
think it is _jargon de prison_, this little period. Behold:--
Mopy, is that your snum?
Nubble your dad and gully the dog, &c.
'So funny things I cannot explain myself, so I send to you, and
you reply sooner than without it, for you have so kind interest in
my work you do not stay to wait. So this is a little hook for you
to make you write some words to your son who likes it so much and
is fond of you.
'My doctor tells me my lungs are soon to be re-established; so you
may imagine yourself how glad I am, and of more courage in my
future. You may one day see your Varjo in Amerique, if I study
commerce as I wish. So then the last time of seeing ourselves is
_not_ the last. Is that to please you? I suppose the grand
_histoire_ is finished, _n'est ce pas_? You will then send it to me
care of M. Gryhomski Austriche, and he will give to me in
clandestine way at Varsovie, otherwise it will be confiscated at
the frontier by the stupide Russians.
'Now we are dispersed in two sides of world far apart, for soon I
go home to Pologne and am no more "_juif errant_." It is now time I
work at my life in some useful way, and I do it.
'As I am your _grand fils_, it is proper that I make you my
compliment of happy Christmas and New Year, is it not? I wish for
you so many as they may fulfil long human life. May this year bring
you more and more good hearts to love you (the only real happiness
in the hard life), and may I be as now, yours for always,
'VARJO.'
A year ago he sent me his photograph and a few lines. I acknowledged the
receipt of it, but since then not a word has come, and I begin to fear
that my boy is dead. Others have appeared to take his place, but they
don't suit, and I keep his corner always ready for him if he lives. If
he is dead, I am glad to have known so sweet and brave a character, for
it does one good to see even as short-lived and obscure a hero as my
Polish boy, whose dead December rose embalms for me the memory of Varjo,
the last and dearest of my boys.
It is hardly necessary to add, for the satisfaction of inquisitive
little women, that Laddie was the original of Laurie, as far as a pale
pen-and-ink sketch could embody a living, loving boy.
_TESSA'S SURPRISES._
I.
Little Tessa sat alone by the fire, waiting for her father to come home
from work. The children were fast asleep, all four in the big bed behind
the curtain; the wind blew hard outside, and the snow beat on the
window-panes; the room was large, and the fire so small and feeble that
it didn't half warm the little bare toes peeping out of the old shoes on
the hearth.
Tessa's father was an Italian plaster-worker, very poor, but kind and
honest. The mother had died not long ago, and left twelve-year old
Tessa to take care of the little children. She tried to be very wise and
motherly, and worked for them like any little woman; but it was so hard
to keep the small bodies warm and fed, and the small souls good and
happy, that poor Tessa was often at her wits' end. She always waited for
her father, no matter how tired she was, so that he might find his
supper warm, a bit of fire, and a loving little face to welcome him.
Tessa thought over her troubles at these quiet times, and made her
plans; for her father left things to her a good deal, and she had no
friends but Tommo, the harp-boy upstairs, and the lively cricket who
lived in the chimney. To-night her face was very sober, and her pretty
brown eyes very thoughtful as she stared at the fire and knit her brows,
as if perplexed. She was not thinking of her old shoes, nor the empty
closet, nor the boys' ragged clothes just then. No; she had a fine plan
in her good little head, and was trying to discover how she could carry
it out.
You see, Christmas was coming in a week; and she had set her heart on
putting something in the children's stockings, as the mother used to do,
for while she lived things were comfortable. Now Tessa had not a penny
in the world, and didn't know how to get one, for all the father's
earnings had to go for food, fire, and rent.
'If there were only fairies, ah! how heavenly that would be; for then I
should tell them all I wish, and, pop! behold the fine things in my
lap!' said Tessa to herself. 'I must earn the money; there is no one to
give it to me, and I cannot beg. But what can I do, so small and stupid
and shy as I am? I _must_ find some way to give the little ones a nice
Christmas. I _must_! I _must_!' and Tessa pulled her long hair, as if
that would help her think.
