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

They took her over in Hammersley Street. Old Mr. Bounett seemed quite feeble, and though he was not in his court attire, he had a ruffled shirt-front and small-clothes. Aunt Eunice thought him delightful. It seemed queer to think of a French quarter in New York in the old part of the last century where people met and read from the French poets and dramatists, and almost believed when civilization set in earnestly, French must be the polite language of the day.

The little girl felt quite as if she was one of the hostesses of the city. She knew so many strange things and could find her way about so well. And yet she was only ten years old.

Aunt Eunice thought her a quaint, delightful little body, and wise for her years. But she _was_ small. Nora Whitney had outgrown her and the Dean children were getting so large. As for the boys, they grew like weeds, and the trouble now was what to do with Ben. There was no free academy in those days, but the public school gave you a good and thorough education in the useful branches.


CHAPTER XV

A PLAY IN THE BACK YARD

The pretty block in First Street that had been so clean and genteel, a word used very much at that time, was fast changing. The lower part on the south side was rilling up with undesirable people, some foreigners who crowded three families into a house. Houston Street was growing gaudy and common with Jew stores. And oh, the children! There was a large bakery where they sold cheap bread, and in the afternoon there really was a procession coming in and going out.

Chris and Lily Ludlow had teased their mother to move. The place was comfortable and near their father's business, so why should they? But the girls Lily was intimate with had moved away, and she hated to go around Avenue A to school.

There were changes at the upper end as well. The Weirs had gone from next door, and two families with small children had taken the house. The babies seemed so pudgy and untidy that the little girl did not fancy them much. Frank Whitney was married with quite a fine wedding-party, and had gone to Williamsburg to live. Mrs. Whitney had rented two rooms in the house to a dressmaker. Delia was almost grown up. She had shot into a tall girl, though she would have her dresses short; she despised young ladyhood. She was smart and capable. She helped with the meals; often, indeed, her mother did not come down until breakfast was ready, when she had had a "bad night." That was when she read novels in bed until two or three o'clock. Delia swept the house--she often did wash on Saturday, though her brother scolded when she did it. She was the same jolly, eager, careless girl, and delighted in a game of tag, but she could so easily outrun the smaller children. She and Jim sometimes raced round the block, one going in one direction, one in the other, and Jim didn't always beat, either.

Then she would sit out on the stoop with a crowd of children and tell wonderful stories. She didn't explain that they were largely made up "out of her own head." Next door above the Deans two new little girls had come, very nice children, who played with dolls. There was quite an array when five little girls had their best dolls out. Nora generally brought Pussy Gray, and they were always entertained with her talking.

Some boys had invaded the Reed's side of the block. Charles had strict injunctions not to parley with them. But one went in an office as errand boy, and the other quite disdained Jane Robertine Charlotte, as he called him. It did begin to annoy Mr. Reed to have his son made the butt of the street. He was a nice, obedient, upright, orderly boy. What was lacking? In some respects he was very manly. Mr. Reed suddenly concluded that a woman wasn't capable of bringing up boys, and he must take him in hand.

For two weeks Mrs. Reed had been threatening to cut his hair. The boys said, "Sissy, why don't your mother put your hair up in curl papers?" It looked so dreadful when it was first cut that Charles always spent these weeks between Scylla and Charybdis. He knew all about the rock and the whirlpools. But something had been happening all the time, even to this Saturday afternoon, when all the silver had to be scoured. Mr. Reed inspected his son as he sat at the supper-table. He had a rather poetical appearance with his long hair curling at the ends, but it was no look for a boy.

"Don't you want to take a walk down the street with me?" said his father.

Charles started as if he had been struck.

"I'm dead tired and I want him to wipe my dishes. I haven't been off my feet since five o'clock this morning only at meal-time. Then he must go to the store."

"I'll wait until then."

Mrs. Reed looked sharply at them. Had Charles done something that had escaped her all-sided vision and was his father going to take him to task? Or was there a conspiracy?

"What do you want him for?" she inquired sharply.

"Oh, I thought we'd walk down the street."

"Smoking a cigar, of course," as Mr. Reed took one out of his case. "It certainly won't be your fault if the child hasn't every bad tendency under the sun. I've done _my_ best. And you know smoking is a vile habit."

Mr. Reed had long ago learned the wisdom of silence, which was even better than a soft answer.

Charles put on a pinafore that hung in the kitchen closet. He could dry dishes beautifully.

