A Little Girl in Old New York

  Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J.P.W. Fraser, MaryMeehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK

  By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS

  New YorkDodd, Mead and Company

  COPYRIGHT, 1896, BYDODD, MEAD & COMPANY

  To_DOROTHY MOORE_,A LITTLE GIRL OF TO-DAY,FROMHER MAMMA'S FRIEND,AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.NEWARK, 1896.

  CONTENTS

  I. THE LITTLE GIRL

  II. GOOD-BY TO AN OLD HOME

  III. FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN

  IV. A LOOK AT OLD NEW YORK

  V. GIRLS AND GIRLS

  VI. MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN

  VII. MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO

  VIII. THE END OF THE WORLD

  IX. A WONDERFUL SCHEME

  X. A MERRY CHRISTMAS

  XI. THE LITTLE GIRL IN POLITICS

  XII. A REAL PARTY

  XIII. NEW RELATIONS

  XIV. JOHN ROBERT CHARLES

  XV. A PLAY IN THE BACKYARD

  XVI. DAISY JASPER

  XVII. SOME OF THE OLD LANDMARKS

  XVIII. SUNDRY DISSIPATIONS

  XIX. WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING

  A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK

  CHAPTER I

  THE LITTLE GIRL

  "How would you like to go to New York to live, little girl?"

  The little girl looked up into her father's face to see if he was"making fun." He did sometimes. He was beginning to go down the hill ofmiddle life, a rather stout personage with a fair, florid complexion,brown hair, rough and curly, and a border of beard shaved well away fromhis mouth. Both beard and hair were getting threads of white in them.His jolly blue eyes were mostly in a twinkle, and his good-natured mouthlooked as if he might be laughing at you.

  She studied him intently. Three months before she had been taken to thecity on a visit, and it was a great event. I suspect that her mother didnot like being separated from her a whole fortnight. She was such anice, quiet, well-behaved little girl. Children were trained in thosedays. Some of them actually took pride in being as nice as possible andobeying the first time they were spoken to, without even asking "Why?"

  The little girl sat on a stool sewing patchwork. This particular patternwas called a lemon star and had eight diamond-shaped pieces of twocolors, filled in with white around the edge, making a square. Hergrandmother was coming to "join" it for her, and have it quilted beforeshe was eight years old. She was doing her part with a good will.

  "To New York?" she repeated very deliberately. Then she went on with hersewing for she had no time to waste.

  "Yes, Pussy." Her father pinched her cheek softly. The little girl wasthe most precious thing in the world, he sometimes thought.

  "What, all of us?" You see she had a mind to understand the case beforeshe committed herself.

  "Oh, certainly! I don't know as we could leave any one behind."

  Then he lifted her up in his lap and hugged her, scrubbing her face withhis beard which gave her pink cheeks. They both laughed. She held hersewing out with one hand so that the needle should not scratch either ofthem.

  "I can't--hardly--tell;" and her face was serious.

  I want to explain to you that the little girl had not begun withgrammar. You may find her making mistakes occasionally. Perhaps thechildren of to-day do the same thing.

  "Would we move everything?" raising her wondering eyes.

  "Well, no--not quite;" and the humorous light crossed his face. "Wecouldn't take the orchard nor the meadows nor the woods nor the creek."(I think he said "medders" and "crick," and his "nor" sounded as if heput an _e_ in it.) "There are a good many things we should have to leavebehind."

  He sighed and the little girl sighed too. She drew up her patchwork andbegan to sew.

  "It is a great deal of trouble to move;" she began gravely. "I mustconsider."

  She had caught that from Great-Aunt Van Kortlandt, who never committedherself to anything without considering.

  Her father kissed her cheek. If it had been a little fatter she wouldhave had a dimple. Or perhaps he put so many kisses in the little dentit was always filled up with love.

  I don't know whether you would have thought this little girl of pastseven pretty or not. She was small and fair with a rather prim face andthick light hair, parted in the middle, combed back of her ears, and cutsquare across the neck, but the ends had some curly twists.

  Certainly children are dressed prettier nowadays. The little girl'sfrock was green with tiny rivulets of yellow meandering over it. Theymade islands and peninsulas and isthmuses of green that were odd andfreaky. Mrs. Underhill had bought it to join her sashwork quilt, andthere was enough left to make the little girl a frock. It had the meritof washing well, but it gave her a rather ghostly look. It had a short,full waist with shoulder straps, making a square neck, a wide belt, anda skirt that came down to the tops of her shoes, which were like Oxfordties. Though she was not rosy she had never been really ill, and onlystayed at home two weeks the previous winter at the worst of thewhooping-cough, which nobody seemed to mind then. But it must have madea sort of Wagner chorus if many children coughed at once.

