Читать книгу A Little Girl of Long Ago; Or, Hannah Ann - Amanda M. Douglas - Страница 5

Table of Contents

New Year's came in with a ringing of bells and firing of pistols. Four years more, and the world would reach the half-century mark. That seemed very ancient to the little girl in Old New York. They talked about it at the breakfast-table.

"Do you suppose any one could live to see nineteen hundred?" asked the little girl, with wondering eyes.

Father Underhill laughed.

"Count up and see how old you would be, Hanny," he replied.

"Why, I should be—sixty-five."

"Not as old as either grandmother," said John.

"If the world doesn't come to an end," suggested Hanny, cautiously. She remembered the fright she had when she was afraid it would come to an end.

"It isn't half developed," interposed Benny Frank. "And we haven't half discovered it. What do we know about the heart of Africa or the interior of China—"

"The great Chinese wall will shut us out of that," interrupted the little girl. "But it can't go all around China, for the missionaries get in, and some Chinese get out, like the two little girls."

"There is some outside to China," laughed Benny Frank. "And India is a wonderful country. There is all of Siberia, too, and British America, and, beyond the Rocky Mountains, a great country belonging to us that we know very little about. I believe the world is going to stand long enough for us to learn all about it. Some day I hope to go around a good bit and see for myself."

"Some people," began Mrs. Underhill, "reason that, as it was two thousand years from the Creation to the Deluge, and two thousand years more to the birth of Christ, that the next two thousand will see the end of the world."

"They are beginning to think the world more than four or five thousand years old," said Benny Frank. He had quite a taste for science.

"It'll last my time out, I guess," and there was a shrewd twinkle in Father Underhill's eye. "And I think there'll be a big piece left for Hanny."

The little girl of eleven mused over it. She had a great many things to think about, and her mother suggested presently that there were some things to do. Margaret went upstairs to straighten the parlor and arrange a table in the end of the back room for callers. Hanny found plenty of work, but her small brain kept in a curious confusion, as if it was running back and forth from the past to the future. Events were happening so rapidly. And the whole world seemed changed since her brother Stephen's little boy had been born on Christmas morning.

It was curious, too, to grow older, and to understand books and lessons so much better, to feel interested in daily events. There was a new revolution in Mexico; there was a talk of war. But everything went on happily at home. New York was stretching out like a big boy, showing rents and patches in his attire, but up-town he was getting into a new suit, and people exclaimed about the extravagance.

As for Stephen's baby, there wasn't any word in Webster's Dictionary to do him justice. He grew fat and fair, his nose became shapely, his dimple was deeper, his chin double, and his pretty hands began to grasp at everything. Stephen said the only drawback was that his hair would be red. Hanny felt curiously teased about it. She couldn't be sure that it was quite a subject for prayer; but she took great comfort in two lines of the old hymn—

"Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,

Uttered or unexpressed,"

and she hoped God would listen to the sincere desire of her heart.

Early in February the children were all excitement about Mr. Bradbury's concert. The Dean children were among the chorus singers, and Charles Reed had a prominent part. Would his mother let him go?—the children all wondered.

"Mr. Reed can manage it," said Josie Dean, confidently. "Wives have to mind their husbands about boys, because the men know best, and the boys are to grow up into men."

Hanny's interest was divided by Margaret being made ready for the Valentine ball. Everybody was to go in a fancy dress. Dr. Hoffman chose Margaret's, which was to be a lady of 1790. Miss Cynthia came and looked over the old green-and-white brocade that had descended from Miss Lois. It had a low square neck, and a bodice with deep points back and front, laced with a silver cord. The front breadth, "petticoat," as it was called, was white satin, creamy now with age, embroidered with pink and yellow roses and mossy green leaves. The brocade fell away in a long train, and at the joining was a cascade of fine old lace called Mechlin. The elbow-sleeves were edged with it, and at the neck, the lace had a fine wire run through it at the back that made it stand up, while in front, it fell to a pretty point, and was clasped with a brooch. It had been made for Miss Lois' wedding outfit when she was a happy young girl, dreaming over a joyous future that had never come to pass.