"You've been cutting behind on stages," said his mother. "Some one has told your father."

"No, I haven't. Upon my word and honor."

"That's next to swearing, John Robert Charles. How often have I told you these little things lead to confirmed bad habits."

John Robert Charles was silent.

"Well, you've done something. And if your father does once take you in hand----"

The boy trembled. This awful threat had been held over him for years. Nothing _had_ come of it, so it couldn't as yet be compared to Mrs. Joe Gargery's "rampage."

Mr. Reed sat comfortably on the front stoop smoking and reading. The wind drove the smoke straight down the street, and not into the house. How it could get in with the windows shut down was a mystery, but it seemed to sometimes.

Charles brushed his hair and washed his hands.

"I _must_ cut your hair. I ought to do it this very night, tired as I am. Now brush your clothes and go out to your father. I'll be thinking up what I want. Pepper is one thing. Go down to the old man's and get some horseradish. If there is anything else I'll come out and tell you."

Charles went reluctantly out to the front stoop.

"Hillo!" said his father cheerfully. "You through?"

That did not sound very threatening.

"We are to get pepper and horseradish."

Mr. Reed nodded, folded his paper and, slipping it into his pocket, settled his hat.

"Mother may think of something else."

She positively couldn't. She considered that it saved time to do errands when you were going out, and she spent a great deal of time trying to think how to save it.

They walked down First Avenue past Houston Street. Almost at the end of the next block there was a barber-pole with its stripes running round. The barber-pole and the Indian at the cigar shops were features of that day, as well.

"Wouldn't you like to have your hair cut, Charles?" inquired his father.

The world swam round so that Charles was minded to clutch the barber-pole, but he bethought himself in time that it was dusty. He looked at his father in amaze.

"Oh, don't be a ninny! No one will take your head off. Come, you're big enough boy to go to the barber's."

The palace of delight seemed opening before the boy. No one can rightly understand his satisfaction at this late day. The mothers, you see, used to cut hair as they thought was right, and nearly every mother had a different idea except those whose idea was simply to cut it off.

They had to wait awhile. Charles sat down in a padded chair, had a large white towel pinned close up under his chin, his hair combed out with the softest touch imaginable. The barber's hands were silken soft; his mother's were hard and rough. Snip, snip, snip, comb, brush, sprinkle some fragrance out of a bottle with a pepper-sauce cork--bulbs and sprays had not been invented. Oh, how delightful it was! He really did not want to get down and go home.

Mr. Reed had been talking to an acquaintance. The other chair being vacant, he had his beard trimmed. He was not sure whether he would have it taken off this summer, though he generally did. He turned his head a little and looked at his son. He wasn't as poetical looking, but really, he was a nice, clean, wholesome, and--yes--manly boy. But he blushed scarlet.

"That looks something like," was his father's comment. What a nice broad forehead Charles had!

"He's a nice boy," said the barber in a low tone. "Boy to be proud of. I wish there were more like him."

Mr. Reed paid his bill and they went to the store. Then they strolled on down the street. But Charles was in distress lest the pungent berry and odoriferous root should take the barber's sweetness out of him. He was puzzled, too. It seemed to him he ought to say something grateful to his father. He was so very, very glad at heart. But it was so hard to talk to his father. He always envied Jim and Ben Underhill their father. He had found it easy to talk to him on several occasions.

"I must say you are improved," his father began presently. "You mother has too much to do bothering about household affairs. And you're getting to be a big boy. Why don't you find some boys to go with? There are those Underhills. You're too big to play with girls."

"But mother doesn't like boys," hesitatingly.

"You should have been a girl!" declared his father testily. "But since you're not, do try to be a little more manly."

The father hardly knew what to say himself. And yet he felt that he did love his son.

They were just at the area gate. Charles caught his father's hand. "I'm so glad," breathlessly. "The boys have laughed at me, and you--you've been so good."

Mr. Reed was really touched. They entered the basement. Mrs. Reed, like Mrs. Gargery, still had on her apron. Charles put the pepper in the canister, his mother took care of the horseradish. Then he sat down with his history.

"For pity's sake, Abner Reed, what have you done to that child! He looks like a scarecrow! He's shaved thin in one place and great tufts left in another. I was going to cut his hair this very evening. And I'll trim it to some decency now."

She sprang up for the shears.

"You will let him alone," said Mr. Reed, in a firm, dignified tone. "He is quite old enough to look like