  "I had a very nice time in New York," she began, with grave approbation,when she had considered for some seconds. "The museum was splendid! Andthe houses seem sociable-like. Don't you suppose they nod to each otherwhen the folks are asleep? And the stores are so--so--" she tried tothink of the longest word she knew--"so magnificent? Aunt Patience andAunt Nancy were so nice. And the cat was perfectly white and sat in AuntNancy's lap. There was a little girl next door who had a big doll and acradle and a set of dishes, and we had tea together. I'd like to havesome dishes. Do you think Uncle Faid is coming back?" she askedsuddenly.

  "I believe he is, this time. And if we get very homesick we shall haveto come back and live with him."

  "I shouldn't be homesick with you and mother and the boys, and Steve andJoe. It would be nice to have Dobbin and Prince, but the stores are onthe corners instead of going to the village, and its nice and queer toride in the omnibuses and hand your money up through the roof. Thedrivers must have an awful sight when night comes."

  They even said "awful" in those far-back days, they truly did.

  Father Underhill laughed and squeezed the little girl with a fondnessshe understood very well.

  Just then a voice called rather sharply: "'Milyer! 'Milyer!" and he satthe little girl down on the stool as carefully as if she had been china.He put another kiss in the little dent, and she gave him a tender smile.

  His whole name was Vermilye Fowler Underhill. Everybody called himFamiliar, but Mrs. Underhill shortened it to 'Milyer.

  The little girl's name was Hannah Ann. The school children called herHan and Hanny. One grandmother always said Hanneran. But being theyoungest, the most natural name seemed "little girl."

  There were three sons to lead off, Stephen Decatur, Joseph Bennett, andJohn Fowler. Then a daughter was most welcome, and she was calledMargaret Hunter after her mother, and shortened to Peggy. They usednicknames and diminutives, if they were not as fanciful as ours.

  After Margaret came George Horton, Benny Franklin, and James Odell. Thepoor mother gave a sigh of disappointment, she had so longed for anothergirl. When Jim had outgrown babyhood altogether and was nearly five, thedesired blessing came.

  There was a great discussion about her name. Grandmother Hunter hadmarried a second time and was a Van Kortlandt now. She had named heronly daughter after her mother and was a bit offended that Margaret wasnot named for her. Now she
came with a fairy god-mother's insistence,and declared she would put a hundred dollars in the bank at once, andremember the child in her will, besides giving her the old Huntertablespoons made in London more than a hundred years ago, with the crownmark on them.

  Grandmother Underhill's name was Ann. She lived with her eldest son atWhite Plains, who had fallen heir to his grandfather's farm. When awidow she had gone back to her girlhood's home and taken care of her oldfather. David, her eldest son, had come to work the farm. She had a"wing" in the house, but she never lived by herself, for her son and thegrandchildren adored her.

  Now she said to the baby's mother: "You put in Ann for a middle name andI'll give her a hundred dollars as well, and my string of gold beadsthat came from Paris. And I'll make her a nice down bed and pillows."

  So Hannah Ann it was, and the little girl began life with a bankaccount. She was a grave, sweet, dainty sort of baby, with wonderingeyes of bluish violet, bordering on gray. I think myself that she shouldhave had a prettier name, but people were not throwing away eventwo-hundred-dollar chances in those days. Neither had they come toEdiths and Ethels and Mays and Gladys. And they barbarously shortenedsome of their most beautiful names to Peggy and Betsey and Polly andSukey.

  Left to herself the little girl went on with her patchwork, and recalledher visit to the city. There were so many aunts and cousins and so manywonderful things to see. She must find out whether there would be anysnow and sleighrides in the winter. As for fruit and vegetables and eggsand poultry the farmers were always sending them in to the city, sheknew that.

  The prospect of a removal from Yonkers, where they had always lived, wasnot so new to the elders. Stephen was in New York nearly all the weeknow. Joseph was studying for a doctor. John was not in love with farmingand had a great taste for mechanical pursuits. Margaret, a tall, fairgirl of seventeen, was begging to be sent away to school another year,and learn some of the higher branches people were talking about. Joethought she should. Her father was quite sure she knew enough, for shecould do all the puzzling sums in "Perkins' Higher Arithmetic," and youcouldn't trip her up on the hardest words. She went to a very goodschool in the village. And the village was quite primitive in thosedays. The steamboat-landing was the great focus of interest. It was allrock and hills and a few factories were plodding along. The farm was twogood miles away.

