A Little Girl in Old New York, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN

  The little girl stood still a moment as if transfixed. There came thepassionate desire to run and hide. She gave the door-bell a sharp pull.

  Martha Stimis answered it.

  "Goodness sakes, is it you, ringin' as if the world wouldn't standanother minnit? Next time you want to get in, Haneran, you jest comedown the _aree_! And me a-mouldin' up the biscuit!"

  The little girl walked through the hall with a swelling heart. Shecouldn't be allowed to ring the door-bell when her own father's name wason the door!

  The ell part was her mother's sleeping chamber and sitting-room. No onewas in it. Hannah Ann walked down to the end. There was a beautiful olddressing-case that had been brought over with the French great, greatgrandmother. It had a tall glass coming down to the floor. At the sideswere several small drawers that went up about four feet, and the top hadsome handsome carved work. It was one of Mrs. Underhill's choicestpossessions. In the mirror you could see yourself from "top to toe."

  The little girl stood before it. She had on a brown woollen frock and agingham high apron. Her skirt _was_ straight and long. Her laced shoesonly came to her ankles. Her stockings were black, and she rememberedhow she had watched these little girls coming down the street, theirstockings were snowy white. Of course she wore white yarn ones onSundays. A great piece of their pantalets was visible, ruffled, too.Yes, she did look queer! And the starch was mostly out of hersun-bonnet. It wasn't her best one, either.

  She sat down on a little bench and cried as if her heart would break.

  "Oh, Hanny dear, what is the matter?"

  Margaret had entered the room unheard. She knelt by her little sister,took off her sun-bonnet and pressed the child in her arms. "What is it,dear?" in a soft, persuasive voice. "Have you hurt yourself?"

  "No. I--I----" Then she put her little arms around Margaret's neck. "Oh,Peggy, am I very, very queer?"

  "You're a little darling. Did Martha scold you?"

  "No. It wasn't--some girls came along----" She tried very hard to stopher sobbing.

  "There, dear, let me wash your face. Don't cry any more." She laid asidethe bonnet and bathed the small face, then she began to brush the softhair. It had not been cut all winter and was quite a curly mop. Stephenhad bought her a round comb of which she was very proud.

  "It was two girls. They went by and they laughed----"

  Her voice was all of a quaver again, but she did not mean to cry if shecould help it.

  "Did they call you 'country'?"

  Margaret smiled and kissed the little girl, who tried to smile also.Then she repeated the ill-bred comment.

  "We are not quite citified," said Margaret cheerfully. "And it isn'tpleasant to be laughed at for something you cannot well help. But allthe little girls _are_ wearing short dresses, and you are to have somenew ones. Mother has gone out shopping, and next week cousin CynthiaBlackfan is coming to fix us all up. But I _do_ hope, Hanny, you willhave better manners and a kinder heart than to laugh at strangers, nomatter if they are rather old-fashioned."

  "I don't believe I ever will," said the little girl soberly.

  "Now come up in my room. Mother said I might rip up her pretty blueplaid silk and have it made over. I came down to hunt up the waist."

  She found it in one of the drawers, pinned up in a linen pillow-case.

  "And you can have on a white apron," the elder said when they reachedthe room.

  This had long sleeves and a ruffle round the neck. The little girl wasever so much improved.

  And I think she would have felt comforted if she could have heard therest of the talk between the two girls.

  "I do wonder if she belongs to the new people," said the girl wholaughed. "They can't be much. They came from the country somewhere."

  "But they've bought all the way through to the other street. And ma saidshe meant to call on them. Some one told her they owned a big farm inYonkers, and one of the young men is to be a doctor. Maybe the littlegirl doesn't really belong to them. I wish you hadn't spoken quite soloud. I'm sure she heard."

  "Oh, I don't care!" with an airy toss of the head. "Mother said theother day she shouldn't bother about new neighbors. Calling on them isout of style."

  Hanny looked out of the window a long while. Then she said gravely:"Margaret, are all those old Dutch people dead that were in the history?And where was their Bowery?"

  "It is the Bowery out here, but it has changed. That was a long, longtime ago."

  "If I'd lived then no one would have laughed about my long frock. Ialmost wish I'd been a little girl then."

  "Perhaps there were other things to laugh about."

  "I don't mind the laughing _now_. But they must have had lovely gardensfull of tulips and roses. There doesn't seem any room about for suchthings. And lanes, you know. Did the new people drive the Dutch away?"

