Читать книгу The Haven Children; or, Frolics at the Funny Old House on Funny Street - Emilie Foster - Страница 4

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“Whirled on with shriek and whistle.”

Let us draw a curtain over the scenes of the last hour at home, for partings, though some have called them

“Such sweet sorrow,”

have a deal of the bitter mingled with them, when a dear Mamma and baby-sisters have to be left behind.

The last bell has sounded, the last trunk been hurled into the baggage-car, the last “All aboard” has been shouted, and the “Shore-Line Express Train,” with its precious load of human life, is steaming out from under the shelter of the Grand Central, rushing through the Forties, Fifties, Sixties, and past the beautiful Park, with hasty glimpses at its trees, Casino, lakes, and glittering equipages.

The little travelling party have a section in the Palace Car, and there they are sitting very demurely; they are not used to travelling, for Mamma’s idea has always been that “Home is the best place for little folk,” and now they are somewhat stunned by the strangeness and excitement; but suddenly Rosie, who is not apt to stay “stunned,” screams—

“O, childerns, do look out of the window. We are riding on nothing, with all the world both sides of us.”

The sight which met the young, eager eyes was indeed wonderful. Ignorant of any danger, they seemed held in the air by some magic spell. They are fairly roused now; their spirits rise to the highest point, as they chatter of bridges, rocks, tiny men, women, and houses beneath, when suddenly, without any preparation, a “horror of great darkness” comes over them. What can it mean? The cold, damp dungeon, and the loud, clanging sounds? The little faces look ghastly white by the light of the flickering lamps above them, as they cling close to good Charlotte.

With the feeling of terror, to the older ones, comes back, in the twinkling of an eye, thoughts of Him to whom they have been taught “the darkness and the light are both alike.” Half unconsciously, little prayers linger on their lips, thoughts of dear Mamma, with resolves to be more “kindly affectioned,” and then they come out again into the welcome light, and as the heavy weight of fear is lifted from their childish hearts, their spirits rise with every advancing mile, till their merry peals and funny speeches call forth smiles from many travellers in the car without.

Still on they go, with the ceaseless jarring and unearthly whistle’s shriek, through towns and villages, woods and meadows; now journeying side by side with the blue waters of the Sound, with its grateful breezes, its tiny craft and pebbly shore; now hiding behind some hill or grove to come springing upon the smiling water-view again.

Little eyes are growing weary of sight-seeing. To little ears the cries of conductors, pop-corn and prize-package venders have lost their freshness; the sun seems suddenly to grow very hot. The cage seems very narrow. Artie is crowding Daisy, and Bear “thinks the Monkies might stop their chatter, for his head aches.” Suddenly a cool, fresh sea-breeze blows through the heated car,—a loud bell peals, a heavy jolt shakes the train, and Jack screams—

“Oh, childerns the cars is riding in a steamboat,” and Daisy reminds Charlotte—

“This is the time Mamma said we were to dine.”

What a merry pic-nic now! Hannah, the cook’s, preparation of that basket was, indeed, a labor of love.

Such rolls, with a “plenty of butter!” Such “a many chicken-wings” and “drumsticks” to be picked!

Oh, Mamma! could you have the heart to deny poor Hannah the pleasure of “smuggling” in those tiny gooseberry tartlets?

Good old Hannah! it was the thought of the pleasure those unusual dainties would give the tired travellers, which moistened your eye as you stowed the basket in the carriage at the door, for you dearly love those bairnies, and have welcomed each one into the world of sorrow and gladness as you did the Mother-bird, in your younger days; and those dainty morsels are messages from your big heart, your own simple way of telling them how dear they are to those they have left behind. How you would have enjoyed the little dialogue which followed the swallowing of the last crumb!

Jack speaks: “Rosie, if I was a great King, I would have Hannah for my wife, and eat gooseberry tarts all day long, and Sundays too, and never stop.”

“Sister Daisy,” breaks in Rosie, “do you suspect if the misshenries should give the heathen-crocodiles plenty of gooseberry tarts, they would eat such a many childerns?”

Sister Daisy is, just now, occupied in peering under the napkin’s folds, if, perchance, an extra tart might be there concealed, and wondering if it would be her duty to divide it with all the little ones, so she replied, with some tartness in her tones,—

“How foolish! if you will talk sense, I will answer you,” and Jack replies meekly for his companion—

“Little folks can’t always tell sense, Sister Daisy.”

There is one more package, marked, “From Mamma; not to be opened till an hour after dinner,” and when the hour passed, there were found bright golden bananas and oranges, with their luscious juiciness, to refresh and amuse the weary little travellers.

That fruit did a double duty, for the children braided the banana rinds, made “gums” of the orange-peel, and filliped the pits out of the window, till nothing was left of their feast; then, as the sun went down behind the far-away hills, the little limbs grew weary, little tempers fretful. Daisy then remembered “to be kindly affectionate one toward another,” and with a half-suppressed sigh, closed that interesting book, “Cushions and Corners,” just at that thrilling part when the two children “are making wine jelly, or rather spilling wine jelly on the kitchen floor,” and taking Rosie and Jack, one on either side, she tells them the story of the little Cushions who ever were and remained Cushions, and the little Corners that became Cushions, after much tribulation.

Daisy is well paid for her self-denial by the interest the little upturned faces show, and soothed by her gentle tones, Bear droops his tired head on the shawl-pillow Artie has fixed on Charlotte’s knee.

The kind elder sister’s power of story-telling was at last quite exhausted, and her spirit ready to rebel at Jack’s continued plea.

