Part 10 (1/2)
They came home very tired. But the little girl had added to her stock of historical knowledge and knew what Fourth of July stood for. It was a very great day, the beginning of the Republic.
The boys were out early the next morning finding ”cissers,” crackers that had failed to burn out entirely, and still had a little explosive merit when touched by a piece of lighted punk. There was no school that day, and Steve took them up to West Farms to expend the rest of their hilarity. The little girl was pale and languid. Mrs. Underhill was quite troubled at times when friends said:
”Isn't Hanny very small of her age? Is she real strong? She looks so delicate.”
This was why she had thought it best not to send her to school this summer. She read aloud to her mother and said one column in a speller and definer, and Margaret taught her a little geography and arithmetic.
She could hem very nicely now. She had learned to knit lace, and do some fancy work that was then called lap st.i.tching. You pulled out some threads one way of the cloth, then took three and just lapped them over the next three, drawing your needle and thread through. Now a machine does it beautifully.
There was another fas.h.i.+on, ”fads” we should call them nowadays. A school-bag--they didn't call them satchels then--was made of a piece of blue and white bed-ticking, folded at the bottom. Every white stripe you worked with zephyr worsted in briar st.i.tch or herring-bone or feather st.i.tch. You could use one color or several. And now the old work and the bed-ticking has come back again and ladies make the old-fas.h.i.+oned bags with tinsel thread.
Margaret had made one, and the little girl had taken it up. She was quite an expert with her needle. She had found several delightful new books to read. The Deans had some wonderful fairy stories. She was enraptured with the ”Lady of the Lake,” and some of Mrs. Howitt's stories and poems. She had learned her way about, and could go out to the Bowery to do an errand for her mother. She knew some more little girls, and with her sewing, helping her mother, studying and reading and play, the days seemed too short.
Vacation did not begin until the 1st of August. The boys were to go up to Yonkers and help George and Uncle Faid. They were quite ready for new ventures.
When Margaret came home the last day of school with a really fine report, her mother felt quite proud of her. The little girl, with large eyes and a mysterious expression, begged her to come into the parlor and see something. She smiled and took Hanny's small hand in hers. The furniture had been moved about a little. And oh, what was this? The little girl's eyes were stars of joy.
”It's your piano and mine,” she said. ”Yours till you get married and go away, and then mine forever and ever. Joe gave fifty dollars of his prize money toward it. Wasn't he lovely? And oh, Margaret, such beautiful music as it makes!”
The little girl with one small finger struck a key. The sound seemed to fascinate her. Margaret caught her in her arms and kissed the enraptured face.
”We shall be too happy, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have had the courage to ask for a piano, but it's the one thing above all others that I have wanted. Oh, it's just too delightful!”
Mrs. Underhill said: ”It's a great piece of wastefulness, but the boys would have it. I'm sure I don't see where you're going to get time to learn everything. And you'll never know anything about housekeeping. I should be ashamed to have any one marry you.”
People didn't hustle off to the country the day school closed. Indeed, some didn't go at all. The children played on the shady side of the street. The little girls had ”Ring around a rosy,” that I think Eve's grandchildren must have invented. Then there was ”London Bridge is falling down,” ”Open the gates as high as the sky,” and
”Here come two lords quite out of Spain A-courting for your daughter faire,”
and after a great deal of disputing and beseeching they obtained ”daughter faire,” and averted war. And ”Tag” never failed with its ”Ana mana mona mike.” You find children playing them all yet, but I think the wonderful zest has gone out of them.
In the evening a throng of the First Street children who had pennies to spend used to go up to the corner of Second Street and Avenue A. An old colored woman sat there, with a gay Madras turban, and a little table before her, that had a mysterious spring drawer. On one side she had an earthen jar, on the other a great pail with a white cloth over it, that emitted a steamy fragrance. And she sang in a sort of chanting tone:
”H-o-t corn, hot corn. Here's your nice hot corn, s-m-okin' h-o-t.
B-a-ked pears, baked pears--Get away, chillen,' get away, 'les you've got a penny. Stop crowdin'.”
They had enough to eat at home, but the corn was tempting. One night one boy would treat and break the ear of corn in two and divide. And the baked pears were simply delicious. The old woman fished them out with a fork and put them on a bit of paper. Wooden plates had not been invented. And the high art was to lift up your pear by the stem and eat it. Sometimes a mischievous companion would joggle your arm and the stem would come out--and oh, the pear would drop in a ”mash” on the sidewalk.
You could not divide the pear very well, though children did sometimes pa.s.s a ”bite” around. But we lived in happy innocence and safety, for the deadly bacillus had not been invented and ignorance was bliss.
CHAPTER VI
MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN
It seemed curiously still after the boys went away. Margaret took two music lessons a week and gave the little girl half a one. And one day Stephen came in and said:
”Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array, And I'll take you a-drivin' so galliant and gay.”
”Both of us?” asked the little girl.
”Yes--both of us. I have my new buggy and silver-mounted harness. You must go out and christen it for good luck. Hurry, Peggy, and put on your white dress.”