A Little Girl in Old New York

by Amanda M. Douglas

  CHAPTER VII

  MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO

  "Yes; come get out once in a while."

  "I've no time to spare," said Mrs. Underhill. "Some one has to work oryou'd all be in a fine case. Here's Margaret spending her time drummingon the piano and studying French and what not. I dare say you'll becalled upon some time to take your daughter to Paris to show off heraccomplishments."

  "I hope we'll do credit to each other," he returned with a dry, humorouslaugh, as if amused.

  "The world goes round so fast one can't keep up with it. If the workonly rushed on that way! Why don't some of you smart men who have plentyof time to sit round, invent a machine to cook and sew and sweep thehouse?"

  "Martha's a pretty good housekeeping machine, I think. And you mightfind another to sew."

  She had no idea that Elias Howe was hard at work on a tireless iron andsteel sewing-woman and was puzzling his brains day and night to put aneye in the needle that would be satisfactory.

  "You'd need to be made of money to hire all these folks! Margaret oughtto be sewing this very minute, but she's fussing over those drawings ofJohn's. I've such a smart family I think they'll set me crazy. And whatyou will do when I am gone----"

  "We're not going to let you get away so easy. And if you would just goout a bit now and then. Come, mother," with entreaty in his voice.

  "Oh, 'Milyer," she said, touched by something in the tone, "I reallycan't go to-day. I've all those shirts to cut out, and Miss Weir told meof a girl who would be glad to come and sew for fifty cents a day. Ithink I'll have her a few days. And you look up the poor old creaturesand see if they are in any want. Then if I really _can_ do them any goodI'll go."

  She always softened in the end. She felt a little sore and touchy aboutSteve's engagement, and proud, too, that Miss Beekman had accepted him.Stephen had insisted some one must come in and help sew, and that hismother must have a little time for herself. Seven men and boys to makeshirts for was no light matter. The little girl was learning to darnstockings very nicely and helped her mother with those.

  So father Underhill took the little girl and Dobbin and the ordinaryharness, for Steve had Prince and the silver-mounted trappings, and theelders could guess where he had gone. Business was dull along in August,so the men had some time for diversion, and the father always enjoyedhis little daughter. Her limited knowledge and quaint comments amusedhim, and her sweet, innocent love touched the depths of his soul.

  It was quite in the afternoon when they started. Dobbin was not as youngand frisky as Prince, so they jogged along, looking at the gardens, thetrees, the wild masses of vines and sumac, and then stretches of rockyspace interspersed with squatters' cabins and the goats, pigs, geese,and chickens. Sometimes in after years when she rode through CentralPark, she wondered if she had not dreamed all this, instead of seeing itwith her own eyes.

  They went over to Mr. Brockner's to inquire.

  "Oh," he exclaimed, "Mrs. Brockner will be so sorry to miss you. She hastalked so much about your little girl, and threatened to hunt her up.And now she's gone to Saratoga for a fortnight, to see the fashions. Butyou must come up again."

  Then he directed them, and they drove over in a westerly course and sooncame to the little stone house that bore evident marks of decay fromneglect as well as age. The first story was rough stone, the half-storyof shingles, that had once been painted red. There were two smallwindows in the gable ends, but in front the eaves overhung the doorwayand the windows and were broken and moss-grown. There was a big flatstone for the doorstep, a room on one side with two windows, and on theother only one. The hall door was divided in the middle, the upper partopen. There was a queer brass knocker on this, and the lower partfastened with an old-fashioned latch. The little courtyard looked tidy,and there was a great row of sweet clover along the fence, but now andthen the goats would nibble it off.

  When they stepped up on the stoop they saw an old lady sitting in arocking-chair, with a little table beside her, and some knitting in herlap. She had evidently fallen into a doze. Hanny stretched up on tiptoe.A great gray cat lay asleep also. There were some mats laid about thefloor, two very old arm-chairs with fine rush bottoms painted yellow, adoor open on either side of the hall, and a well-worn winding stairsgoing up at the back.

  Mr. Underhill reached over and gave a light knock. The cat lifted itshead and made a queer sound like a gentle call, then went to the oldlady and stretched up to her knees. She started and glanced toward thedoor, then rose in a little confusion.

  "I am looking for a Miss Underhill," began the visitor.

  "Oh, pardon me." She unbolted the lower door. "I believe I had fallenasleep. Miss Underhill?" in a sort of surprised inquiry. "I am--one ofthe sisters. Walk in."