“Do, Sister Daisy, do tell another. It’s so hot and tired here.”

Just then a pleasant face looked out of the opposite section, and a kindly voice called out—

“Come, little folk, come into my den, and I’ll tell you no end of stories.”

There was no hesitation then. Cushions and Corners, nurse, dolls, and sleeping brother were all left behind.

That section must have been made of India rubber; originally, it held but two, and its occupant, the clergyman of —— Church, Providence, who formed the centre figure of the group, was no shadowy outline, but real flesh and bones, and a great deal of both, yet there was room for Artie and Daisy on either side, whilst for Rosie and Jack, there was a knee apiece, and a shoulder, too, for each tired head; for the clergyman had well conned the lesson of his Master—

“As ye have done it unto one of these little ones, ye have done it unto Me,” and so it was that the shrill whistle shrieked out their near approach to Providence, tired travellers took down their wraps and bundles from the racks above, and Bear started, with a fretful cry, before the children had thought of growing weary of the stories of Narragansett Bay, the Indians who once inhabited its shore, with hosts of boy-adventures so frightful as to make them shiver, or so funny as to make them hold their wearied sides.

The kind clergyman lifted poor little Bear, too tired to resist, and tenderly placed him in Papa’s arms, who gratefully pressed the stranger’s hand, whilst his quick eye searched for each household darling to make them over to Hugh’s care, to be piloted through the line of noisy hack and baggage-men, to the waiting carriage.

Little Jack remembered to lift his hat, as he again caught sight of the stranger clergyman disappearing in the crowd, and cried out, to his lady-like Sister Daisy’s horror—

“Good-bye, Mister Story Teller.”

Barnum’s animals, in their cages, passing through a city’s crowded streets, are remarkably quiet and well-behaved, but many an inhabitant of the good city looked up, that night, as a large, old-fashioned family carriage and two bay horses, driven by the blackest of coachmen, displaying, in a very pleased and harmless way, the whitest of teeth, bearing the noisy little Madison Avenue Menagerie, rattled over the curb-stones of Exchange Place, right under the shadow of the Soldiers’ monument, through Westminster street, in its fearful narrowness, and over the Great Bridge. The carriage halted here a moment that the little animals might catch a breath of the fresh sea air coming up from the bay, through the little river which forms the lungs of Providence, and gives this beautiful city its Venetian aspect.

With mingled feelings of enjoyment and terror, the young folk see themselves ascending the steep hill-side, and are nothing loath to find the carriage halting before a quaint, old house, whose every window sends out a stream of light to welcome them.

A cheery-looking old colored woman, with a brightly-turbaned head, appears at the door, whilst a younger one peeps over her shoulder. Papa calls out in a proud, glad tone—

“Here, Celia and Nan, come get these poor, stray, hungry little creatures. I found them at the station and took pity on them. I make them over to you and wish you joy in your bargain—

“So give them a supper of water and bread,

Then whip them all soundly and send them to bed.”

Papa’s jokes were always well received and the little folk forgot the strangeness, as they were unpacked by him and Hugh, to be handed over to Celia and Nan’s tender care. Little Jack seemed to grow an inch taller at hearing Celia cry out—

“Now then, Mister John, this child be’s your werry own self. Them feeters is just your own. Bless the creeter. He’s my mans.”

Papa looked at Jack’s saucy little pug nose, and felt his own Grecian feature, evidently very much struck with the great resemblance, then passed on, with Bear in his arms, to the library door, where good Aunt Emma was hugging and being hugged by the other three.

Dear old Auntie, with your plain, kindly face, and silver, corkscrew curls! The tears of joy which sprang to your eyes when you greeted your favorite nephew’s treasures, well up and course rapidly down your thin cheeks as your heart goes out in sympathy for the tired little boy with the melancholy, wistful look.

Old Celia now appears, with Jack’s fat legs dangling over her arms, whilst the round face is very rosy, partly from suffocation in her tight clasp, and partly from mortification at being thus publicly “babied.”

No sooner were the greetings finished, than Celia cried out—

“Come, children to the nursery, we’ll just give a shake to them gowns and trowsers, and wipe off a bit of the dust from your little faces, and then have a bit of somethin’. Bread and water! Did ye hear tell? I guess it’s likely in this yer house, and old Celia in it! Allers Mister John must have his little joke.”

The nursery looked so cool and pleasant, and the little table with its tempting feast so inviting, that even Bear submitted without resistance to a cool face-sponging and hair-dressing.

Papa and Aunt Emma came up to see the little ones at the table enjoying the good things Celia had provided.

Papa shook his head, more than once, as tiny, light biscuits, cold chicken, and strawberries disappeared, much to Celia and Nan’s satisfaction.

Refreshed by the rest and pleasant meal, everything was “merry as a marriage bell.” Daisy thought “How easy it is going to be, here, to be ‘Cushions’ all the time, in such a nice, cool place as Providence.”

The Monkey chattered over their famous jokes, and Bear’s laugh thrilled Papa’s soul as no strain of sweet music could have done.

The older ones bade the young party “Good-night,” and left them to their nurses, Papa whispering to Aunt Emma, as they left the room—

“I am afraid we shall hear from that feast, Auntie. I shall have to spend the night reading ‘Dewees on Children’s Diseases.’ I suspect Fanny would think me very unfit to be trusted with her bairns.”

“Never fear,” merrily replied Aunt Emma, “they are breathing sea air, and are so happy, their food will do them no harm, I am quite sure, and if Celia and I can help it, they shan’t see hominy or oat-meal whilst they are here. Bless the darlings!”