Chapter V: Part 5

Then I learned, that it was only by the strictest economy, and hoarding of every cent of John's small salary, that the house rent was paid and the table provided.

And now, so the widow said, the house must be given up, for John might be a long while getting another place; clerkships were so difficult to obtain; and they must not think of running in debt.

It was _such_ a pity. We were all so comfortable and happy there, in that cozy little parlor, with its sunny bow window full of flowers, and its bright Lehigh fire, and softly cushioned chairs; that cozy parlor, where the little round table, with its snowy cloth, had been so often spread; and the fragrant coffee, and delicate tea-biscuit, and racy newspaper had been so often discussed; where John, in his slippers and dressing-gown, with his dark hair pushed off his broad forehead, read to us page after page of some favorite author, while the wind was welcome to whistle itself dumb outside the threshold, and old Winter to pile up the snow at the door till he got tired of it.

It _was_ hard!

John walked up and down the floor, with his hands crossed behind, and Mrs. Harris went round the room, hunting after her spectacles, when they were comfortably reposing on the bridge of her fine Roman nose.

A knock at the door!

A note for John!

"Enclosed, find $500, to pay Mr. John Harris' house rent for the
coming year.

A FRIEND."

John rubbed his eyes, and looked at his mother; his mother looked at me; and I looked at both of them; and then we laughed and cried, till we nearly had regular hysterics.

But who was the "Friend"? That was the question. We were all born Yankees, and did our best at "guessing;" but it didn't help us. Well, at any rate, it was very nice, all round. I hadn't to be routed. No, nor John, nor his dear old mother. And pussy purred round as if she had as much reason to be glad as any of us; and the canary trilled so sharp a strain that we were obliged to muffle his cage and his enthusiasm, with John's red silk pocket-handkerchief.

Mrs. Harris and I had not got our feminine tongues still, the next day, when John came back, in the middle of the forenoon, with another riddle, to drive our womanly curiosity still more distracted. He was requested to call immediately--so a note, he had just received, read--at Mr. ---- & Co's, and "accept the head clerkship, at a salary of $1,400 a year; being highly recommended by a person whose name his new employers decline giving."

That was a greater puzzle still. John and his mother had rich relations, to be sure; but, though they had always been interfering in all their plans for making a living, they never had been known to _give_ them anything except--_advice_, or to call on them _by daylight_; and it wasn't at all likely that the "leopard would change his spots," at that late day. No; it couldn't be John's rich relatives, who were always in such a panic lest upper-tendom should discover that their cousins, the Harrises, lived in an unfashionable part of the town, dined at one o'clock, and noticed trades-people and mechanics.

We were too sensible to believe in fairies, and who the mischief was emptying the "horn of plenty" in that way at our feet, was the question.

When we woke the next morning, we found in the back yard, a barrel of apples, a barrel of flour, a keg of butter, and a bag of buckwheat flour; labelled, "For Mr. John Harris, ---- street."

John declared, (after pinching himself to see if he were really John,) that he fastened the gate inside the very last thing before he put on his night-cap. Mrs. Harris said somebody must have climbed over and unfastened it; and I jumped right up and down, for a bright thought had just struck me, and I was determined to hold on to it, for I didn't have a bright thought _every_ day.

"What now?" said John, as I capered round the room.

"Oh! nothing," said I, "only it takes a woman, after all, to find out a secret--and to _keep it, too_," I added, snapping my fingers at him.

That day I thought it would do me good to ride about in an omnibus. I tried several. It didn't make much difference to me whether they went up street or down, or where they finally stopped. I was looking more at the passengers.

By and by I saw the person I wanted. Said I, in a whisper, sitting down beside him, "House rent--clerkship--flour--butter--crackers and buckwheat; all for giving you a seat in an omnibus!"

Didn't I know that "the fairy" was the nice old man with silver locks? Didn't he bribe me to hold my tongue, by telling me that he would come and drink tea with me, so that he might get a peep at John and his mother? Didn't he come? and didn't I look as much astonished when he called, as if it hadn't been all settled two days previous? But how was _I_ to know that Mrs. Harris would turn out to be an old love of his? How was _John_ to know, when he felt such an irresistible impulse to be kind to the old man, that his hair had grown white loving his mother? How was the _old man_ to know why he loved John so well, and thought him one of the finest young men he had ever seen? How was _I_ to know that I was to turn out to be what I always so mortally hated--a feminine match-maker?

LITTLE GERTRUDE'S PARTY.

Little Gertrude wanted to have a party. Sarah and Julia Smith had had one, and Eliza Doane, and the twin Smith girls, and their little cousin Mary Vose; (parties were very delightful things, why shouldn't _she_ have one?) Gertrude's mother was a sensible woman; she did not approve of children's parties; but she had found out that it was sometimes the cheapest way to teach her little daughter _by experience_, that her mother always knew best; so Miss Gertrude had leave to "have a party!"

How her tongue _did_ run! "She should not ask Louisa Loft because _she_ did not invite _her_; she should not ask Louisa Thompson, because she borrowed her 'Arabian Nights' and tore out one of the pictures; she should not ask Janie Jones, because she heard her call her new bonnet 'a perfect fright;' she should not ask George Sales, because he was such a glutton he would eat up all the bon-bons."