But it didn't, and her heart got heavier and heavier; for it did seem
hard that in a great city full of fine things, there should be none for
poor Nono, Sep, and little Speranza. Just as Tessa's tears began to
tumble off her eyelashes on to her brown cheeks, the cricket began to
chirp. Of course, he didn't say a word; but it really did seem as if he
had answered her question almost as well as a fairy; for, before he had
piped a dozen shrill notes, an idea popped into Tessa's head--such a
truly splendid idea that she clapped her hands and burst out laughing.
'I'll do it! I'll do it! if father will let me,' she said to herself,
smiling and nodding at the fire. 'Tommo will like to have me go with him
and sing, while he plays his harp in the streets. I know many songs, and
may get money if I am not frightened; for people throw pennies to other
little girls who only play the tambourine. Yes, I will try; and then, if
I do well, the little ones shall have a Merry Christmas.'
So full of her plan was Tessa that she ran upstairs at once, and asked
Tommo if he would take her with him on the morrow. Her friend was
delighted, for he thought Tessa's songs very sweet, and was sure she
would get money if she tried.
'But see, then, it is cold in the streets; the wind bites, and the snow
freezes one's fingers. The day is very long, people are cross, and at
night one is ready to die with weariness. Thou art so small, Tessa, I am
afraid it will go badly with thee,' said Tommo, who was a merry,
black-eyed boy of fourteen, with the kindest heart in the world under
his old jacket.
'I do not mind cold and wet, and cross people, if I can get the
pennies,' answered Tessa, feeling very brave with such a friend to help
her. She thanked Tommo, and ran away to get ready, for she felt sure her
father would not refuse her anything. She sewed up the holes in her
shoes as well as she could, for she had much of that sort of cobbling to
do; she mended her only gown, and laid ready the old hood and shawl
which had been her mother's. Then she washed out little Ranza's frock
and put it to dry, because she would not be able to do it the next day.
She set the table and got things ready for breakfast, for Tommo went out
early, and must not be kept waiting for her. She longed to make the beds
and dress the children over night, she was in such a hurry to have all
in order; but, as that could not be, she sat down again, and tried over
all the songs she knew. Six pretty ones were chosen; and she sang away
with all her heart in a fresh little voice so sweetly that the children
smiled in their sleep, and her father's tired face brightened as he
entered, for Tessa was his cheery cricket on the hearth. When she had
told her plan, Peter Benari shook his head, and thought it would never
do; but Tessa begged so hard, he consented at last that she should try
it for one week, and sent her to bed the happiest little girl in New
York.
Next morning the sun shone, but the cold wind blew, and the snow lay
thick in the streets. As soon as her father was gone, Tessa flew about
and put everything in nice order, telling the children she was going out
for the day, and they were to mind Tommo's mother, who would see about
the fire and the dinner; for the good woman loved Tessa, and entered
into her little plans with all her heart. Nono and Giuseppe, or Sep, as
they called him, wondered what she was going away for, and little Ranza
cried at being left; but Tessa told them they would know all about it in
a week, and have a fine time if they were good; so they kissed her all
round and let her go.
Poor Tessa's heart beat fast as she trudged away with Tommo, who slung
his harp over his shoulder, and gave her his hand. It was rather a dirty
hand, but so kind that Tessa clung to it, and kept looking up at the
friendly brown face for encouragement.
'We go first to the _cafe_, where many French and Italians eat the
breakfast. They like my music, and often give me sips of hot coffee,
which I like much. You too shall have the sips, and perhaps the pennies,
for these people are greatly kind,' said Tommo, leading her into a large
smoky place where many people sat at little tables, eating and drinking.
'See, now, have no fear; give them "Bella Monica;" that is merry and
will make the laugh,' whispered Tommo, tuning his harp.
For a moment Tessa felt so frightened that she wanted to run away; but
she remembered the empty stockings at home, and the fine plan, and she
resolved _not_ to give it up. One fat old Frenchman nodded to her, and
it seemed to help her very much; for she began to sing before she
thought, and that was the hardest part of it. Her voice trembled, and
her cheeks grew redder and redder as she went on; but she kept her eyes
fixed on her old shoes, and so got through without breaking down, which
was very nice. The people laughed, for the song _was_ merry; and the fat
man smiled and nodded again. This gave her courage to try another, and
she sung better and better each time; for Tommo played his best, and
kept whispering to her, 'Yes; we go well; this is fine. They will give
the money and the blessed coffee.'