But Margaret's hair they all thought the crowning glory. Miss Cynthia was very fond of adorning people for parties, and so deft that she was in frequent demand. She had brought a great high comb of beautiful, clear shell that had belonged to her mother. There was a loose twist made like the figure eight at the back, and in front, rows of dainty puffs and ends of curls, that dropped down on her white forehead.

The brooch, too, was curious. It was a portrait painted on ivory of the Marquis de Lafayette, and set round with beautiful pearls, one of Miss Cynthia's precious belongings also.

When Margaret looked at herself in her mother's tall glass, she was so mystified that she felt for a moment as if she was Miss Lois come back. For when the gown fitted her, she must have been tall and slim and young.

Hanny had begged to ask in all the girls, and was delighted to have Daisy Jasper and her mother.

But when Dr. Hoffman came in Continental costume, with buff small-clothes and black velvet coat, great buckles of brilliants at his knees and lace ruffles at his wrists and shirt front, and his hair powdered, they all exclaimed. He carried his three-cornered hat under his arm as he bowed to the ladies.

John Underhill declared laughingly that he felt honoured by being the footman to such a grand couple, as he helped them into the carriage.

"Why don't people dress as beautifully now?" said Daisy Jasper, with a sigh. "Everything looks so plain."

Then the elders began to talk of past fashions. Miss Cynthia said her mother's wedding gown was made with a full straight skirt six yards around, and had one little hoop at the hips to hold it out. When Miss Cynthia's elder sisters were grown, she cut it up and made them each a frock, with skirts two and a quarter yards wide, short full waists, and puffed sleeves. Big poke bonnets were worn with great bunches of flowers inside, and an immense bow at the top, where the strings were really tied. If you wanted to be very coquettish, you had the bow rather on one side. The skirts barely reached the ankles, and black satin slippers were to be worn on fine occasions; white or sometimes pale colours to parties.

"And now we have come back to wide full skirts," said Miss Cynthia. "We're putting stiffening in to hold them out. And there's talk of hoops."

Another odd custom was coming into vogue. It was considered much more genteel to say "dress." Frock had a sort of common country sound, because the farmers wore tow frocks at their work. The little girl had been laughed at for saying it, and she was trying very hard to always call the garment a "dress." Gown was considered rather reprehensible, as it savoured of old ladies' bed-gowns. Now we have gone back to frocks and gowns.

"The Continental fashions were extremely picturesque," said Mrs. Jasper. "And the men were strong and earnest, and equal to the emergencies of the day, if they did indulge in adornments considered rather feminine now. But I like the variety. The newly-arrived emigrants in their native garb interest me."

"There are some around in Houston Street," laughed Ben. "Dutch girls with flaxen hair and little caps, and those queer waists with shoulder straps, and thick woollen stockings. Some of them wear wooden shoes. And Irish women with great plaid cloaks and little shawls tied over their heads, short skirts and nailed shoes that clatter on the sidewalk."

"I should like to see them," said Daisy.

"Joe ought to take you out on St. Patrick's day," returned Ben. "But they soon reach the dead level of uniformity."

"Fancy an Indian in coat and trousers instead of blanket, war-paint, and feathers," and Jim laughed at the idea.

"I think we shall hardly be able to reduce him to modern costumes. He does not take kindly to civilisation."

"He's shamefully treated anyway."

"Oh, Jim, it won't do to take your noble red men from romance. The heroes of King Philip's time have vanished."

Jim was reading Cooper, and had large faith in the children of the forest. The next generation of school-boys called them "sneaking red dogs," and planned to go out on the plains and shoot them.

"If we absorb all these people, we shall be a curiously conglomerate nation by and by," exclaimed Mrs. Jasper.

"As we were in the beginning," returned Father Underhill. "We started from most of the nations of Europe. We have had a French state, Dutch and German, English and Scotch, but the one language seems a great leveler."

The little girls talked about the concert. Doctor Joe said he thought Daisy might venture. She was beginning to grow quite courageous, though the comments on her lameness always brought a flush to her cheek. Sometimes he stopped at school for both girls, and the wheeling-chair went home empty. His strong, tender arm was help enough.