As to "supper," she would like oysters, of course; "escalloped oysters," with wine in them, and two pyramids of ice cream, one vanilla and one lemon; and some Charlotte Russe, and some Jersey biscuit, and all sorts of cakes, and sugar drops with "cordial" inside, and "mottoes" for the little beaux to give the little belles, &c., &c., &c.

Then her dress--_that_ required a _great deal of thought_; her pink dress was too shabby to be thought of a moment; her blue one had neither tucks, nor flounces; (and who ever heard of a party dress with a plain skirt?) her buff one was not gay enough; in short, she had _been seen_ in all those dresses--she ought to have a bran new one--a cherry silk, for instance, with swan's down round the neck and shoulders; that would be charming. Mary Scott told her, that her Philadelphia cousin had a dress like that, and looked lovely in it.

As to the time for the party she thought a week from that day would suit all the dress-makers--next Thursday week; then there were the notes of invitation--should they be written on plain or embossed paper? gilt-edged or not gilt-edged? These important questions puzzled Gertrude hugely.

Thursday came--and so did "the cherry dress and the swan's down." The dress-maker pinched Gertrude into it, and Gertrude, catching her breath between the hooks and eyes, said "it fitted beautifully;" the little satin slippers were also laced and rosetted to her mind, and her kid gloves properly _ruche-d_ and bow-d and her hair curled by Mons. Frizzle, till she looked like his wife's little poodle dog "Apollo."

The bell began to ring! Gertrude ran _once_ more to the glass before the door should open; it was all right, all but one curl on the left temple that had veered round a little too much to the north-east, and which had to be re-arranged.

In they came.

The two Misses Tarleton first, dressed in a cerulean blue, to set off their "lint locks" and fair complexions, with their two hands encased in white kids, crossed over their two sashes, and an embroidered pocket-handkerchief, starched very stiffly, between their little fingers. Close upon _their_ satin slippers came Miss Jenny Judkins, whose father was "rich." Miss Jenny wore a black velvet waist trimmed profusely with black bugles, that sparkled under the chandelier enough to put your eyes out. Her skirt was pink satin trimmed with black lace flowers, and her hair was drawn back tightly from the roots at her forehead, and confined by tri-colored bows with long streamers like the pennants of a ship. Gertrude felt very much afraid that Miss Jenny would be voted "the belle."

Time would "give out" should I undertake to do justice to all these young ladies, beside I must not omit the young gentlemen. I am not quite sure that I have done right to keep them so long in "the gentleman's dressing room."

In the first place, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Augustus Anthony, who has been in the hands of Mons. Peruke for the last hour, as you will perceive by his perfumed locks; the bows of his little silk necktie, you please notice, are of the proper fashionable size, and his jacket richly embroidered. His brother John, "just from college," fixed his watch chain; so there's no use in my criticising _that_. Then, there's Master George Harrison, Jr., with his patent pumps and silk stockings, and his sister Jane's diamond ring outside his buff glove on the third finger. He has frequent occasion to point about the room with _that_ hand, you notice!

Next comes Master Simpkins, who is very bashful, and stood tweeddling his thumbs, all of a cold sweat, before he ventured in; he knew that his toes _ought_ to turn _out_, instead of _in_, but that was a defect that couldn't be rectified in a minute, and so he made up his mind to shuffle in behind Peter, the black waiter, who just passed in to arrange the candelabras.

Well, they commenced dancing and all "went merry as a marriage bell" for an hour, when Miss Tarleton was discovered crying, because "Master Simpkins had trod on her blue dress and torn off one of the flounces"--and Miss Jane Judkins was very red in the face, because one of Mr. Augustus Anthony's jacket buttons had caught in a fine gold chain upon her neck, and a little gold cross had snapped off, nobody knew where, that belonged to her sister Julia, who made her promise "certain true not to lose it;" and Miss Smith had burst her kid glove right across the hand, and couldn't think of dancing after such a disaster.

Gertrude ran to her mother in great trouble, proposing that harmony should be restored by the supper table. It looked very gay--that supper table, with its lights, and bouquets, and fancy confectionary; it seemed almost a pity to put it in confusion; but Mr. George Sales did not incline to that opinion; so he very quietly seized a dish of oysters and commenced helping himself out of it, quite oblivious of "the presence of the ladies."

Master Anthony was more gallant--he, under the influence of Miss Jane Judkins' tri-colored bows and velvet spencer, valiantly attacked, knife in hand, a fortress of ice-cream, and having freighted a gilt-edged saucer with it, was in the act of presenting it to her, with a dancing-school bow, when he unfortunately lodged the contents of the saucer on her pink skirt and lace flounces. Gertrude retired to the dressing-room with the afflicted Miss Jane, offering her all the sympathy that such a melancholy occasion called for.

When Gertrude returned to the supper room she had the pleasure of hearing Miss Taft remark, that it was "the stupidest party she ever attended; and as to the supper, it was positively shabby--only _two_ pyramids of ice-cream! but then she had heard her mamma say that Gertrude's mother had never been to parties much, so she supposed she really didn't know any better; _she_ (Miss Taft) intended to have a party herself, when she was twelve years old, which event was to come off in a month or two, and _then_ they'd see a party worth dressing for."

