"Mr. Underhill, I have a great favor to ask." He rose and came near so that he could lower his voice. "I—I admire your daughter extremely. I should choose her out of all the world if I could——"

Father Underhill glanced up in consternation. He wanted to stop the young man from uttering another word, but before he could collect his scattered wits, the young man had said it all.

"I want permission to visit her, to see—if she cannot like me well enough to some day take me for a husband. I have really fallen in love with her. Joe will tell you all you want to know about me. I'm steady, thank Heaven, and have a start in the world beside my profession. I wanted you to know what my intentions were, and to give me the opportunity of winning her——"

"I never once thought——" The father was confused, and the lover now self-possessed.

"No, I suppose not. Of course, we are both young and do not need to be in a hurry. I wanted the privilege of visiting her."

"Yes, yes," in embarrassed surprise. "I mean——"

"Thank you," said the lover, grasping his hand. "I hope to win your respect and approval. Joe and I are like brothers already. I admire you all so much."

Hanny came flying in with pink cheeks and eager eyes.

"Where is Joe? Margaret wants him—she said I must ask them if they wouldn't please to like to dance a quadrille, and come up-stairs when they had finished their tea."

Joe was sitting astride a chair, tilting it up and down and talking to his mother.

"Oh, yes, your royal highness. Phil, if you have finished your tea——" and Joe laughed, inwardly knowing some other business had been concluded as well.

They had a delightful quadrille. Then Miss Butler sang a fascinating song—"The Mocking-Bird." Two of the gentlemen sang several of the popular airs of the day, and the party broke up. The little girl had gone to bed some time before, though she declared she wasn't a bit tired, and her eyes shone like stars.

The very next day it snowed, so the ladies could have no day at all. There was sleigh-riding and merry-making of all sorts. One day Dr. Hoffman came and took Margaret and her little sister out in a dainty cutter. Then he used to drop in St. Thomas' Church and walk home with her evenings. Father Underhill felt quite guilty in not forewarning his wife of the conspiracy, but one evening she mistrusted.

"Margaret is altogether too young to keep company," she declared in an authoritative way.

"Margaret is nineteen," said her father. "And you were only twenty when I married you."

"That's too young."

"Seems to me we were far from miserable. As I remember it was a very happy year."

"Don't be silly, 'Milyer. And you're so soft about the children. You haven't a bit of sense about them."

In her heart she knew she would not give up one year of her married life for anything the world could offer.

"Margaret knows no more about housekeeping than a cat," she continued.

"Well, there's time for her to learn. And perhaps she will not really like the young man."

"She likes him already. 'Milyer, you're blind as a bat."

"Well, if they like each other—it's the way of the world. It's been going on since Adam."

"It's simply ridiculous to have Margaret perking herself up for beaux."

"I guess you'll have to let the matter go Hoffman is well connected and a nice young fellow."

Yes, she had to let the matter go on. She was unnecessarily sharp with Margaret and pretended not to see; she was extremely ceremonious with the young man at first. She didn't mean to have him coming to tea on Sunday evenings, a fashion that still lingered. But Dolly was very good to the young lovers, and they had so many mutual friends. Then Margaret was quite shy, she hardly knew what to make of the attentions that were so reverent and sweet. She couldn't have discussed them with a single human being.

Mr. and Mrs. Underhill had called on their new cousins in Hammersley Street. And on Washington's Birthday he took the little girl and Ben over.

The street was still considered in the quality part of the town. The row was quite imposing, the stoops being high, the houses three stories and a half, with short windows just below the roof. The railing of the stoop was very ornate, the work around the front door and the fanlight at the top being of the old-fashioned decorative sort. They were ushered into the parlor by a young colored lad.

It was a very splendid room, the little girl thought, with a high, frescoed ceiling and a heavy cornice of flowers and leaves. The side walls were a light gray, but they were nearly covered with pictures. The curtains were a dull blue and what we should call old gold, and swept the floor. There was a mirror from floor to ceiling with an extremely ornamental frame, the top forming a curtain cornice over the windows. At the end of the room was the same kind of cornice and curtains, but no glass. The carpet had a great medallion in the center and all kinds of arabesques and scrolls and flowers about it. The furniture was rather odd, divans, chairs, ottomans and queer-looking tables, and the little girl came to know afterward that two or three pieces had been in the royal palace of Versailles.

A very sweet, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman came through the curtain.

"I am Mrs. French," she said, in a soft tone, "and I am very glad to see you. Is this the little girl of whom I have heard so much? Be seated, please. Father is out, and he will be very sorry to miss you."

She dropped on an ottoman and drew the little girl toward her.

"Let me take off your hat and coat. There are some children who will be glad to see you. Mother will be up in a few moments. Do you know that I have been seriously considering a visit to you? Father and Eugene have talked so much about you."

