Letter from Miss Nancy Carey to the Hon. Lemuel Hamilton.
BEULAH, _June 27th_.
DEAR MR. HAMILTON,--I am Nancy, the oldest of the Carey
children, who live in your house. When father was alive, he
took us on a driving trip, and we stopped and had luncheon
under your big maple and fell in love with your empty house.
Father (he was a Captain in the Navy and there was never
anybody like him in the world!)--Father leaned over the gate
and said if he was only rich he would drive the horse into the
barn and buy the place that very day; and mother said it would
be a beautiful spot to bring up a family. We children had
wriggled under the fence, and were climbing the apple trees by
that time, and we wanted to be brought up there that very
minute. We all of us look back to that day as the happiest one
that we can remember. Mother laughs when I talk of looking
back, because I am not sixteen yet, but I think, although we did
not know it, God knew that father was going to die and we were
going to live in that very spot afterwards. Father asked us
what we could do for the place that had been so hospitable to
us, and I remembered a box of plants in the carryall, that we
had bought at a wayside nursery, for the flower beds in
Charlestown. "Plant something!" I said, and father thought it
was a good idea and took a little crimson rambler rose bush
from the box. Each of us helped make the place for it by taking
a turn with the luncheon knives and spoons; then I planted the
rose and father took off his hat and said, "Three cheers for
the Yellow House!" and mother added, "God bless it, and the
children who come to live in it!"--There is surely something
strange in that, don't you think so? Then when father died
last year we had to find a cheap and quiet place to live, and
I remembered the Yellow House in Beulah and told mother my
idea. She does not say "Bosh!" like some mothers, but if our
ideas sound like anything she tries them; so she sent Gilbert
to see if the house was still vacant, and when we found it
was, we took it. The rent is sixty dollars a year, as I
suppose Bill Harmon told you when he sent you mother's check
for fifteen dollars for the first quarter. We think it is very
reasonable, and do not wonder you don't like to spend anything
on repairs or improvements for us, as you have to pay taxes
and insurance. We hope you will have a good deal over for your
own use out of our rent, as we shouldn't like to feel under
obligation. If we had a million we'd spend it all on the
Yellow House, because we are fond of it in the way you are
fond of a person; it's not only that we want to paint it and
paper it, but we would like to pat it and squeeze it. If you
can't live in it yourself, even in the summer, perhaps you
will be glad to know we love it so much and want to take good
care of it always. What troubles us is the fear that you will
take it away or sell it to somebody before Gilbert and I are
grown up and have earned money enough to buy it. It was Cousin
Ann that put the idea into our heads, but everybody says it is
quite likely and sensible. Cousin Ann has made us a splendid
present of enough money to bring the water from the well into
the kitchen sink and to put a large stove like a furnace into
the cellar. We would cut two registers behind the doors in the
dining-room and sitting-room floors, and two little round
holes in the ceilings to let the heat up into two bedrooms, if
you are willing to let us do it. [Mother says that Cousin Ann
is a good and generous person. It is true, and it makes us
very unhappy that we cannot really love her on account of her
being so fault-finding; but you, being an American Consul and
travelling all over the world, must have seen somebody like
her.]
Mr. Harmon is writing to you, but I thought he wouldn't know so
much about us as I do. We have father's pension; that is three
hundred and sixty dollars a year; and one hundred dollars a
year from the Charlestown house, but that only lasts for four
years; and two hundred dollars a year from the interest on
father's insurance. That makes six hundred and sixty dollars,
which is a great deal if you haven't been used to three
thousand, but does not seem to be enough for a family of six.
There is the insurance money itself, too, but mother says
nothing but a very dreadful need must make us touch that. You
see there are four of us children, which with mother makes
five, and now there is Julia, which makes six. She is Uncle
Allan's only child. Uncle Allan has nervous prostration and
all of mother's money. We are not poor at all, just now, on
account of having exchanged the grand piano for an
old-fashioned square and eating up the extra money. It is great
fun, and whenever we have anything very good for supper
Kathleen says, "Here goes a piano leg!" and Gilbert says,
"Let's have an octave of white notes for Sunday supper,
mother!" I send you a little photograph of the family taken
together on your side piazza (we call it our piazza, and I hope
you don't mind). I am the tallest girl, with the curly hair.
Julia is sitting down in front, hemming. She said we should
look so idle if somebody didn't do something, but she never
really hems; and Kathleen is leaning over mother's shoulder.
We all wanted to lean over mother's shoulder, but Kitty got
there first. The big boy is Gilbert. He can't go to college
now, as father intended, and he is very sad and depressed; but
mother says he has a splendid chance to show what father's son
can do without any help but his own industry and pluck. Please
look carefully at the lady sitting in the chair, for it is our
mother. It is only a snap shot, but you can see how beautiful
she is. Her hair is very long, and the wave in it is natural.
The little boy is Peter. He is the loveliest and the dearest
of all of us. The second picture is of me tying up the crimson
rambler. I thought you would like to see what a wonderful rose
it is. I was standing in a chair, training the long branches
and tacking them against the house, when a gentleman drove by
with a camera in his wagon. He stopped and took the picture and
sent us one, explaining that every one admired it. I happened
to be wearing my yellow muslin, and I am sending you the one
the gentleman colored, because it is the beautiful crimson of
the rose against the yellow house that makes people admire it
so. If you come to America please don't forget Beulah, because
if you once saw mother you could never bear to disturb her,
seeing how brave she is, living without father. Admiral
Southwick, who is in China, calls us Mother Carey's chickens.
They are stormy petrels, and are supposed to go out over the
seas and show good birds the way home. We haven't done
anything splendid yet, but we mean to when the chance comes. I
haven't told anybody that I am writing this, but I wanted you
to know everything about us, as you are our landlord. We could
be so happy if Cousin Ann wouldn't always say we are spending
money on another person's house and such a silly performance
never came to any good.
I enclose you a little picture cut from the wall paper we want
to put on the front hall, hoping you will like it. The old
paper is hanging in shreds and some of the plaster is loose,
but Mr. Popham will make it all right. Mother says she feels
as if he had pasted laughter and good nature on all the walls
as he papered them. When you open the front door (and we hope
you will, sometime, and walk right in!) how lovely it will be
to look into yellow hayfields! And isn't the boatful of people
coming to the haymaking, nice, with the bright shirts of the
men and the women's scarlet aprons? Don't you love the white
horse in the haycart, and the jolly party picnicking under the
tree? Mother says just think of buying so much joy and color
for twenty cents a double roll; and we children think we shall
never get tired of sitting on the stairs in cold weather and
making believe it is haying time. Gilbert says we are putting
another grand piano leg on the walls, but we are not, for we are
doing all our own cooking and dishwashing and saving the money
that a cook would cost, to do lovely things for the Yellow
House. Thank you, dearest Mr. Hamilton, for letting us live in
it. We are very proud of the circular steps and very proud of
your being an American consul.
Yours affectionately,