Poor Gertrude, after all the pains she had taken, her pretty supper table "shabby," her party "stupid," and her mamma--"didn't know any better!" She was perfectly miserable--her head ached violently, and had it not been for shame, she would have cried outright.

The "ladies and gentlemen" having surfeited themselves at the "shabby supper table," had one more dance, in which nobody was suited with their partners, and several declared, pouting, that they would not dance at all, "because the music was so miserable;" and then they cloaked and hood-ed themselves, and the "rich" Miss Judkins rolled off in her father's carriage, much to the dissatisfaction of some of the other young ladies, who walked home with their little pinafore admirers, cutting up Miss Gertrude's party in a manner that showed they had not listened in vain to the remarks of their mammas about the parties _they_ had attended.

As to Gertrude herself, when the last little foot had pattered out of the entry, she threw herself, weeping, into her mamma's lap, quite worn out with excitement and mortification.

Gertrude's mother considers the money laid out for that "party," and the "cherry silk dress," as one of the most profitable investments she ever made; for, although Miss Gertrude is now a wife and a mother, with a house of her own, she has never been known since that night, to "have a party," or to express the least desire to _go to one_. For, my dear children, "grown-up parties" are not a whit more profitable or satisfactory than the little miniature one that caused Gertrude so much trouble and unhappiness.

FERN MUSINGS.

Morning again! and New-York is beginning to stir. Lazy creatures! they _should_ have been up hours ago. That old rooster over the way has crowed himself hoarse, trying to start them all out: and _he_ is not as smart as he might be, for I saw the first streak of dawn myself, before he was off his perch.

Now the carts begin to rumble by, with "fresh sweet milk," labelled on the sides. Lucky they tell us of it, for we never should find it out ourselves by _tasting_. There go the dray-carts, with baggage from the just-arrived cars; then follows a carriage with the owners of the baggage. How hollow-eyed they look, traveling all night. They are evidently thinking of eggs and hot rolls. There go the boarding-house women, basket in hand, to secure their dinner: hope they won't spoil it with bad cooking-butter! There go the shop girls, shrouded in thick brown veils: poor things! they got up late and couldn't stop to comb their hair. There come the market carts from the country, laden with cabbages, and turnips, and beets, and parsnips, and apples, and nobody knows what else beside.

There comes a little boy, screeching "R-a-d-i-shes;" and a little girl just behind him, shouting "Bl-a-ck-ber-ries," and a man in the middle of the street, yelling "Tin-tin-tin--tin ware for sale." Oh dear! I shall have to stuff my ears with cotton wool. I'm as crazy as a Fourth-of-July orator who has forgotten his speech.

There come some business men, chewing the last mouthful of their breakfast as they button the first button of their overcoats and hurry down street. There go the laundresses with their baskets of clean clothes,--hope they haven't ironed off all the shirt-buttons. There's a man with a parcel of old umbrellas on his back: it would puzzle "a Philadelphia lawyer" to find out what _he_ is shouting. Never mind, he makes a noise in the world; so I suppose he is satisfied. There go two or three women with _slip-shod feet_;--ugh! And there's a little girl fresh from the country, (you may know that) for her eyes are as bright as stars, and her cheeks look like June roses. She has a bunch of flowers in her hand, but they are no prettier than herself;--she is a perfect little rose-bud (if her shoes are clumsy and her bonnet old-fashioned.) If you'll excuse me I'll run down a minute and speak to her.

Well, I declare! she says her name is "Letty Hill," and she has come into town to see Aunt Hopkins; and her aunt, and she, and her little cousin Meg Hopkins, are all going to Barnum's Museum, (Uncle Hopkins isn't going with 'em, because he says Burnum's a humbug;) and she is going to wear a clean white apron, that is stowed away safe in her carpet bag, with blue ribbon strings on it. She don't know whether she shall stay over night, or not; her mother told her she _might_, if Aunt Hopkins asked her, and she hopes she _will_ ask her, because she and Meg Hopkins want to tell ghost-stories, and play "tent" with the sheets after they get into bed. She has a whole ninepence in her pocket, which Jake (the man on the farm) gave her, and she intends to buy out some of the Broadway shop keepers with it before she sees Clover Farm again. She hopes Aunt Hopkins will have mince pie for dinner, and make it real sweet, too; and she hopes Cousin Tom Hopkins will be at home, because he always gives her sixpences. There she goes, tripping along. God bless her! _She_ don't care whether there's a revolution in Europe or not.

Look over there at that street pump; isn't that a pretty sight now?--that little girl in the short frock, with bare legs, and feet as plump as little partridges. She has set down her basket, and stopped to get a drink of water. The pump handle goes very hard. She concludes to put it to a better use,--she will make a swing of it. So she lifts it way up, and then seizing hold with both hands, swings herself down upon the sidewalk. Ah! she has alighted in a puddle! She looks at her little fat feet, and makes up her mind she will take a bath; so she pumps out the water, and holds first one little plump foot under, then the other, till they are as white and polished as marble, and her little pink-tipped toes look all too dainty to touch the dirty sidewalk. Now, she sees me looking at her, and blushing scampers off.

"Sweep, ho--sweep, ho! want any chimneys swept, ma'am?"