"And your grandfather——"

"He is very well to-day. I was in his room reading to him. He will be pleased you have come."

Mrs. Bounett came in with her daughter, a rather tall, lanky girl of fifteen, very dark, and with a great mop of black hair that was tied at the back without being braided. She looked as if she had outgrown her dress.

This was Miss Luella. After a moment she came over to Ben, and asked him where he went to school, and if he had any pets. They had a squirrel and some guinea-pigs and a parrot that could talk everything. Didn't he want to see them?

Hanny looked eager as well.

"Can I take her?" asked Lu.

"The boys are down-stairs. Don't be rough."

It was rather dark. Lu caught Hanny in her arms and whisked her down to the dining-room. The boys were thirteen and eleven, and were playing checkers on the large dining-table. Everything looked so immensely big to Hanny. The shelves of the sideboard were full of glass and silver and queer old blue china; the chairs had great high backs and were leather-covered.

"We want to see the guinea-pigs," said Lu. "But I'll take her out to see the parrots first."

There was a fat colored woman in the kitchen who suggested Aunt Mary. They went through to a little room under the great back porch, made in the end of the area.

There were two parrots and a beautiful white paroquet. Polly was sulky. "Mind your business!" was all she would say. Dan soon began to be quite sociable, declaring "He was glad to see them, and would like to have some grapes."

"You shut up!" screamed Polly.

"I'll talk as much as I like."

"No, you won't. I'll come and choke you."

"Do if you dare!"

Then they shrieked at each other with the vigor of fighting cats. Polly rustled around her cage as if she would be out the next moment. Hanny clung to Lu and was pale with fright.

"They can't get out. They'd tear each other to pieces when they're mad, and sometimes they're sweet as honey. Pa's going to sell one of them, but we can't decide which must go. Polly talks a lot when she's in the mood. I don't know what's ruffled her so. Polly, my pretty Polly, sing for me, and the first time I go out I'll buy you some candy with lots of peanuts in it—lots—of—peanuts," lingeringly.

"Polly sing! Oh, ho! ho! Polly can't sing no more'n a crow," squeaked out Dan.

"Can too, can too!"

"Pretty Polly! Polly want a cracker. Polly sing for her dear Dan. Oh, boo hoo!"

Polly screamed in a tearing rage.

The young colored lad entered. "Miss Lu, de birds disturb yer gramper. Lemme take Polly. You bad bird, you're goin' in a dungeon."

With that he whisked Polly off. Dan laughed gleefully. The boys came, and Dan went through his stock accomplishments, much to their delight.

"But Polly's a sight the funniest," declared Lu. "Only she has such a horrid temper and it just grows worse. We had a monkey and that got to be so awful bad. Now let's go and see the guinea-pigs."

They were up on the top floor. "We had them down cellar," explained one of the boys, "but some of them died. 'Gene said 'twas too dark and damp."

The children trudged up-stairs. There was a pen in a small room which seemed a receptacle for all sorts of broken toys. Ah, how pretty the little things were; black-and-yellow-spotted, bright-eyed, and soft-coated, with a tiny sort of squeak, and tame enough to be caught. Lu offered one to Hanny, but she drew back in half fear. Then they brought in the squirrel, and he was a handsome fellow with beady eyes and a bushy tail, and when they let him out he ran up on any one's shoulder.

"If it was only warm, we'd go out and have a swing. Oh, don't you want a ride? Here's our horse. We don't care much for it now, though in summer we have it out-of-doors."

Hanny was speechless with amaze. She had never seen so large a one in the stores. He was covered with real hair, had a splendid mane and tail and beautiful eyes. His silver-mounted red trappings were extremely gorgeous.

"He's magnificent!" declared Ben. "Hanny, just try him. Don't be a little 'fraid-cat!" as she hung back.

"See here!" Lu sprang on and took an inspiriting gallop. The horse worked with springs and seemed fairly alive. Afterward Hanny ventured and found it exhilarating. Oh, if she could only have one!

"I suppose it cost a good deal," she questioned timidly.

Jeffrey laughed. "'Gene picked it up at an auction where people were being sold out, and he got it for a song," he said. "But we've outgrown it. I'd like a real pony. I wish pa'd keep a horse."

"We have two," said the little girl.

"Pshaw now! you're joking."

"No," rejoined Ben quietly. "We brought them down from the farm. Father and Steve needed them."

"Do you own a farm, too?" Jeffrey asked in amaze. "Why, you must be all-fired rich!"

"No, we're not so very rich," said Ben soberly. "Our house in First Street isn't nearly as big and as handsome as this. But we did have a big one in the country. Uncle lives there now, and we have a hundred acres of land."

"Jiminy!" ejaculated the young boy.