  She pushed out one of the arm-chairs and gave her footstool to thelittle girl.

  "I am an Underhill myself, a sort of connection, I dare say. We heard ofyou some time ago, but I have been much occupied with business, yet Ihave intended all the time to call on you."

  "You are very good, I am sure. We had some relations on Long Island, andI think some here-about, but we lost sight of them long ago. We reallyhave no one now. My sister Jane is past eighty, and I am only threeyears younger."

  She was a slim, shrunken body and her hands were almost transparent, sowhite was her skin. Her gown was gray, and she wore a white kerchiefcrossed on her bosom like a Quakeress. Her fine muslin cap had thenarrow plain border of that denomination.

  Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and hisremoval to the city,--then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.

  "You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble inher voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father'srelatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my onlybrother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned agreat farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little laterthe old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before theBritish evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever,and there were only my mother and us two girls."

  Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took thewrinkled hand gently.

  "Do you mean you were alive then--a little girl in the RevolutionaryWar?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.

  "Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubtif you're more than that."

  "I am a little past eight," said Hanny.

  "And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hopedso that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic andvery much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armieswere separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward throughMcGowan's Pass, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced theminto the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessiansthey would have driven the British off the field. But I believeWashington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost avictory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, forwe could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word camethat father was killed."

  "Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkledhand. What if she had been alive then!--and she looked over at _her_father with tears in her eyes.

  "It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side.You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said theynever could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father'sespousing the Federalists' cause."

  "But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl,wide-eyed.

  "We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, andfolks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was takenprisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headedyoung fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool hisardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill.Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire.
Oh, mychild, such quantities of things as were in it! My mother had nevergone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then theland was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. TheBritish took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made moneyright along. But the English were very good to us, and no one evermolested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journeyto go down to the Bowling Green."

  The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.

  "There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on untilmost everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane,though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don'tknow,"--hesitatingly.

  "Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.

  "Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to someGermans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our littlework and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctorthought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It madeit easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. Butthere'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sighof self-abnegation.

  "And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"

  "Well, you see grandmother made hard feelings with the relatives. Shedidn't think the colonies had any right to go to war. And after father'sdeath mother felt a good deal that way. They dropped us out, and wenever took any pains to hunt them up. We never knew much about theUnderhills. I must say you are very kind to come," and her voicetrembled.

  Just then the door opened and Miss Underhill sprang up to take hersister's arm and lead her to a chair. She was taller and stouter, andthe little girl thought her the oldest-looking person she had ever seen.Her cap was all awry, her shawl was slipping off of one shoulder, andshe had a sort of dishevelled appearance, as she looked curiouslyaround.

  Lois straightened her up, seated her, and introduced her to thevisitors.

  "I'm hungry. I want something to eat, Lois," she exclaimed in a whining,tremulous tone, regardless of the strangers.

  Miss Underhill begged to be excused, and went for a plate of bread andbutter and a cup of milk.

  "Perhaps you'd like to see our old parlor," she said to her guests, andopened the door.

  There were two rooms on this side of the house. The back one was usedfor a sleeping chamber. She threw the shutters wide open, and a littlelate sunshine stole over the faded carpet that had once been such amatter of pride with the two young women. There were some familyportraits, a man with a queue and a ruffled shirt-front, another with abig curly white wig coming down over his shoulders, and several ladieswhose attire seemed very queer indeed. There was a black sofa studdedwith brass nails that shone as if they had been lately polished, a talldesk and bookcase going up to the ceiling, brass and silver candlesticksand snuffers' tray, as well as a bright steel "tinder box" on the high,narrow mantel. A big mahogany table stood in the centre of the room,polished until you could see your face in it. But there was an odd tallarticle in the corner, much tarnished now, but ornamented with gilt andwhite vines that drooped and twisted about. Long wiry strings went fromtop to bottom.

  "I suppose you don't know what that is!" said Miss Lois, when she sawthe little girl inspecting it. "That's a harp. Young ladies played on itwhen we were young ourselves. And they had a spinet. I believe it'saltered now and called a piano."

  "A harp!" said the little girl in amaze. Her ideas of a harp were veryvague, but she thought it was something you carried around with you.She had heard the children sing

  "I want to be an angel And with the angels stand; A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand,"

  and the size of this confused her.

  "But how could you play on it?" she asked.

  "You stood this way. You could sit down, but it was considered moregraceful to stand. And you played in this manner."

  She fingered the rusted strings. A few emitted a doleful sort of soundalmost like a cry.