"No, indeed! not if that poor child behind you has got to crawl up the chimney to do it. Why, he can't be more than five years old."

"He's used to it--it don't hurt his _complexion_."

Very like, poor little African; but it would hurt my _feelings_; besides I haven't got any chimney--no, nor a house;--don't own _anything_, I'm happy to say, but a bandbox and a tooth-brush; don't care a snap of my thumb for the "first of May" in New-York; it don't _move_ me!

There's a little boy, under the window, holding up his hand for a penny. He's trying to _cry_; but it is very hard work. Never mind, Johnny, or Sammy, or whatever your name is, don't shed a tear for me, for mercy's sake; but there's a penny for making up such an awful face. I'll send you to puzzle the barber in the avenue, who advertises to "_cut hair to suit the countenance_!"

CRAZY TIM.

What in the world is that?--a poor old man, almost bent double, drawing a little wooden horse upon the pavement, and laughing and talking to it as if he were seven years old, instead of seventy! How white his hair is; and see--his hat is without a crown, and one of the flaps of his coat is torn off. Now one of the boys has pelted him with a stone, that has brought the blood from his wrinkled cheek; another asks him "how much he will take for his hat," while all the rest surround him, shouting, "Old crazy Uncle Tim--old crazy Uncle Tim!"

Come here, boys, won't you?--and let poor Uncle Tim go home, while I tell you his story.

Uncle Tim used to be the village shoemaker, hammering away at his lap-stone in that little shop with the red eaves, as contentedly as if he owned a kingdom. He always had a pleasant smile and a merry story for his customers, and it was worth twice the money one paid him, to see his sunshiny face and hear his hearty laugh.

But the light of Uncle Tim's eyes was his little daughter Kitty. Kitty was not a beauty. No--her little nose turned right up, like a little dogs; her hair was neither soft nor curly; and her little neck and arms were almost as brown as the leather in her father's shop,--still, everybody loved Kitty, because she had such a warm, good heart, and because she was so kind to her honest old father.

Uncle Tim had no wife. She had been dead many years. I shouldn't wonder if Uncle Tim didn't grieve any, for she was a very cross, quarrelsome, disagreeable person, and made him very unhappy.

Little Kitty was his housekeeper now, although she was only seven years old. She and her father lived in a room back of the shop, and Uncle Tim did the cooking, while Kitty washed the dishes, made the bed, and tidied up the small room with her own nimble little fingers. When she had quite done, she would run into the shop, steal behind her father, throw her chubby brown arms about his neck, and give him a kiss that would make him sing like a lark for many an hour after.

While his fingers were busy at his lap-stone he was thinking--not of the coarse boots and shoes he was making, but of little Kitty--how he meant to send her to school--how he meant she should learn to read and write, and know a great deal more than ever _he_ did, when he was young--and how he meant to save up all his money in the old yarn stocking, till he got enough to put in the bank for Kitty,--so that when he died she needn't go drifting round the world, trying to earn her bread and butter among cold, stony-hearted strangers.

Uncle Tim found some time to play, too. When it came sundown, he and Kitty, and the old yellow dog Jowler, would start off on a stroll. It was very funny to see little Kitty fasten down the windows with an old nail, before she started, like some old housekeeper, and put the tea-kettle in the left-hand corner of the fire-place, and take such a careful look about to see if everything was right, before turning the key. When they got out into the fields they both enjoyed the fresh air as only industrious people can. Every breath they drew seemed a luxury; and as to Uncle Tim, I don't know which was the younger, he or Kitty. I am sure he went over fences and stone walls like a squirrel; and as to Kitty, her merry laugh would ring through the woods till the little birds would catch it up and echo it back again.

Then, when they reached home, they had such a good appetite for their brown bread and milk. Oh! I can tell you, Uncle Tim and Miss Kitty wouldn't have thanked Queen Victoria for the gift of her scepter, they were so happy.

One day Kitty asked Uncle Tim to let her go huckleberrying. She said she knew a field where they were "as thick as blades of grass." Uncle Tim couldn't go with her, because Sam Spike, the blacksmith, was in a hurry for a pair of boots to be married in, and of course Sam couldn't wait for all the huckleberries in creation; so Tim staid at home, humming and singing, and singing and humming, while Kitty tied on her calico sun-bonnet, slung her basket on her little brown arm, and trudged off with her dog Jowler.

Jowler was very good company. Kitty and he used to have long conversations about all sorts of things. Kitty always knew by the way he wagged his tail whether he agreed with her or not. When any other dog came up to speak to him, he'd look up into Kitty's little freckled face, to see if she considered the new dog a proper acquaintance, and if she shook her head, he'd give him a look out of his eyes, as much as to say, "It's no use," and trot demurely on after Kitty.

Well, Jowler and she picked a quart of huckleberries, and then Kitty started for home, Jowler carrying the basket in his mouth part of the way, when Kitty spied any flowers she wished to pick. When she had plucked all she wanted she concluded to take a shorter cut home across the fields, and down on the railroad track. So they trotted on, Kitty singing the while.

