A Little Girl in Old New York, Amanda Minnie Douglas [e book reader for pc txt] 📗

His every-day clothes she made. And oh, she cut his hair!

It is very hard to be the daughter of such a mother, a rigid, uncompromising woman with no sense of the fitness of things, of harmony or beauty, or indulgence in little fancies that are so much to a child. Quite as hard to be the son. Charles had everything needful to keep him warm, in good health, and books for study. When it rained hard he had six cents to ride in the omnibus. And he did have the cleanest house, and the cleanest clothes, and, his mother thought, a very nice time.

Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out:

"John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal."

"What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal."

"How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal."

Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage.

"Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?"

His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is after _my_ father, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name."

Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys.

He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read.

"And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim."

The cousins came. Hanny saw them on Sunday, and on Monday two little girls went round with a pretty basket and left pale-green missives at the houses of friends. There was one for Ben also.

"H-m-m," ejaculated Jim. "A baby party. Will they play with dolls?"

"Oh, Jim! it's going to be a real party with refreshments. Of course there won't be dolls."

"Washington pie and round hearts."

The tears rushed to Hanny's eyes.

"Never mind about him," said Ben, "I'll go. I'll be your beau. And see here, Hanny, it's polite to answer an invitation. Now you write yours and I'll write mine, and I'll leave them at the door."

Hanny smiled and went up-stairs for her box of paper.

Jim gave a whistle and marched off; but when he saw the pretty Baltimore cousin, he reconsidered, though he was afraid Lily Ludlow would laugh at him when she heard of it.

Margaret dressed the little girl in her pretty blue cashmere, and she felt very nice with her two brothers. Most of the children were ten and twelve, but the two cousins were older. Bessie Ritter was quite used to parties and took the lead, though the children were rather shy at first.

They played "Stage-coach," to begin with. When the driver, who stood in the middle of the room, said, "Passengers change for Boston," every one had to get up and run to another seat, and of course there was one who could not find a seat, and he or she had to be driver. That broke up the stiffness. Then they had "Cross Questions," where you answered for your neighbor, and he answered for you, and you were always forgetting and had to pay a forfeit. Of course they had to be redeemed.

Charles Reed came, though his mother couldn't decide until the last moment. He looked very nice, too. He had to sing a song, and really, he did it in a manly fashion.

But the little girl thought "Oats, peas, beans," the prettiest of all. It nearly foreshadowed kindergarten songs. The children stood in a ring with one in the middle, and as they moved slowly around, sang:


"Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows,
'Tis you nor I nor nobody knows
How oats, peas, beans, and barley grows.
Thus the farmer sows his seeds,
Thus he stands and takes his ease,
Stamps his foot and claps his hands
And turns around to view his lands;
A-waiting for a partner,
A-waiting for a partner,
So open the ring and take one in,
And kiss her when you get her in."


The children had acted it all, sowing the seed, taking his ease, stamping, clapping hands, and whirling around. They looked very pretty doing it. Bessy Ritter had asked Ben to stand in first and he had obligingly consented. Of course he chose her. Then the children sang again:


"Now you're married you must obey,
You must be true to all you say,
You must be kind, you must be good,
And keep your wife in kindling-wood.
The oats are gathered in the barn,
The best produce upon the farm,
Gold and silver must be paid,
And on the lips a kiss is laid."


The two took their places in the ring, and Jim next sacrificed himself for the evening's good and chose another of Josie's cousins. Then John Robert Charles manfully took his place and chose Josie Dean. So they went on until nearly all had been chosen. Then Mrs. Dean asked them out to have some refreshments. They were all very merry indeed. Mr. Dean sang some amusing songs afterward, and they all joined in several school songs.

"I've just been happy through and through," admitted Charles. "I wish I could give a party. You should come and plan everything," he whispered to Josie.

It was time to go home then. There was a Babel of talk as the little girls were finding their wraps, mingled with pleasant outbursts of laughter. Mr. Dean was to take some of the small people home, and Jim obligingly offered his escort. It had not been so _very_ babyish.

