Part 9 (1/2)
At first her heart had swollen with rage. Anger had set her going, just as a blow from a battledoor sends off a shuttlec.o.c.k. And, once being started, the poor little shuttlec.o.c.k couldn't stop.
”Auntie gave me that skipt. Hollis is a very wicked boy; steals skipt from little gee-urls. I don't ever want to see Hollis no more.”
What she meant to do, or where to go, she had no more idea than the blue clouds overhead. She had no doubt her brother was close behind, trying to overtake her. Her sole thought was, that she ”wouldn't ever see Hollis no more.” She knew nothing could make him so unhappy as that.
”I'll lose me, and then how'll he feel?”
”Lose me!” A wild thought, gone in a moment; but meanwhile she was already lost.
”I hope auntie won't give Hollis nuffin to eat, 'cause he's took away my skipt; nuffin to eat but meat and vertato, athout any pie.”
Flyaway shook her head so hard, that the ”war-plume” under her bonnet would have nodded, if the air could have got at it. ”Why, where's Hollis?” said she, looking back, and finding, to her surprise, he was not to be seen. ”I spected he'd come. I thought I heard him walking ahind me.”
Flyaway's anger had died out by this time. It never lasted longer than a Fourth of July torpedo.
”He didn't know I runned off. Guess I'll go back, and he'll give me the skipt; and then I'll forgive him all goody.”
A very nice plan; only, instead of going back, she turned a corner, and tripped along towards University Place. She had twisted her head so much in looking for Horace, that it was completely turned round. And, besides, a little farther on was a man playing a harp, and a small boy a violin. Fly paused and listened, till she no longer remembered Horace or the ”skipt.” She forgot this was New York, and dreamed she had come to fairy-land. Her soul was full of music. Happy thoughts about nothing in particular made her smile and clap her hands. Birds, flowers, Santa Clauses, Flipperties, and ”pepnits” seemed to hover near. Something beautiful was just going to happen, she didn't know what.
After the man had played for some time without attracting attention from any body but Flyaway and a poor old beggar woman, he put his harp in a green bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked off. Flyaway followed without knowing it. Down Sixth Avenue went the music-man, and close at his heels went she. By and by she saw a little girl, no larger than herself, with a great bundle on her shoulders.
”You don't s'pose she's got a music on _her_ back?--No, not a music; it's too soft all swelled out in a bunch.”
Fly went nearer the little girl, to see what she was carrying; and as she did so, some gray coals, mixed with ashes, fell out of the bundle upon her nice cloak.
”Why, she's been and carried off her mother's fireplace,” thought Fly, shaking her cloak in disgust; ”what you s'pose she wanted to do that for?”
But far from carrying off her mother's fireplace, the ragged little girl had only been picking up old coal out of barrels, and was taking it home to burn. It had already been burned once, and picked over and burned again, and thrown away; but perhaps this poor child's mother could coax it into a faint glow, warm enough to fry a few potatoes.
While Flyaway was shaking her cloak, and staring at some old silk dresses and bed-quilts, which were hung before a shop-door, the man with the harp on his back, and the boy with a violin under his arm, had turned a corner, and pa.s.sed out of sight. Flyaway rubbed her eyes, and looked again. They must have gone down through the brick pavement, but she couldn't see any hole. Far away in the distance she heard their music again, and it did not come from under ground. She ran to overtake it, and turned into Bleecker Street. No music-man there, but a good supply of oranges and apples.
”Needn't folks put their hands in, and take some out the barrels? Then why for did the folks put 'em on' doors?”
While pondering this grave question, she was jostled by a man carrying a rocking-chair, and very nearly fell down stairs into an oyster-saloon. A minute more and she was back on Broadway, the very street, where Aunt Madge and Prudy were waiting for her, but so much lower down that she might as well have been in the State of Maine.
”Now, I'll go find my Hollis,” said she turning another corner, and running the wrong way with all her might. Past candy-stalls, past toy-shops, past orange-wagons. Hark, music again! Not the soft strains of a harp, but the stirring notes of bugle, fife, and drum. Fly kept time with her feet.
”Here we go marchin' on,” hummed she. But the crowd ”marchin' on” with her was a strange one. Carts full of hammers, pincers, and all sorts of iron tools, and men in gray s.h.i.+rts, with black caps on their heads. Some of the men had banners, with great black words, such as ”Equal Rights,”
or something like them, in German; but of course Fly could not tell one letter from another. She only knew it was all very ”homebly,” in spite of the music. She began to think she had better get away as soon as she could; so she tried to cross the street, but some one held her back; it was a lady, carrying a small dog in her arms, like a baby.
”Don't go there, child; that's a strike, you'll get killed.”
Fly knew but one meaning for the word _strike_; and, tearing herself from the lady, ran screaming down Broadway, with the thought that every man's hand was against her.
On she went, and on went the strike, close behind her. A little while ago she had been following music, and now music was following her. But the fifes and drums were rather slow, and Flyaway's feet were very swift; so it was not long before the gray men, with their white banners and clattering carts, were far behind her. No danger now that any of the wicked creatures would strike her; so she slackened her pace.
She did begin to wonder why she had not found Horace; still, she was not at all alarmed, and there was a dreadful din in the streets, which confused her thoughts. It seemed as if people were making it on purpose.
Once, at Willowbrook, she had heard boys banging tin pans, grinding coffee mills, and pounding with mortars. She had liked that,--they called it the ”Calathumpian Band,”--and she liked this too; it sounded about as uproarious.
While she sauntered along, spying wonders, her eye was attracted by some balancing-toys, which a man was showing off at one of the corners. What a pleasant man he was, to set them spinning just to amuse little girls!