By and by they reached the track. Kitty looked,--there were no cars coming as far as she could see. To be sure there was a curve in the road just behind her, (round which the eye couldn't look,) but she wasn't afraid. Just then Jowler dropped the basket and spilt her huckleberries. Kitty was _so_ sorry,--but she stooped down to gather them up, when a train of cars whisked like lightning round the curve on the road, and poor little Kitty was crushed to death in an instant!

Jowler wasn't killed--faithful Jowler,--he trotted home to Uncle Tim, who sat singing at his work, and leaped upon him, and whined, and tugged at his coat, till Uncle Tim threw down the blacksmith's boots and followed him, for he knew something must be the matter. Perhaps Kitty had fallen over a stone wall, and lamed her foot--who knew? So Jowler ran backwards and forwards, barking and whining, till he brought Uncle Tim to the railroad track.

Was _that_ crushed mass of flesh and bone little Kitty?--_his_ Kitty?--all he had in the wide earth to love?

Uncle Tim looked once, and fell upon the earth as senseless as a stone. Ever since he has been quite crazy. All he cares to do is to draw up and down through the road that little wooden horse that Kitty used to play with, hoping to coax her back to him.

Poor old Tim! Would you throw another stone at him, boys? Would you hunt the weary old man through the streets like some wild beast? Would you taunt, and sneer, and shout in his ears, "Old crazy Tim"--"Old crazy Tim?" Oh, no--no! Pick a flower and give him, as Kitty used; take his hand--poor, harmless old man--and walk along with him; maybe he'll fancy that you are little Kitty, (who knows?) and smile once more before he dies. Poor Uncle Tim!

CICELY HUNT;

OR,

THE LAME GIRL.

What a holy and beautiful thing is a mother's love!

Every morning, about eight o'clock, I have noticed, limping past my window to school, a little lame girl. A woman goes with her; supporting her gently by the arm and carrying her satchel of books.

The girl is very poorly clad. Sometimes her dress will be patched with two or three different colors; but it is always very clean; and I have observed that her stockings, though coarse, are always whole, and that her shoes are neatly tied up. The woman who goes with her looks tidy, too; though she wears a rusty black bonnet, of an old-fashioned make, and a faded shawl.

Cicely's little school-mates bound past her; skipping, hopping, jumping and running, as if they could not exercise their legs enough. The lame girl looks at them, smiles a sad, quiet smile, and looks up tearfully in her mother's face. The mother answers back with a look so _full_ of love, and lays her hand upon her child's arm, as much as to say, "I love you all the more, because you are a poor, little helpless cripple."

And so they travel over the icy pavements to school; (stepping very carefully, for it would be a sad thing if Cicely should slip and fall;) until, at last, they reach the school house.

What a blessing are free schools! What a difference it makes in the life of that poor girl, to be able to read! How many weary hours of pain will a nice book beguile! And, beside, if one has not a cent in the world, if one has a good education, it is worth as much as money in the bank,--and more, too, because banks often turn out great humbugs, and then people lose all the money they have placed in them.

Cicely was not always poor. She can remember (just as you can a dream, when you first rub open your eyes in the morning) a great big house with richly carpeted halls, and massive chandeliers, and rich sofas and curtains, and gilded mirrors, and silver vessels, and black servants.

She remembers that her father carried a gold-headed cane, that he used to let her play horse with; and that he used to sit a long while at the table with gentlemen, drinking wine and eating fruit after dinner; and that often, he would ring for the nurse to bring _her_ in, to show her to the gentlemen when her curls had been nicely smoothed and her little embroidered frock put on; and that then he would stand her up on the table and make her sing a little song, and that the gentlemen would clap their hands and laugh, and grow very merry about it.

Then she remembers that one day there was a great running to and fro in the house; and she saw her father lifted from a carriage in the arms of two gentlemen, and that blood was flowing from his side; and then her nurse caught her up, and carried her into the nursery, and she didn't go down stairs or see her papa again for many days; and she remembers that one day, getting tired waiting for him to come up and see her, she crept down _by herself_ to his room, and found him lying on the bed, with his hands crossed over his breast, and only a linen sheet thrown over him, though it was very cold weather; and she said, "Papa?"--but he didn't answer; and she got a chair and climbed up in it to put her hand on his face, to wake him, but he was as cold as the marble image in the hall; and then her nurse called, "Cicely!--Cicely!" and seemed frightened, when she found her _there_; but wouldn't tell her _why_ her papa laid there so still, or _why_ he wouldn't speak to his little girl.

And then she remembers going away from the big house, and bidding good-bye to her black nurse; and ever since that they had lived in poor places, and people spoke harshly to them; and though her mamma never answered them back, she sighed heavily, and sometimes leaned her head on her hand and wept.

And one night it snowed in on the bed, and Cicely caught cold and had a fever, which left her with the dreadful lameness that I told you about; and then Cicely's mother groaned because she had no money; for she thought some of the great doctors, if they were well paid for it, might think it worth their while to try and cure Cicely.

Cicely's limb was less painful now than it had been for two years, although it was quite useless; but her mother, as I told you, helped her to limp to school. Cicely kept hoping it would get _quite_ well, and she wanted to learn as fast and as much as she could; because she thought if she got all the medals, the Committee might say, "Cicely, we must have you for a teacher here, some day."