  "We've all grown old together," she said sorrowfully. "It was considereda great accomplishment in my time. I believe people still play on theharp. We had a great many curious things, but several years ago acommittee of some kind came and bought them. We needed the money sadly,and we had no one to leave them to when we died. There was somebeautiful old china, and a lady bought the fan and handkerchief that mygrandmother carried at her wedding. The handkerchief was worked at someconvent in Italy and was fine as a cobweb. My mother used it, and thenit was laid by for us. But we never needed it," and she gave a softsigh.

  She had glided out now and then to look after Jane, who was eating asif she was starved. And in the broken bits of talk Mr. Underhill hadlearned by indirect questioning that they had parted with their land bydegrees, and with some family valuables, until there was only this oldhouse and a small space of ground left.

  Miss Jane was anxious now to see the visitors. But she was so deaf Loishad to repeat everything, and she seemed to forget the moment a thingwas said. Dobbin whinnied as if he thought the call had been longenough.

  Mr. Underhill squeezed a bank-note into the hand of Miss Lois as he saidgood-by. "Get some little luxury for your sister," he added.

  "Thank you for all your friendliness," and the tears stood in her eyes."Come again and bring your sister Margaret," she said to the littlegirl.

  They drove over westward a short distance. The rocky gorge was stillthere, and at its foot was one of the first battle-fields of thisvicinity. Hanny looked at it wonderingly.

  "Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "Theyfound they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followedby some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, forthey were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that.And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to flyto a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boythen."

  The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?

  "It seems such a long, long time ago--like the flood and the selling ofJoseph. And was grandmother really alive?"

  "Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."

  "Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I feltafraid of her."

  "Don't think of her, pussy. It's very sad to lose your senses and be atrouble."

  "You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. Shedidn't see how such a thing could happen to him.

  "I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just underhis breath.

  Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper.The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over heradventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John wasdrawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work athouse-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man hadcome in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans andseveral of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walkedup and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and whatwonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't beany to come in the future.

  At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, asgrandmother was anxious to see them.

  Her grandmother was invested with a curious new interest in her eyes.That any one belonging to her should have lived in the Revolutionary Warseemed a real stretch of the imagination for a little girl eight yearsold. Grandmother considered _her_ wonderful also. She wasn't so much infavor of short frocks and pantalets that came down to your ankles, butthe little girl did look pretty in them. And when she found how neatlyshe could hemstitch and do such beautiful featherstitch, and darn, andread so plainly that it was a pleasure to listen to her, she had toadmit that Hannah Ann was a real credit, and, she confessed in hersecret heart, a very sweet little girl.

  "I've begun your new Irish chain patchwork," she said. "I've made oneblock for a
pattern, and cut out quite a pile. Aunt Eunice lighted uponsome beautiful green calico. I was upon a stand whether to have green orred, but an Irish chain generally is pieced of green. It seems moreappropriate."

  And yet people had not begun to sing "The Wearing of the Green."

  "I declare," said Cousin Ann, "you're such an old-fashioned little thingone can hardly tell which is the oldest, you or grandmother."

  "Is it anything"--what should she say?--wrong or bad seemed tooforcible--"queer to be old-fashioned?"

  "Well, yes, _queer_. But you're awful sweet and cunning, Hannah Ann, andwe'd just like to keep you forever."

  With that she almost squeezed the breath out of the little girl andkissed her a dozen times.

  Grandmother could tell such wonderful stories as they sat and sewed. Allthe glories of the old Underhill house, and the silver and plate thathad come over from England, and the set of real china that a seacaptain, one of the Underhills, had brought from China and how it hadtaken three years to go there and come back. And the beautiful Indiashawl it had taken seven years to make, and the Persian silk gown thathad been bought of some great chief or Mogul--grandmother wasn't quitesure, but she thought they had a king or emperor in those countries. Shehad a little piece of the silk that she showed Hanny, and a waist ribbonthat came from Paris, "For you see," said she, "we were so angry withEngland that we wouldn't buy anything of her if we could help it. Andthe French people came over and helped us."

  "What did they fight about, grandmother?"

  "Oh, child, a great many things. You can't understand them all now, butyou'll learn about them presently. The people who came here and settledthe country wanted the right to govern themselves. They thought a king,thousands of miles away, couldn't know what was best for them. AndEngland sent over things and we had to pay for them whether we wantedthem or not. And it was a long struggle, but we won, and the British hadto go back to their own country. Why, if we hadn't fought, we wouldn'thave had any country," and grandmother's old face flushed.