Ben wrapped his little sister up "head and ears," and ran home with her. How the stars sparkled!

"It's been just splendid!" she said to her mother. "Don't you think I might have a party some time, and Ben and all of us?"

"Next winter, may be."

Her father looked up from his paper and smiled. She seemed to have grown taller. What if, some day, he should lose his little girl!

The very next day Mr. Whitney announced that he was going to take the Deans and their cousins and Nora to the Museum. He wanted the little girl to go with them. Delia was visiting in Philadelphia. He promised, laughingly, to have them all home in good season.


CHAPTER XIII

NEW RELATIONS

New Year's Day was gayer than ever. The streets were full of throngs of men in twos up to any number, and carriages went whirling by. There were no ladies out, of course. Margaret had two of her school friends receiving with her, one a beautiful Southern girl whose father was in Congress, and who was staying on in New York, taking what we should call a post-graduate course now, perfecting herself in music and languages. Margaret was a real young lady now. Joe had taken her to several parties, and there had been quite a grand reception at the Beekmans'.

The little girl was dressed in her blue cashmere and a dainty white Swiss apron ornamented with little bows like butterflies. Miss Butler thought she was a charming child. She stood by the window a good deal, delighted with the stir and movement in the street, and she looked very picturesque. Her hair, which was still light, had been curled all round and tied with a blue ribbon instead of a comb. Her mother said "it was foolishness, and they would make the child as vain as a peacock." But I think she was rather proud of the sweet, pretty-mannered little girl.

There was one great diversion for her. About the middle of the afternoon two gentlemen called for her father. One was quite as old, with a handsome white beard and iron-gray hair, very stylishly dressed. He wore a high-standing collar with points, and what was called a neckcloth of black silk with dark-blue brocaded figures running over it, and a handsome brocaded-velvet vest, double-breasted, the fashion of the times, with gilt buttons that looked as if they were set with diamonds, they sparkled so. Over all he had worn a long Spanish circular which he dropped in the hall. The younger man might have been eighteen or twenty.

Ben was waiting on the door. He announced "Mr. Bounett and Mr. Eugene Bounett."

"We hardly expected to find any of the gentlemen at home," began the elder guest. "We are cousins, in a fashion, and my son has met the doctor----"

"Father is at home," said Margaret in the pause. "Hanny, run down-stairs and call him."

"Miss Underhill, I presume," exclaimed the young man. "I have seen your brother quite often of late. And do you know his chum, Phil Hoffman? Doctor, I ought to say," laughingly.

"Oh, yes," and Margaret colored a little.

Then her father came up. These were some of the Bounetts from New Rochelle, originally farther back from England and France in the time of the Huguenot persecution. Mr. Bounett's father had come to New York a young man seventy odd years ago. Mr. Bounett himself had married for his first wife a Miss Vermilye, whose mother had been an Underhill from White Plains. And she was Father Underhill's own cousin. She had been dead more than twenty years, and her children, five living ones, were all married and settled about, and he had five by his second marriage. This was the eldest son.

They talked family quite a while, and Mrs. Underhill was summoned. The young man went out in the back parlor where the table stood in its pretty holiday array, and was introduced to Margaret's friends. They hunted mottoes, which was often quite amusing, ate candies and almonds and bits of cake while the elder people were talking themselves into relationship. Eugene explained that his next younger brother was Louis; then a slip of a girl of fifteen and two young cubs completed the second family. But the older brothers and sisters were just like own folks; indeed he thought one sister, Mrs. French, was one of the most charming women he knew, only she did live in the wilds of Williamsburg. Francesca was married in the Livingston family and lived up in Manhattanville. How any one could bear to be out of the city--that meant below Tenth Street--he couldn't see!

"Is that little fairy your sister?" he asked. "Isn't she lovely!"

Margaret smiled. She thought Mr. Eugene very flattering. Then the others came out, and Mr. Bounett took a cup of black coffee and a very dainty sandwich. He left sweets to the young people. And now that they had broken the ice, he hoped the Underhills would be social. They, the Bounetts, lived over in Hammersley Street, which was really a continuation of Houston. And they might like to see