She slammed the front-room door as she went in to perform her job. Mama knew it would be a job badly done. She sighed. She was tired of the girls forever trying to avoid doing this chore. She would have to think of something.
After the children had gone to school, Mama thought. Frequently she smiled. She got out her sewing box and began rummaging in it, picking out a dozen colored buttons. Then she put the box away and went back to her work, humming softly to herself.
The following morning Mama put the buttons in her apron pocket and went into the front room, closing the door. The children stared after her and then looked at one another.
“Say, do you think Mama is going to dust the front room herself this morning?” Henny asked.
“She didn’t have a dust rag with her,” Ella said.
“Maybe she’s looking around to see how dusty the room is,” came from Charlotte.
Mama was in the front room for a few minutes. When she came out, she was smiling.
“Well, girls,” she said, “we’re going to play a game and I’ve been getting the room ready for it.”
The children became very interested. “What game?”
“It’s a game of hide-and-seek,” Mama answered. “I have hidden a dozen buttons in the front room. If the one who dusts can find those twelve buttons, she will have done a wonderful dusting job, and I won’t even have to check up on her. Now let’s see, whose turn is it to dust today?”
“It’s my turn, my turn!” shouted Sarah.
“Aw, Ma! Let me do it today!”
“No, me!”
The children fought for a chance at the hated chore. Even baby Gertie who had never been expected to do so before, now was eager to try her hand at it.
“It’s really Sarah’s turn,” Mama said. “So in you go, Sarah. I expect you to bring back twelve buttons.”
Sarah took up the dustcloth and fairly skipped out of the kitchen. In a minute she was back again. “Forgot the stool,” she explained. Eight-year-old Sarah was still too small to reach the high places without the aid of a stool. Now fully armed with dustcloth and stool, she disappeared into the front room, while her sisters watched enviously.
“You needn’t be so unhappy,” Mama told them. “You’ll each get your turn at the game when your dusting day comes.”
Sarah stood still beside the closed door of the front room and looked about her. Such a big room, she thought. So many good hiding places in all its furnishings. What would be the best way to hunt?
I guess I’d better dust the same way I always do, she finally decided, and proceeded towards the big table standing in the middle of the room. She removed the fruit bowl that was set in the exact center of the table. She dusted the big family album that rested at one end. No time today to examine the pictures of a youthful Papa and Mama without any children. Today she had to hunt for buttons, so she put the album on a chair without even opening it. Then she removed the tablecloth. No button here. She got down on the thick red-and-green carpet to dust the table leg. At the base of the leg staring up at her lay a shiny red button. Sarah’s eyes began to dance with excitement. This was going to be fun! Button number one was slipped into her apron pocket.
The table was finished and cover and objects replaced. Chairs were carefully dusted next. They were hard to do, and Mama had five of them. The first yielded nothing. Neither did the second. The third had a button slid in neatly in one of the hard-to-dust places in its back. Button number two hit button number one with a click as it was deposited in Sarah’s apron pocket.
The last two chairs were dusted but no more buttons turned up. Sarah stood on the stool to dust off the top of the upright piano. She dusted off each knickknack thoroughly, and hopefully lifted the piano cover so that she might wipe the wood smooth of dirt. Her effort was rewarded, for there lying peacefully on the piano top was button number three.
Now Sarah was tempted to give up cleaning the rest of the piano. There was so much to it and surely Mama wouldn’t put two buttons in one piece of furniture. Still it wouldn’t be playing the game fair and, besides, one never could tell. Mama might be trying to catch her in just such a trick. Sarah dusted the foot pedals, but found no buttons. Nor were there any on the lid covering the keyboard. Piano keys had to be kept clean, too, so up went the lid. And there was another button!
Sarah was jubilant. She carried the stool over to the mantel shelf. Up she went, dustcloth tight in one hand. Now she could lift the china shepherd and shepherdess. She liked to handle these, especially the shepherdess, so dainty in her pink-and-blue dress with tiny rosebuds on it. She picked her up first. Something rattled! In the opening at the back of the little lady, which was for flowers, Mama had put button number five. And that was all Sarah found on the mantel shelf.
Two small round tables stood in front of the lace-curtained windows. Sarah started to work on these. On the first she discovered nothing, but under the doily which decorated the top of the second table, she found the sixth button.
Mama wanted her helpers to dust window sills. Sarah remembered and because she did, she was able to add both the seventh and eighth buttons to her apron pocket. Sitting right on the floor near the white window woodwork was button number nine. If Sarah had neglected the woodwork, she never would have found it.
She stopped in front of the tall mirror that stood between the windows, and began making faces at herself. “Now where shall I hunt for three more buttons?” she asked her reflection.
As she looked about, Sarah’s eyes fell on the colored calendar that Mama had hung on the wall. This is a new month, she thought. I might as well change the calendar while I’m here. Neatly Sarah tore off the sheet that said November, 1912.
She got down on the rug and looked about the room thoughtfully. Pretty nearly everything had been gone over, excepting the large sea shells lying on the floor on each side of the mirror. Sarah liked these shells. If she held one close to her ear, she could hear a strange noise like the roaring of waves. She picked up a shell, dusted it off, and held it close to her ear for a minute, listening. She hoped a button would pop out, but there was no button, only the same rushing sound. Sarah picked up the second shell and a button looked up at her. Ten buttons found — only two more to go.