Mr. Reed had quite a battle to win the day for his son. "The singing-school was foolishness and a waste of time; and there was not a moment to waste in this world, when you had to give a strict account of it in the next." Mrs. Reed had never considered whether so much scouring and scrubbing was not a waste of time, when everything was as clean as a pin. When a very polite note from Mr. Bradbury reached Mr. Reed, begging that Charles might be allowed to take a prominent part in the concert, there was war, a more dreadful time than going to the barber had caused.

"Charles"—she occasionally left off the John Robert—"was too big a boy for such nonsense! It spoiled children to put them forward. He ought to be thinking of his lessons and forming his character, instead of spending his time over silly songs. And to sing on a public stage!"

"Some of the best families are to let their children participate in it. I don't think it will hurt them," her husband said decisively.

Then she actually sobbed.

"You will ruin that child, after all the trouble I've taken. I've worked and slaved from morning till night, made him get his lessons and be careful of his clothes, and kept him out of bad company; and now I'm not allowed to say a word, but just stand by while you let him go to ruin. The next thing we'll have him in a nigger minstrel band, or playing on a fiddle!"

"I've known some very worthy men who played on a fiddle. And all the children growing up can't be minstrels, so perhaps our boy will be compelled to find some other employment. I am going to have him like other boys; and if it can't be so at home, I'll send him away to school."

That was a terrible threat. To be gone months at a time, with no one to look after his clothes!

Mrs. Reed went about the house sighing, and scrubbed harder than ever. She made Charles feel as if he brought in dirt by the bushel, and scattered it about in pure spite. She even refused his help in clearing away the dishes; and she tried to make him wear his second-best clothes that eventful evening.

Oh, what an evening it was! The hall was crowded. The stage was full of children, one tier of seats rising above another. The girls were dressed in white, and most of them had their hair curled. The boys had a white ribbon tied in the buttonhole of their jackets. How eager and pretty they looked! Hanny thought of the day at Castle Garden when the Sunday-schools had walked.

It was a simple cantata, but a great success. Charles Reed sang charmingly. His father had said, "Don't get frightened, my boy, and do your very best;" and he was just as desirous of pleasing his father as any one, even Mr. Bradbury.

Daisy Jasper could have listened all night, entranced. Tall Doctor Joe sat beside her, easing her position now and then, while Hanny smiled and made joyful comments of approval in so soft a tone they disturbed no one.

"I've never been so happy in all my life," Daisy Jasper said to Doctor Joe. "It seems as if I could never feel miserable again. There are so many splendid things in the world that I am glad to live and be among them, if I can't ever be quite straight and strong."

"My dear child!" Doctor Joe's eyes said the rest.

They waited for the crowd to get out. Charles came down the aisle with his father and Mr. Bradbury, and Mr. Dean was escorting his little girls. They had a very delightful chat, and were charmed with the leader of the children's concert.

"Charles must take good care of his voice," said Mr. Bradbury. "It may sometime prove a fortune to him. He is a fine boy, and any father might well be proud of him."

"I just wish mother had wanted to be there," Charles said, as his father was opening the door with his latch-key. The light was turned low in the hall, and Mrs. Reed had gone to bed, an unprecedented step with her.

Hanny found that she couldn't spend all the Saturdays with little Stevie. She wished they were twice as long; but they always seemed shorter than any other day. Dolly came down now and then, and was just as bright and merry as ever.

But old Mr. Beekman grew more feeble, and was confined to the house most of the time. Hanny had to go down-town and visit him and Katschina. He was delighted to have her come, and Katschina purred her tenderest welcome. She was like a bit of sunshine, with her cheerful smile and her sweet, merry wisdom. She told him about the school and Daisy, their plays and songs; and they were never tired of talking about Stephen's baby. It could laugh aloud now; the reddish fuzz was falling out, and the new soft hair shone like pale gold on his pink scalp.

There were so many other friends, the Bounett cousins, and Dele Whitney, who was just as jolly as ever, with the old aunts down in Beach Street, and who declared the little girl was the sweetest thing in the world, and that some day she should just steal her, and carry her off to fairyland.