Yes; why not? Stranger things than that have happened; and then, perhaps, she could earn enough to (and here Cicely had to stop to think, because there were so _many_ things they wanted,)--earn enough to buy a pair of warm blankets for their bed; and enough to have a cup of tea Sunday nights; and enough to keep a fire and a light through the long winter evenings, and not have to go to bed because they were so cold, and because candles were so dear.

Yes; Cicely was looking forward to all that, when she limped along to school. She thought it would be so delightful to empty her purse in her kind mother's lap, and say: "Dear mother, you needn't work any more. _I_ will support you, now."

Oh, what a nice thing hope is! Sometimes, to be sure, she leads us a long dance for nothing; but I am very certain that were it not for hope, we shouldn't be good for much. Many a poor groaner has she clapped on the back, and made him leap to his feet and set his teeth together, and spring over obstacles as if he had on "seven league boots." She is a little coquettish, but _I_ like her. She has helped _me_ out of many a hobble.

Well, as the great speakers say, this is a digression. Do you know what that is? It is leaving off what you are about, to dance off to something else--just as I did up there about hope. Now I'm going on!

One day the committee came to Cicely's school, to hear the scholars recite; and Cicely stood up in her patched gown as straight as she could, and recited her lessons.

One of the gentlemen who came in with the committee asked, "Who is that young girl who said her lessons so well?"

"Cicely Hunt?" he repeated, after the teacher,--"Cicely Hunt! _She_ was not lame; and then--why--no--it _can't_ be: the thing is quite impossible," and he leaned back in his chair, and looked at Cicely.

After school was over he said to her, "Do you sing, Cicely?"

"Not now," said Cicely, blushing. "I used to sing, a long while ago, when I was little."

"When, Cicely?"

"I sang to--to--my papa," said Cicely--tears springing to her eyes. "I used to sing, 'Blue eyed Mary,' for the gentlemen who dined with papa."

Then the gentleman (pretending to look out the window) wiped his eyes, and turning to the teacher, they whispered a long while together, now and then looking at Cicely.

That evening, when Cicely and her mother were warming their fingers over a fire of shavings, somebody knocked at the door.

Cicely blushed, when she saw the same gentleman she had seen at the school coming in, and looked anxiously about the room.

But Mr. Raymond was not looking at the room. I doubt if he saw anything, his eyes were so full of tears; but he held Cicely's mother by the hand several minutes, without speaking, and led her back to the chair with as much deference as if she had been a Duchess; and then Cicely found out, as they talked, that he was one of her father's old friends, and that, as sometimes happens, even between friends, they had a quarrel, and that then they were both mistaken enough to think that the most gentlemanly way to settle it, was to fight a duel; and that Mr. Raymond wounded her father, and had to go away as fast as possible, because there was so much noise about it, and that he had been very unhappy ever since, and would have given all he had to have brought him to life again, and that when he returned to his native city he had searched everywhere for Mrs. Hunt and Cicely, without finding them.

Well, now he wanted to support Cicely and her mother, but Mrs. Hunt did not like that. She forgave him the sorrow he had brought upon her because he had suffered so much; but she did not wish to be supported by him. However, she allowed him to find her a better place to live in, and get her some scholars to teach, who paid her high prices, and by and by Cicely helped her, and so they supported _themselves_; which is a far pleasanter way of living than to be dependent.

Cicely was never entirely cured of her lameness; but a physician made her much more comfortable; so she could walk by herself, with the help of a crutch; and Mrs. Hunt's last days, after all, were her best days; for, we should never know, my dear little pets, how brightly the sun shines, if it _were never clouded_.

THE LITTLE TAMBOURINE PLAYER.

I was sitting at my window one fine morning, at a farm house in the country, enjoying the sweet air, the soft blue clouds, and far-off hills, and watching the hay-makers in their large, straw hats, as they tossed the hay about, piled it upon the cart, or "raked after," or drove along home through the meadow, crushing the sweet breath from the clover blossoms that lay scattered in their path; and enjoying the song of the little robin in the linden tree opposite, who was thrilling my heart with his gushing notes.

* * *

A hand organ! What a nuisance! I fancied I had left them all behind me in the city, where one has such a surfeit of them. A hand organ in the _country_! where the little birds never make a discord, or charge us a fee, either! I'll get up and shut the window, or run off into the back woods, where such a thing as a hand organ was never heard of.

I got up to put my threat into execution, when my eye was attracted by the musicians. There was a coarse, stout, sun-burned Irish woman, with an immense straw hat flapping over her freckled face, tied with a gaudy ribbon under her _three chins_, singing, "I'd be a butterfly!" At her side, stood a little girl about six years old, holding an inverted tambourine, to catch windfalls in the shape of pennies.

The little creature was as delicate as a rose leaf; her eyes were large and of a soft hazel; her skin fair and white, and her hair waved over her graceful little head as sweetly as your own. Her hands were small and white, and her coarse shoes could not hide her pretty little feet. She was not _that_ woman's child; I was sure of if; for her voice was as sweet as a wind harp.

"How far have you come, to-day?" asked I of the Irish "butterfly."

"From the city, sure," said she; "would your leddyship give me a saxpence?"

I'd have given her five times that amount, if she wouldn't have sung to me again. So I tossed her the "saxpence," and asked if the child had walked from the city (four miles) too?