  "The English came afterward. You will read all about it in history. Andthen came the war----"

  "That grandmother knows about? Margaret, I think New York is a great,strange, queer place. There are a good many queernesses, aren't there?"

  Margaret assented with a smile.

  "Oh, there's father in the wagon!" The little girl was all a tremor ofgladness. He caught her eyes and beckoned, and she ran down. But shecouldn't manage the night-latch, and so Margaret had to follow her.

  "Bundle up my little girl," he said. "I've got to drive up to Harlem andI'll take her along."

  Hanny almost danced for joy. Margaret found her red merino coat. Thecollar was trimmed with swan's down, and her red silk hood had an edgeof the same. True, some ultra-fashionables had come out in springattire, but it was rather cool so early in the season. Hanny lookedvery pretty in her winter hood. And as they drove down the street thesame girls were standing on a stoop; one was evidently going away fromher friend. The one who laughed lived there then. But neither of themwould have guessed it was the "queer" girl, and they almost envied her.

  "I've never been down to this corner," said Hanny. "And the streets runtogether."

  "Yes, First Street ends and Houston goes on over to the East River."

  The little girl looked about. There was a great sign on the house at thejunction--"Monticello Hotel,"--and on the edge of the sidewalk a pump,which the little girl thought funny. They dipped the water out of thespring at home--they had not given up saying that about the old place.There was no need of a pump, and at grandmother's they had a well-sweepand bucket.

  Then they turned up Avenue A, where he had an errand, and soon they weregoing over rough country ways where "squatters" had begun to come inwith pigs and geese. They seemed so familiar that the little girllaughed. And if some one had told her that she would one day be drivingin a beautiful park over yonder it would have sounded like a fairy tale.It was rough and wild now. Dobbin spun along, for the sun was hurryingover westward.

  "We have some old cousins living beyond there on Harlem Heights," hesaid, "but it's too late to hunt them up. And it'll be dark by the timewe get home. There was a big battle fought here. Their brother waskilled in it. Why, they must be most eighty years old."

  The little girl drew a long breath at the thought.

  "We'll look them up some day." Then he stopped before a hotel wherethere was a long row of horse sheds, and sprang out to tie Dobbin.

  "I had better take you out. Something might happen." He carried her inhis arms clear up the steps. A lady came around the corner of the wideporch.

  "I'll leave my little girl in the waiting-room a few moments. I havesome business with Mr. Brockner," he said.

  "I will take her through to my sitting-room," the lady replied, andholding out her hand she led Hanny thither. She insisted on taking offher hood and loosening her coat, and in a few moments she seemed wellacquainted. The lady asked her father's name and she told it.

  "There are some old ladies of that name living half a mile or so fromhere," she said. Then remembering they were very poor, and th
at poorrelations were not always cordially accepted, she hesitated.

  "Father spoke of some cousins," cried the little girl eagerly. "He saidsometime we would hunt them up. We only came to New York to live twoweeks ago."

  "Then you have hardly had time to look up any one. They would be glad tosee your father, I know. He looks so wholesome and good-natured."

  The little girl was not an effusive child, but she and the lady fellinto a delightful talk. Then her hostess brought in a plate of seedcookies, and she was eating them very delicately when her fatherentered.

  "We have had such a nice time," she said, "that I'd like you to bringyour little girl up again. Indeed, I have half a mind to keep her."

  "We couldn't spare her," said her father, with a fond smile, which Hannyreturned.

  "I suppose not. But it will soon be beautiful around here, and when shelongs for a breath of the country you must bring her up."

  "Thank you, madam."

  "And oh, father, the cousins really are here. Two old, old ladies----"

  Mr. Underhill inquired about them, and learned their circumstances werequite straitened. He promised to come up soon and see them.

  Mrs. Brockner kissed Hanny, quite charmed with her simplicity and prettymanner. And she had never once thought about the length of her oldbrown skirt.

  It was supper time when they reached home. Steve and Joe and John werethere. The three younger boys had been left at Yonkers. Indeed, Georgehad declared his intention of being a farmer. Mrs. Underhill said shedidn't want any more boys until she had a place to put them.

  Afterward Joe coaxed the little girl to come and sit on his knee. Theywere talking about schools.