All that was left was the woodwork. Sarah dusted the door first, for the ridge near the bottom was such a dust-gathering place. And right there on the flooring below the door ridge was button number eleven!
The baseboards about the entire room were dusted, but there was still one button missing. That meant Sarah had overlooked something, but what? Had she dusted the underneath part of the second table or had she forgotten to do it in the excitement of finding the button under the doily? Well, she’d do it again just to make sure. She was very glad indeed that she did make sure for there on the table’s curved-up leg reposed button number twelve!
She threw open the front-room door and came running into the kitchen, crying out joyfully: “I found them! I found them all, every single one of them! Ma, you certainly picked some swell hiding places! But it was fun. I’d like to do it again!”
For the next week Mama had a beautifully clean front room and there was not a single grumble.
After that the children might have tired of the game and Mama would have been right back where she started. But she was a wise mother. At the end of the week, the buttons went back into the sewing box. Mama said she didn’t have time to put the buttons out every morning. From now on, they would be hidden only occasionally. No child would know just when she might find buttons during her dusting because Mama would hide the buttons at night after the girls had gone to sleep. Also the number would be different, sometimes six, sometimes ten.
Mama was as good as her word. Sometimes she brought out her buttons once or twice during the week. Sometimes she would let two weeks pass by without producing them. And then every day in one memorable week, Mama hid buttons plus one shiny copper penny. “Finders-keepers,” she told the little dusters.
The grumbling didn’t stop completely, but it was not nearly so loud or so often. And in the meantime, the children were taught to be the best little housekeepers in the whole world.
THE EAST SIDE was not pretty. There was no grass. Grass couldn’t very well grow on slate sidewalks or in cobble-stoned gutters. There were no flowers except those one saw in the shops of the few florists. There were no tall trees lining the streets. There were tall gas lampposts instead. There was no running brook in which children might splash on hot summer days. But there was the East River. Its waters stretched out wide and darkly green, and it smelt of fish, ships, and garbage.
Like many other families, Mama and Papa and their children lived in the crowded tenement house section of the lower East Side of New York City. But unlike most of these families, their home was a four-room apartment which occupied an entire floor in a two-storied private house.
Papa had a shop not far from the river in the basement of an old warehouse. To get into the place, the children had to climb down a dangerously narrow wooden staircase with no supporting banisters. This did not stop them from visiting Papa. They came often because they found the shop a fascinating place. It was a junk shop.
It had its own peculiar odor — damp, musty, basementy. The smell was not unpleasant. As a matter of fact, the children liked it. After descending the stairs, they came into a large open space. Here were Papa’s desk and chair, where he did such bookkeeping as was necessary.
On the opposite side a few chairs formed a half-circle about a small coal stove. In the winter the little stove glowed fiery red in a vain effort to heat such a large area. On its top a teakettle sang an unceasing merry tune. Papa kept it filled all day so that the peddlers in the neighborhood might warm their insides with a hot cup of tea as they sat about and chatted. In summer, the stove was cold and there was no tea, but the lack of sunshine made the place moist and cool, so that the peddlers still sat in Papa’s chairs and chatted.
Beyond the large open part, the whole shop was partitioned off neatly. First there was the metals room. In there lay a towering pile of all kinds of old iron, zinc, tin, and copper ware. Next to this was the paper section filled with stacks of old newspapers and magazines collected by the peddlers. Last of all was the rag compartment; it was there that Papa did most of his work. The rags had to be sorted; woolens from cottons, white from colored, jerseys from worsteds. After sorting they were tossed into tall, sack-lined wooden bins.
When the bins were piled high with rags, Papa climbed into them and stamped them down, for he had no mechanical press to do this for him.
Sometimes when Papa wasn’t in a special hurry, he let the children take turns at sewing the bale covers for the rags. He used an enormous, curved, iron needle, threaded with strong rope and as it slipped through the sacking, it made a large round hole into which the rope would fit nicely.
Making bales offered great fun for the children, but it was not much fun for Papa, especially in the winter. There was no coal stove in this section; it would be too dangerous with so many rags lying around. Papa’s fingers grew stiff with cold. He had to stop his work frequently to blow on them. They got so badly chapped that the skin cracked. Into the cracks the dust and dirt seeped and though Papa tried hard every night to wash his hands clean and make them smooth with oil, they always remained rough and dirt-stained.
One morning, the children woke to the sound of falling rain. Charlotte pressed her nose against the window pane. “It’s raining cats and dogs.”
“Oh, botheration!” exclaimed Henny. “Now what’re we going to do?”
“Well,” suggested Ella, “why don’t we go to Fanny’s house for a change?” Fanny was Henny’s special chum outside of the family.
“Nope, we can’t. We’re mad at each other.”
“Again!” Sarah was amused. “You’re forever mad and glad at each other. Can’t you get glad just for today?”
“No, I’m not going to — ever! She’s a big tattletale. I’m never going to speak to her again!”