"Sure," said the woman, looking a little confused. "Biddy would be afther going with her mother wheriver she went."

_Her_ mother? I didn't believe it. That child had been delicately brought up, as sure as my name was Fanny. All my motherly feelings were roused in an instant.

"If that is the case," said I, carelessly, "I suppose she is hungry, and her mother, too; if you will let her go down in the orchard with me, I will bring you back some nice ripe apples."

The little girl looked timidly at the woman, who took a good look at me out of her bold, saucy, black eyes, and asked, "Is it far you'll be going?"

"Just to yonder tree," said I, pointing down the meadow; "but if you think it will weary her to go, I will bring them to her myself."

"You can go with the lady," said the woman, giving her a look that the child seemed to understand, "and I will just sit on the fence and look afther ye."

"Is that your mother?" said I, stooping to pluck a daisy at the little one's feet.

"Y-e-s," she said slowly, but without looking me in the face.

"_No she is not_," said I. "Don't be afraid of me; if you want to get away from her I can help you. Didn't she steal you away?"

The child nodded her head, without speaking, and looked timidly over her shoulder, to see if any one was near to hear me.

"Is your own mother alive?" I asked.

She nodded her head again, and her sweet little lip quivered.

"Hush!" said I, "don't cry. I'll get you away from her. Keep quiet. Don't talk any more now. Just pick up the pears in your apron, that I knock off this tree."

I climbed the pear tree and peeping over the fence, saw good honest "Jim," the "man of all work" at the farm, sitting down in the shade to rest, with old Bruno curled up at his feet.

I tossed a pear at his red head. Jim looked up. I put my finger on my lip, saying, "Creep round by the fence, Jim, and get up to the house; go in at the back door and wait till I come up. Don't say a word to anybody. I'll tell you why when I get back."

Jim gave me a sagacious nod, and commenced going on all fours behind the fence.

Little "Biddy," as her pretended mother called her, filled her apron with the pears and we started across the field to where Bridget still sat, perched upon the garden fence, with her hand organ unstrapped at her feet.

I emptied the pears in her lap, and she thanked me in her uncouth way, between the big mouthsful, and sat down on the grass with Biddy.

Presently I asked her if she would like some ginger beer; of course she said yes, and of course I had to go into the kitchen to get it, and of course I found Jim there, and telling him my story in a dozen words, he brought his hand down with a thump on his waistband, exclaiming,

"Je-ru-sa-lem!"

When Jim said _that_ you might know he was going to do something terrible!

Well, I went back with the beer, and just as Bridget was tipping the glass up to her thick lips, Jim bounded behind her like a panther, and held her arms tight while I took little Biddy and scampered into the house.

Having locked little Biddy safe in my chamber, I returned and picked up off the grass, two silver spoons of Jim's mother's, that Bridget had taken from the parlor closet while we were getting the pears.

That gave us a right to shut her up in jail--to say nothing of her carrying off poor little Biddy--and you may be sure that Jim was not long in sending her there, spite of her vociferations that, "If there was law in the counthry she'd have the right of him yet, for meddling with an honest woman like Bridget Fliligan."

"Thank you for telling us your name," said Jim, coolly; "it is just what we wanted to know."

But it is time I let out my little prisoner, poor little Edith, (that was her real name.)

"Is she gone a great _way_ off? Can't she get me _ever_?" said the frightened child, peeping round the room as if she expected to see her jump out of the closet, or spring from under the bed. "Will you keep hold of my hand all the time when it comes night? Can't they get me _then_?"

"No, no, my darling--never, never. Come here and sit on my knee. Now, tell me, how came you to live with Bridget?"

"I was going to school," said Edith, "and I stopped to look at some pretty pictures in a shop window, when this Bridget came up to me and said, 'Which of them do you like best, dear?'--and I said, 'The little boy asleep on the dog's neck;' and she said, 'If you will come round the corner with me, I will give you one just like it;' and I said, 'No; I shall be late at school, and my mamma wouldn't like it;' and then she said it wouldn't take but a minute, and she led me into an alley, and when she got there she threw her shawl over my head, and ran with me; and when she took the shawl off, I was in a house with some Irish people, and Bridget said, 'I've got her!--she will do nicely, sure, to play the tambourine. Won't the pretty face of her bring the shillings?'

"And then I cried, and begged them to take me back to mamma; and Bridget held up a great stick, and said, 'Do you see that?' and then she took off the clothes I had on, and put on these, and brought the tambourine, and told me how to play it; and when my fingers trembled so that I couldn't, she shook me, and pulled my hair, and said I should have nothing to eat till I learned to do it; and I begged and begged her to take me home. I told her mamma would cry all night, and papa, too, and little Henry,--but she hurt me with the stick so (pulling up her sleeve, and showing me the blue spots on her arms); and then I was afraid she would kill me, and so I tried to learn, because I thought if I minded her, perhaps she would let me see mamma;--but she never did; and I slept in the cellar with her nights, and in the day time, before light, she takes me out into the country to play. See, my feet are very sore"--(and she pulled off the heavy, coarse shoes and showed me the blisters on them.)