  The little girl thinks it would be dreadful not to have a country, buther mind is quite chaotic on the subject. She is glad, however, to havebeen on the winning side.

  Nearly every day Uncle David took her out driving. They saw the oldhouse on the hill in a half-hidden, woody section where the family hadto live until the new house was built. They went round the battlefield,but sixty years of peace had made great changes, and the next fiftyyears was to see a beautiful town and many-storied palaces all about.She dipped into the history of New Amsterdam again and began tounderstand it better, though she did mistrust that Mr. DederichKnickerbocker now and then "made fun," not unlike her father.

  The visit came to an end quite too soon, grandmother thought, and shewas very sorry to part with the little girl. She thought she would tryand come down when the fall work was done, and she gave Hanny only fourblocks of patchwork, for if she went to school there wouldn't be muchtime to sew.

  They stopped at Yonkers two days and picked up the boys, who were brownand rosy. Aunt Crete was much better and did not have to go about withher face tied up. She said there was no place like Yonkers, after all.Retty seemed happy and jolly, but there was a new girl in the kitchen,for Aunt Mary had gone to live with her children. George said he shouldcome down a while when the crops were in.

  School commenced the 1st of September sharp. It was hot, of course.Summer generally does lap over. The boys who had shouted themselveshoarse with joy when school closed, made the street and the playgroundring with delight again. If they were not so fond of studying they likedthe fun and good-fellowship. And when they marched up and down the longaisles singing:

  "Hail Columbia, happy land; Hail ye heroes, heaven-born band. Who fought and bled in freedom's cause!"

  you could feel assured another generation of patriots was being raisedfor some future emergency. Oh, what throats and lungs they had!

  Mrs. Underhill had been around to see Mrs. Craven, and liked her verywell indeed. So the little girl was to go to school with Josie and TudieDean.

  Some new people had come in the street two doors below. Among themembers was a little girl of seven, the child of the oldest son, and alarge girl of fourteen or so, two young ladies, one of whom was teachingschool, and the other making artificial flowers in a factory down-town,and two sons. The eldest one was connected with a newspaper, and was inquite poor health. His wife, the little girl's mother, had been deadsome years. The child was rather pale and thin, with large, dark eyes,and a face too old for her years and rather pathetic. And when Mrs.Whitney came in a few days later to inquire where Mrs. Underhill senther little girl to school, she decided to let her grandchild go to Mrs.Craven's also.

  "She's quite a delicate little thing and takes after her mother. I tellmy son, she wants to company with other children and not sit aroundnursing the cat. But Ophelia, that's my daughter who teaches down-town,where we used to live, says the public school is no place for her. Andyour little girl seems so nice and quiet like."

  Nora, as they called her, was very shy at first. Hanny went after her,and found the Deans waiting on their stoop. Nora never uttered a word,but looked as if she would cry the next moment. Mrs. Craven took her incharge in a motherly fashion, but it seemed very hard for her tofraternize with the children.

  Mrs. Craven lived in a corner house. The entrance to the school was onThird Street, and the schoolroom was built off the back parlor, whichwas used as a recitation-room for the older class. There were abouttwenty little girls, none of them older than twelve. At the end of theyard was a vacant lot, fenced in, which made a beautiful playground.

  There were numbers of such schools at that period, but they were mostlyfor little girls. Hanny liked it very much. On Wednesday afternoon theyhad drawing, and reading aloud, when the girls could make their ownselections, which were sometimes very amusing. On Friday afternoon theysewed and embroidered and did worsted work. There was quite a rage aboutthis. One girl had a large piece in a frame--"Joseph Sold by hisBrethren." Hanny never tired of the beautiful blue and red and orangecostumes. Another girl was working a chair seat. And still another hadbegun to embroider a black silk apron with a soft shade of red. Thenthey hemstitched handkerchiefs, they marked towels and napkins withornate letters, and really were a busy lot. Little Eleanora Whitneycouldn't sew a stitch, and some of the girls thought it "just dreadful."

  Friday from half-past three until five Miss Helen Craven gave thechildren, whose parents desired it, a dancing lesson. If Nora couldn'tsew, she could dance like a fairy. Her education was a curiousconglomeration. She could read and declaim, but spelling was quitebeyond her, and her attempts at it made a titter through the room. Shecould talk a little French, and she had crossed the ocean to Englandwith her papa. So she wasn't to be despised altogether.