  The young people thought it a most auspicious turn in affairs that UncleFaid was coming back. His real name was Frederic. Since David had hisgrandfather's farm, this had been divided between the two remainingsons, but Frederic had been seized with the Western fever and gone outto what was called the new countries. His sons had married and settledin different places, one daughter had married and come East to live, andUncle Faid was homesick for the land of his youth.

  Mrs. Underhill had declared at first, "She wouldn't stir a step. 'Milyercould buy out his brother's part in the house"--the two hundred acreshad been already divided. But people had begun to complain even thenthat farming did not pay, and John wanted to learn a trade. And if threeor four went out of the old home nest! Steve wanted his father in NewYork. If they were not satisfied they could come back and build a newhouse. And presently she began to think it best even if she didn't likeit.

  The little girl finished her block of patchwork, pinched and patted downthe seams, and laid it on the pile. Her "stent" for that day was done.There were nine more blocks to make.

  There was a wide half closet beside the chimney and she had the topshelf for her own. It was so neat that it looked like a doll's house.Her only doll had been a "rag baby," and Gip, the dog, had demolishedthat.

  "Never mind," said her mother, "you are too big to play with dolls." Butthe little girl in New York was almost a year older, and she had a largewax doll with "truly" clothes that could be taken off and washed. If shewent to the city she might have one.

  She piled up her patchwork with a sense of exultation. She was extremelyneat. There was a tiny, hair-covered trunk grandmother Van Kortland hadgiven her full of pretty chintz and calico pieces. She kept her babyshoes of blue kid that were outgrown before they were half worn out, sochoice had her mother been of them. There were some gift-books andmementos and a beautiful Shaker basket Stephen had given her atChristmas. It was round, so she imagined you put something in it andshook it, for she had no idea the Shakers were a community and madedainty articles for sale, even if they discarded all personal vanities.

  She went through to the next room, which was the kitchen in winter anddining-room in summer. She took down her blue-and-white ginghamsun-bonnet, and skipped along a narrow path through the grass to thesummer kitchen. This was a short distance from the house, a big, squareroom with a door at each side, and smoky rafters overhead. The brick andstone chimney was built inside, very wide at the bottom and tapering upto the peak in the roof. There was a great black crane across it, withtwo sets of trammels suspended from it, on which you could hang twokettles at the same time. If you have never seen one, get Longfellow'sbeautiful illustrated poem, "The Hanging of the Crane." A great many oldcountry houses had them, and they were considered extremely handy.

  The presiding genius of the kitchen was a fat old black woman, so oldthat her hair was all grizzled. When she braided it up in little tailson Saturday afternoon Hannah Ann watched with a kind of fascination. Shealways wore a plaid Madras turban with a bow tied in front. She had beengrandmother Underhill's slave woman. I suppose very few of you knowthere were slaves in New York State in the early part of the century.Aunt Mary had sons married, and grandchildren doing well. They beggedher now and then to give up work, but she clung to her old home.

  "Aunt Mary," inquired the little girl, "is the chicken feed mixed?"

  "Laws, yaas, honey, lem me scoop it in de pail. You's got such littleclaws o' han's. Don't seem 's if dey ever grow big ernough fer nothin'."

  She ladled out the scalded meal, mixed with bits of broken bread. Thelittle girl laughed and nodded and crossed the small bridge that spannedthe creek. The spring, or rather the series of them, ran around thehouse and down past the kitchen, then widened out into quite a pondwhere the ducks and geese disported themselves, and the cows alwayspaused to drink on their way to the barn.

  She went down to the barn. On the carriage-house side in the sun weresome chicken-coops. Pretty little chicks whose mothers had "stolentheir nests;" thirty-two of various sizes, and they belonged to thelittle girl. She rarely forgot them.

  There were plenty of chores for Ben and Jim. They drove the cows topasture, chopped wood, picked apples, and dug potatoes. You wondered howthey found any time for play or study.

  Jim "tagged" the little girl as she came back with her pail. She couldrun like a deer.

  "Here you, Jim!" called Aunt Mary, "you jes' take dis pail an' git someof dem big blackbre'es fer supper steder gallopin' roun' like a wildpalakin ob de desert!" and she held out the shining pail.

  A "palakin of the desert" was Aunt Mary's favorite simile. In vain hadMargaret explained that the pelican was a bird and couldn't gallop.