"Won't _you_ take me to see my mamma, _quick_?" said Edith, putting her little arms round my neck, as if she were afraid I would feel hurt because she wanted to leave me so soon.

"Just as fast as old Dobbin can carry you, my darling," said I, "if you will only tell me where to find her."

Little Edith began to cry.

"Perhaps she is dead," said she, sobbing.

"Oh, I hope not," said I, (the thought of restoring the little one had been so delightful to me); "cheer up, my darling,--now tell me where to find your father. What does he do for a living, Edith?"

"He has a shop," said Edith, "and knives, and forks, and scissors, and iron things in it."

"Oh, I know; he is what we call a hardware merchant."

"Yes," said Edith, "that's it."

"Well, where's the shop?"

"In the city," said Edith, "in ---- street. My papa's name is ---- Grosvenor, Esquire."

"Well, we'll find him, Jim and I. Here's the horse and wagon, my little musician, so jump in."

Jim whipped up, and away we jolted into town, little Edith clinging tightly to my arm, for fear of Bridget.

Two hours and we were in ---- street. I went into a confectioner's with little Edith, while Jim drove to her father's store.

Edith grew very impatient--a bright red spot came upon her cheek--and she walked often to the window and looked out.

In about half an hour I saw Jim coming back up the street, and at his side a fine looking, tall man, of thirty.

"There's Jim," said I to Edith--

"And papa! and papa!--oh, _it is_ papa--my own papa"--and she rushed to the door with the speed of an antelope.

How can I describe to you that meeting, when I couldn't see it for my tears? but I heard kisses and sobs, thick and fast, and the words, "Dear papa," and "My blessed, lost Edith."

Well, nothing would do, but Jim and I must go home and see mamma, too, who had never been outside of the door since her poor little girl was taken away.

We drove to the house--Edith, and I and Jim, staying below stairs, while Mr. G---- went to prepare his wife for the joyful news.

Presently we heard a heavy fall upon the floor. The joy was too intense. Edith's mother had fainted! She opened her eyes--it was not a dream! There was her little lost darling before her! She held her at arm's length--she clasped her to her breast--she kissed my hands--then she ran weeping to her husband--then back to Edith, till the pantomime became too painful.

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" said Jim.

THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT.

Last evening I was walking in Broadway. The shop windows were brilliant with gas, and bright silks, and satins, and jewels were all spread out in the windows in the most tempting manner; all was gayety, bustle, hurry, drive, and confusion; omnibuses, carts, carriages, drays, military, music; people flocking to concerts, shows, and theatres; people flocking _in_ town, and people flocking _out_; fashions in _one_ window--coffins in the _next_; beggars and millionaires, ministers and play-actors, chimney-sweeps and ex-presidents, all in a heap.

I sauntered along dreamily, looking at them all, and wondering where all those myriads of people ate, and drank, and slept; how they had all laughed and wept; how soon they would all die off, one by one, without being missed, while strangers, just as busy, would fill their places, and die in turn, to give place to others.

Over my head the stars shone on, just as brightly as they did ages ago, when Bethlehem's babe was born--just as they will ages hence, when nobody will know that you or I ever thrilled with joy, or sighed with sorrow, beneath them.

But I am not going to preach to you;--the panorama made me _think_; that's all. Well, I sauntered along, and presently came in sight of a broker's window, (ask your papa what a broker is,) in a basement, quite down upon the pavement. The window seat was covered with black velvet, and on it lay little glittering heaps of money, in gold and silver;--some quarters--some half-dollars--some dollars--some five dollar and some ten dollar pieces.

I shouldn't have looked twice after _them_, but, crouched down upon the sidewalk, so close to the broker's window that his face almost touched it, was a little boy about ten years old. His ragged little cap was pushed carelessly back; his long, dark hair fell round his face, and his eyes were fixed upon that money with an intensity of gaze, that seemed to render him perfectly unconscious of the presence of any one about him.

I touched my companion's arm, and we stopped and looked at the boy some moments, and then passed on. But I couldn't go away, I wanted so much to know what that little boy was thinking about. So we went back again, and watched him a few minutes longer. He had not moved from his position. There he sat, with his little chin in his hand, building air castles.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" said I, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He started, and the bright color flushed to his very temples. I fancied that I had frightened him, or wounded his feelings. Perhaps he imagined that I thought he was trying to _steal_ that money. So I said quickly, "Don't be afraid of me; I only felt curious to know what your thoughts were. I love little children. Now tell me--you were wishing all that bright money was _yours_, were you not?"

"Yes," said he, veiling his great dark eyes with their long lashes.

"I thought so," said I; "and now, supposing you had it, what would you do with it, my darling?"

Now, very likely you think he told me of the kites, and tops, and balls, and horses, and marbles that he would buy with it.

No--he looked up earnestly in my face for a minute, as if he would read _my_ thoughts, and then he said, with his great eyes swimming in tears, "I would give it all to my mother."

I didn't care _whose_ boy he was--he was _mine_ then. So I just kissed him, and tried to keep from crying myself, while I asked him where he lived.

He told me in ---- Court; and then we took hold of his hands and went home with him.

Such a home!

A little low room, with one small window, and no furniture in it, except an old rickety bedstead, upon which lay a woman about thirty years old, wasting away in a consumption.