“You’ll have to make up with her when Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) comes. You know everyone must forgive each other on that day,” Ella reminded her.
“Oh, it’s a long ways off to Yom Kippur.” Henny shrugged her shoulders. “What I want to know is, what’re we going to do today?”
“You can all help me. There’s plenty to do.” Mama had come into the bedroom in time to answer Henny’s question.
The children made long faces. Mama laughed. “Don’t look so glum,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of time for play.”
It was just as Mama said. They were finished with their household chores at ten o’clock. By eleven, those who were taking piano lessons had their turn at the piano for a twenty-minute practice period. After that they were free.
“We could play acting,” suggested Henny. “If Mama would lend me her pretty pink shawl with the sequins, I could dance while Ella played the piano.”
“Oh, you’re always doing that,” Charlotte said. “Why don’t we all go down to Papa’s shop? I bet there’ll be a lot of peddlers there today ’cause it’s raining.”
The neighborhood peddlers were the children’s friends. It would be great fun to see them, the five little girls agreed.
A small group of peddlers had already gathered around Papa’s coal stove. There was Polack who had the heavy body and broad, stolid face of a Polish peasant. He was slumped down in one of Papa’s chairs, his thick hands jammed into the pockets of his worn, patched trousers. One would think those trousers would stay up on his broad hips without the support of a belt but evidently Polack did not think so. About his middle he had wound a stout piece of rope and knotted it so tightly that the trousers looked as pleated as an accordion. The buttons on his ragged jacket had disappeared long ago so he used large safety pins in their place.
Close by sat Joe, a swarthy Italian. His working clothes, heavy blue denim overalls pulled over a blue denim shirt, were patched and faded, but neat. Joe always talked in lively fashion, waving his hands expressively. “Mucha rain! Bah! No gooda for business!” He repeated these words over and over in disgust. In a neglected heap on the floor beside him lay the sack in which he collected the junk he sold to Papa.
Picklenose was very sympathetic. For an hour this morning, he too had gone about as usual from yard to yard, calling loudly, “Any old rags and bottles to sell, any old clothes.” But the housewives had paid no attention. He got nothing but wet clothes and wet feet for all his pains.
Poor old Picklenose! His face would have been most ordinary had he not been blessed with such an enormous object in the middle of it. It was a bulbous, fleshy nose, and not only did it glow red, but on its top grew a pickle-shaped wart which had given him his name.
“Pop,” he called out, “got a piece of cardboard?”
“Look in the paper room,” Papa told him.
Picklenose rose from his chair and made for the paper section. He returned soon with several pieces and sat down again. Removing his wet shoes, he stared ruefully at his socks. They were soaked with water which had come through the torn soles. He removed the socks, rolled them into a ball, and stuffed them into his pocket. Then with a small jackknife he carefully cut the cardboard into the shape of soles which he placed inside the shoes.
“These will have to do until I get me some more money,” he said, putting his shoes on again. He hunted in his pockets until he found his plug of tobacco. Politely offering some to the others, he also bit off a generous mouthful for himself. And so he sat, chewing and talking away at the same time.
Charlie was there, too. His tall, lanky body was settled comfortably in a tipped-back chair, his big feet resting on the little stove as he swung back and forth on the chair’s back legs.
Charlie was different from the others. He was handsome, blond, and blue-eyed, and a good deal younger than most of the peddlers. It was rumored he had come from a wealthy family and had a fine education. But something had happened in Charlie’s lif
e that changed everything. No one really knew what, not even Papa who was Charlie’s best friend. There were plenty of rumors, of course, but no one knew the real truth of any of them. Charlie himself never spoke about his past. He was a good worker but worked only when he felt like it. Every so often he would disappear for days at a time. Nobody knew where to, nor why, nor when he would return. Back he always came though, a bit silent and unhappy looking, but ready to work again.
Papa was always glad when Charlie returned. It was not only because Charlie was Papa’s right-hand man. There was something special between Papa and this tall fellow, a man-to-man something. Of course Papa loved his family, but sometimes he felt lonesome as the only man among six females. At such times there was always Charlie he could turn to for companionship.
The children adored Charlie too, especially Ella, who lately had begun to gaze at him with bright and shiny eyes and hang upon his every word. Charlie loved the children too and seemed at his happiest when doing something for them.
The children’s entrance was hailed with pleasure. Their bright young faces brought sunshine into the gloomy cellar. Papa looked up to wave them a cheery hello, and returned to his bookkeeping, but Charlie set the front legs of his chair down with a bang. Jumping up, he picked up Gertie and tossed her high into the air. She squealed with delight and when he put her down, she cried, “Do it again, Charlie, again!” Charlie laughed and tossed her high once more.
Then he called out, “Hey, Papa, what about the surprise we have for the young ones?”
“Surprise! What kind of surprise? Tell us!” The children skipped back and forth between Charlie and Papa.
“Charlie,” Papa said, “take them into the paper section and show them the load of books that came in this morning.”
“Books!” The children all shouted at once. “Papa, how wonderful! How did you get them? You never got any books in before. Are there any children’s books among them? May we have them?”
All-of-a-Kind Family Page 2