  "Laws, honey," the old woman would reply, "I aint hankerin' arter any obdis new book larnin'. I's a heap too old fer 'rithmertic an' 'stology. Ijes' keeps to de plain Bible dat served de chillen of Isrul in dewilderness. Some day, Miss Peggy, when you's waded tru seas o' trubblean' come out on de good Lord's side an' made your callin' an' 'lectionsure, you'll know more 'bout it I done reckon."

  "Come with me, do, Hanny," pleaded Jim. "You can walk along the stonefence and pick the high ones and we'll fill the kittle in no time."

  Jim thought if he had made a spelling-book, he would have spelled theword that way. Jim would have been a master hand at phonetics.

  The little girl crossed two of her fingers. That was a sign of truce inthe game.

  "No play till we come back," said Jim.

  The little girl nodded and ran for her mitts of strong muslin with thethumb and finger ends out. The briars were so apt to tear your hands.

  They ran a race down to the
blackberry patch. Then they sat on the fenceand ate berries. It was really a broad, handsome wall. There were somany stones on the ground that they built the walls as they "clearedup." The blackberry lot was a wild tangle. There were some hickory-nuttrees in it and a splendid branching black walnut. Sometimes they founda cluster of hazel-nuts.

  The great blackberry canes grew six or seven feet high. They generallycut one path through in the early summer. The long branches made archesoverhead.

  The little girl pinned a big dock-leaf with a thorn and made a cup. Whenit was full she emptied it into Jim's pail. They were such great,luscious berries that they soon had it filled. Then they sat down andrested. Everybody knows that it is harder work to pick berries than toplay "tag."

  Jim had a piece to speak on Friday afternoon at school. They had theseexercises once a month, but this was to be a rather grand affair, asthen school closed for a fortnight. That was all the vacation they had.

  Jim was rather proud of his elocutionary gift. He stood up on a big flatstone and declaimed so that the little girl might see if he knew everyword. It was extremely patriotic, beginning:

  "Columbia! Columbia! to glory arise, The queen of the world and the child of the skies!"

  "Oh, you say it just splendid!" declared the little girlenthusiastically. She never laughed and teased him as Peggy did.

  She was learning some verses herself, but she wondered if she would havecourage enough to face the whole school. They were in her "Child'sReader" with the "Little Busy Bee," and "Let Dogs Delight to Bark andBite." She thought them beautiful:

  "The rose had been washed, lately washed in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed."

  It puzzled her small brain a good deal as to why the rose neededwashing. But Peggy showed her one day how dusty the leaves and flowersgrew in a dry time, and she learned that the whole world was the betterfor an occasional washing. She asked Mary afterward why the clothes werenot put out in a hard rain to get them clean.

  "Laws, honey, dey need elbow-grease," and the old woman laughedheartily.

  "I do wish my name was Anna," she said, with a sigh.

  "Well, you just need to put another _a_ to the Ann," said her brotherconfidently.

  "And I don't like being called Han and Hanny."

  "I'd a heap rather be called Jim than James. When pop calls me James Ithink it's time to pick myself up mighty spry, I tell you!" and helaughed.

  "It's different with boys," she said, with a soft sigh. "Girls ought tohave pretty names, and Hanneran is dreadful."

  "I'd stand a good deal for two hundred dollars. And it doubles infourteen years. And seven again! Why you'll have more than five hundreddollars when you're grown up!"

  She did not know the value of money and thought she would rather havethe pretty name. Yet she wasn't _quite_ sure she would choose Anna.

  "You stay here while I run after the cows," said Jim. "It will saveanother journey."

  Boys are often economical of their steps, I have noticed. Perhaps thisis how they gain time for play. The little girl jumped down presentlyand looked over at the wild flowers. There were clusters of yarrow inbloom, spikes of yellow snap-dragons, and a great clump of thistles intheir purple glory. She must tell her father about them, and have themrooted out. Would it hurt them to be killed? She felt suddenly sorry forthem.

  A squirrel ran along and winked at her as he gave his tail an extraperk. Nothing was ever afraid of the little girl. But she ran from theold gobbler, and the big gander who believed he had pre-empted the farmfrom the Indians. She generally climbed over the fence when she saw oldRed, who had an ominous fashion of brandishing her long horns. But shedidn't mind with Jim nor Benny.

  Jim came now and took up the pail. The cows meandered along. She wasrather glad Jim did not see the thistle. She would not tell him about itto-night.