  "Seems to me, Margaret better be studying housekeeping and learning howto make her clothes instead of going to school," said Mrs. Underhillshortly. "She can write a nice letter and she's good at figures, and,really, I don't see----"

  "She wants to be finished," returned Steve, with a laugh. "She's a citygirl now. I've been looking schools over. There are severalestablishments where they burnish up young ladies. There's MadameChegary's----"

  "I won't have her going to any French school and reading wretched Frenchnovels!"

  Steve threw back his head and laughed. He had such splendid, strong,white teeth.

  "My choice would be Rutgers Institute. It's going to be the school ofthe day," declared Joe.

  "Exactly. I was coming to that. There would be one term beforevacation."

  "I call it all foolishness. And she'll be eighteen on her nextbirthday," said her mother. "If she wasn't a good scholar already--andwhat more _do_ you expect her to learn?"

  They all laughed at their mother's little ebullition of temper.

  "The world grows wiser every day," said Joe sententiously.

  "And what are you going to do, Pussy?"

  Steve reached over and gave the little girl's ear a soft pinch.

  "I am going to look up a nice school for her myself. Don't begin toworry about a child not yet eight years old," said their mother sharply.

  "Eight years. She'll soon be that," remarked her father with a softsigh. And he wished he could keep her a little girl always.

  They went on discussing Rutgers Institute, that was one of the mosthighly esteemed schools of the day for young ladies. Steve looked overat his fair sister--she was _almost_ as pretty as Dolly Beekman. Dollyhad some dainty, attractive ways, played on the piano and sang, andPeggy had a voice blithe as a bird. Steve was beginning to be quite ajudge of young ladies and social life, and there was no reason why theyshould not all aim at something. They had good family names to backthem. Family counted, but so did education and accomplishments.

  Mrs. Underhill gave in. Steve would have his way. But then he was such agood, upright, affectionate son. So when he announced that he hadregistered his sister, Margaret's pulses gave a great thrill of delight.

  There was so much to do. True, Martha was a good cook and capable, andthere was no milk to look after, no churning, no poultry, and thecountless things of country life. Miss Cynthia Blackfan came the nextweek and remodeled the feminine part of the household. She was a tall,slim, airy-looking person, with large dark eyes and dark hair that shewore in long ringlets on either side of her face. She always looped themup when she was sewing. She had all the latest quips of fashion at hertongue's end--what Margaret must have for school dresses, what forSunday best, what lawns and ginghams and prints for summer.

  But when she went at the little girl she quite metamorphosed her.

  "You must begin to plait the child's hair and tie it with ribbons[people generally used the word instead of 'braid']. And her frocks mustbe made ever so much shorter. And, Cousin Underhill, _do_ put whitestockings on the child. Nobody wears colored ones. Unbleached do wearstronger and answer for real every day."

  "They'll be forever in the wash-tub," said the mother grimly.

  "Well, when you're in Rome you must do as the Romans do," with emphasis."It looks queer to be so out of date. Everybody dresses so much more inthe city. It's natural. There's so much going and coming."

  Even then people had begun to discuss and condemn the extravagance ofthe day. The old residents of the Bowling Green were sure Bond Streetand the lower part of Fifth Avenue were stupendous follies and wouldruin the city. Foreign artistic upholsterers came over, carpets andfurniture of the most elegant sort were imported, and even then somepeople ordered their gowns and cloaks in Paris. Miss Blackfan's bestcustomer had gone over for the whole summer, otherwise she would nothave the fortnight for Cousin Underhill. She uttered her dictum with acertain authority from which there was no appeal. And she charged adollar and a half a day, while most dressmakers were satisfied with adollar.

  So the little girl had her hair braided in two tails--they were quiteshort, though, and her father liked the curly mop better. Little girls'dresses were cut off the shoulder, and made with a yoke or band and abelt. In warm weather they wore short sleeves, though a pair of longsleeves were made for cool days. There were some tucks in the skirt tobe let down as the child grew.

  The little girl was most proud, I think, of her pantalets. There weresome nankin ones made for every day. And she had a real nankin frockthat Margaret embroidered just above the hem. It was used a great dealfor aprons, too. Aprons, let me tell you, were no longer "high-ups" witha plain armhole. They were sometimes gathered on a belt and had Berthacapes over the shoulders trimmed with edging or ruffles. And everywell-conditioned little girl had one of black silk.