So they did; for, when the little concert was over, several men put
pennies in the cap Tessa offered, and the fat man took her on his knee,
and ordered a mug of coffee, and some bread and butter for them both.
This quite won her heart; and when they left the _cafe_, she kissed her
hand to the old Frenchman, and said to her friend, 'How kind they are! I
like this very much; and now it is not hard.'
But Tommo shook his curly head, and answered, soberly, 'Yes, I took you
there first, for they love music, and are of our country; but up among
the great houses we shall not always do well. The people there are busy
or hard or idle, and care nothing for harps and songs. Do not skip and
laugh too soon; for the day is long, and we have but twelve pennies
yet.'
Tessa walked more quietly, and rubbed her cold hands, feeling that the
world was a very big place, and wondering how the children got on at
home without the little mother. Till noon they did not earn much, for
every one seemed in a hurry, and the noise of many sleigh-bells drowned
the music. Slowly they made their way up to the great squares where the
big houses were, with fine ladies and pretty children at the windows.
Here Tessa sung all her best songs, and Tommo played as fast as his
fingers could fly; but it was too cold to have the windows open, so the
pretty children could not listen long, and the ladies tossed out a
little money, and soon went back to their own affairs.
All the afternoon the two friends wandered about, singing and playing,
and gathering up their small harvest. At dusk they went home, Tessa so
hoarse she could hardly speak, and so tired she fell asleep over her
supper. But she had made half a dollar, for Tommo divided the money
fairly, and she felt rich with her share. The other days were very much
like this; sometimes they made more, sometimes less, but Tommo always
'went halves;' and Tessa kept on, in spite of cold and weariness, for
her plans grew as her earnings increased, and now she hoped to get
useful things, instead of candy and toys alone.
On the day before Christmas she made herself as tidy as she could, for
she hoped to earn a good deal. She tied a bright scarlet handkerchief
over the old hood, and the brilliant color set off her brown cheeks and
bright eyes, as well as the pretty black braids of her hair. Tommo's
mother lent her a pair of boots so big that they turned up at the toes,
but there were no holes in them, and Tessa felt quite elegant in whole
boots. Her hands were covered with chilblains, for she had no mittens;
but she put them under her shawl, and scuffled merrily away in her big
boots, feeling so glad that the week was over, and nearly three dollars
safe in her pocket. How gay the streets were that day! how brisk every
one was, and how bright the faces looked, as people trotted about with
big baskets, holly-wreaths, and young evergreens going to blossom into
splendid Christmas trees!
'If I could have a tree for the children, I'd never want anything again.
But I can't; so I'll fill the socks all full, and be happy,' said Tessa,
as she looked wistfully into the gay stores, and saw the heavy baskets
go by.
'Who knows what may happen if we do well?' returned Tommo, nodding
wisely, for he had a plan as well as Tessa, and kept chuckling over it
as he trudged through the mud. They did _not_ do well somehow, for every
one seemed so full of their own affairs they could not stop to listen,
even to 'Bella Monica,' but bustled away to spend their money in
turkeys, toys, and trees. In the afternoon it began to rain, and poor
Tessa's heart to fail her; for the big boots tired her feet, the cold
wind made her hands ache, and the rain spoilt the fine red handkerchief.
Even Tommo looked sober, and didn't whistle as he walked, for he also
was disappointed, and his plan looked rather doubtful, the pennies came
in so slowly.
'We'll try one more street, and then go home, thou art so tired, little
one. Come; let me wipe thy face, and give me thy hand here in my jacket
pocket; there it will be as warm as any kitten;' and kind Tommo brushed
away the drops which were not _all_ rain from Tessa's cheeks, tucked
the poor hand into his ragged pocket, and led her carefully along the
slippery streets, for the boots nearly tripped her up.
II.