  "She'll have to hem her own ruffles," declared Mother Underhill almostsharply. "And how they're ever to get ironed----"

  "There's hemstitching and fagoting, but I don't know as it's any lesswork than ruffling. And all the little girls are knitting lace. I'mdoing some myself, oak-leaf pattern out of seventy cotton, and it's ashandsome as anything you ever see."

  "I don't know how any one is going to find time for so much folderol!"

  "Oh, pshaw, Cousin Underhill, we did lots of it in our day. I worked thebottom of a party dress a good quarter up, and Vandyke capes, and thosegreat big collars. And we tucked up to the waist. There's alwayssomething. And those old Jewish women had broidery and finery of everysort, and 'pillows' in their sleeves as we wore years ago. See what alittle it takes to make a pair of sleeves now! We must have lookedfunny, all sleeves and waists up under our arms."

  When you consider that sewing-machines had not been invented, it was awonder how the women accomplished so much. But they always had some"catch-work" handy. The little girl was provided with a prettywork-basket, six spools of cotton, a pincushion, a needle-book, a bit ofwhite wax, and an emery, which was a strawberry-shaped cushion toppedoff with some soft green stuff she knew afterward was chenille. This wasto keep her needles bright and smooth. Then she had three rolls ofruffling, yards and yards in each piece. One was cambric, one was finelawn or nainsook, and one of dimity. She had done some over-seam insheets, she had hemmed towels and some handkerchiefs, and sewed a littleon the half-dozen sh
irts Margaret had made for father last winter. Butthe stitches had to be so small, and oh, so close together! Then theylooked badly if they were not straight. She liked the dimity the bestbecause the stitches seemed to sink in, and it ruffled so of itself.

  But the little girl didn't sew all the time. She wiped dishes forMartha. And one day, when she saw a little girl up the street sweepingthe sidewalk, she begged to do that. She could dust a room very nicely.There was much running up and down, and she was always glad to waitupon Steve. Indeed, she ran errands cheerfully for anybody. But she_did_ miss Benny Frank and Jim.

  Margaret had felt quite diffident about her new school, and at firstrather shrank from the young ladies, much as she desired to be amongthem. But she found herself quite advanced in some of the studies, andin a week's time began to feel at home. Two girls were very friendly,Mary Barclay and Annette Beekman.

  Perhaps Steve hadn't been quite as disinterested as it seemed. He hadmet Dolly Beekman at Miss Jane Barclay's party early in the winter. Theyhad taken a mutual fancy. Old Peter Beekman lived at the lower end ofBroadway, and had a farm "up the East River," about Ninety-sixth Street.He had five girls, and the two last had been sore disappointments. ButHarriet, the eldest, had married her cousin and had four Beekman boys.Two others were married. Dolly had graduated from Rutgers the yearbefore and was now nineteen. Annette, as the old Dutch name was spelled,was not quite seventeen. Margaret had been put in her class in mostbranches.

  Steve _did_ want the Beekmans to think well of his people. He and Dollywere not declared lovers, but they understood each other. Old Petermade inquiries about the young man, and if they had not beensatisfactory Stephen would soon have known it. So he felt quite assured.And though his mother talked of her sons marrying, he knew that just atfirst it would come a little hard to find she had a rival.

  "Well, Peggy," he said, Friday evening of the first week, "how doesschool go? Seen any girls you like?"

  "I've seen two that know you," and Margaret laughed. "Mary Barclay saidyou had been at their house. And so did Annie Beekman."

  "Yes, I was at Miss Beekman's party; quite a fine affair. And I've beenthere to play whist. They're a jolly crowd. Next winter we must have afew parties. And I'm going to get a piano."

  "Oh, you lovely Steve!" She squeezed his arm rapturously.

  "You have a very pretty voice, Peggy. Annie Beekman's sister singsbeautifully. How do you like Annie?"

  "Why, you never can tell whether she is in earnest or quizzing you. Butshe's ever so much prettier than Mary. Yes, on the whole I like her."

  "You ought to see her sister Dolly. She has real flaxen hair and such acomplexion!"

  "Annie has a lovely complexion, too. There are a great many prettygirls in the world. I have a curious sort of pity for those who are nota bit pretty," Margaret said sympathetically.

  Steve laughed and nodded, as if the idea amused him.

  If Margaret and Annie became friends, and if Dolly and Annie came tocall--well, he was sure they would all fall in love with Dolly. And thenthe matter would go on smoothly. People thought more of being friendlywith their relations by marriage in those days.