"Chillen! Chillen, please bring de company down to your gramper."

"Oh, I'm 'fraid you're going away," said Lu. "You're awful sweet! I just wish I had a little sister. I wish you'd come and stay a week. But I s'pose you'd feel like a cat in a strange garret. I'd be real good to you, though."

She caught Hanny in her arms and fairly ran down-stairs with her.

"You're the littlest mite of a thing! Why, you're never nine years old! You're just like a doll!"

"Oh, please let me walk," entreated Hanny.

Their mother stood in the lower hall.

"You boys go down-stairs or in the parlor. So many children confuse grandpa. Lu, you look too utterly harum-scarum. Do go and brush your hair."

Between the parlor and the back room was a space made into a library on one side and some closets on the other. Sliding doors shut this from the back room. This was large, with a splendid, high-post bedstead that had yellow silk curtains around it, a velvet sofa, and over by the window some arm-chairs and a table. And out of one chair rose a curious little old man, who seemed somehow to have shrunken up, and yet he was a gentleman from head to foot. His hair was long and curled at the ends, but it looked like floss silk. His eyes were dark and bright, his face was wrinkled, and his beard thin. Hanny thought of the old man at the Bowling Green who had been in the Bastille. His velvet coat, very much cut away, was faced with plum-colored satin, his long waistcoat was of flowered damask, his knee-breeches were fastened with silver buckles, and his slippers had much larger ones. There really were some diamonds in them. His shirt frill was crimped in the most beautiful manner, and the diamond pin sparkled with every turn.

"This is grandpa," said Mrs. French. "We are all very proud of him that he has kept his faculties, and we want him to live an even hundred years."

The old man smiled and shook his head slowly. He took Hanny's hand, and his was as soft as a baby's. He said he was very glad to see them both; he and their father had been talking over old times and relationships.

His voice had a pretty foreign sound. It was a soft, trained voice, but the accent was discernible.

"And you were here through the War of the Revolution," said Ben, who had been counting back.

"Yes. My father had just died and left nine children. I was the oldest, and there were two girls. So I couldn't be spared to go. The British so soon took possession of New York. But in 1812 I was free to fight for liberty and the country of my adoption. We were never molested nor badly treated, but of course we could give no aid to our countrymen. It was a long, weary struggle. No one supposed at first the rebels could conquer. And all that is seventy years ago, seventy years."

He leaned back and looked weary.

"You must come down some Saturday morning when he feels fresh and he will tell you all about it," said Mrs. French. "His memory is excellent, but he does get fatigued."

"I wonder if you ever saw the statue of King George that was in Bowling Green," Hanny asked, with a little hesitation. "They made bullets of it."

"Ah, you know that much?" He smiled and leaned over on the arm of the chair. "Yes, my child. The soldiers met to hear the Declaration of Independence read for the first time. Washington was on horseback with his aides around him. The applause was like a mighty shout from one throat. Then they rushed to the City Hall and tore the picture of the king from its frame, and then they dragged the statue through the streets. Yes, its final end was bullets for the rebels, as they were called. As my daughter says, come and see me again, and I will tell you all you want to hear. You are a pretty little girl," and he pressed Hanny's hand caressingly.

Then they said good-by to him and went back to the parlor.

"He always dresses up on holidays," said Mrs. French smilingly, "though he continues to wear the old-fashioned costume. He has had a number of calls to-day. People are still interested in the old times. And believe me, I shall take a great deal of pleasure in continuing the acquaintance. You may expect me very soon."

Luella kissed Hanny with frantic fervor and begged her to come again. She was so used to boys, she cared nothing about Ben.

The little girl had so much to tell Jim, who had been skating. The quarrelling parrots, the beautiful house, the queer little guinea-pigs, and the splendid hobby-horse that they didn't seem to care a bit about. "And Lu is a good deal like Dele, only not so nice or so funny, and her hair is awful black. She ran down-stairs with me in her arms and I was 'most frightened to death. I don't believe I would want to be her little sister. And the grandpa is like a picture of the old French people. And to think that he doesn't read English very well and always uses his French Bible. There were so many foreign people in New York at that time, I s'pose they couldn't all talk English."

"And they had preaching in Dutch after 1800 in the Middle Dutch Church," said Jim. "And even after the sermons were in English the singing had to be in Dutch. Aunt Nancy said the place used to be crowded just to hear the people sing."

"It's queer how they could understand each other. Do you suppose the children had to learn every language?"

Jim gave a great laugh at that.



CHAPTER XIV

JOHN ROBERT CHARLES

The new President was inaugurated on the fourth of March. The little girl sighed to think how many Democratic people there were on her block. They put out flags and bunting, and illuminated in the evening. They had tremendous bonfires, and all the boys waived personal feeling and danced and whooped like wild Indians. No healthy, well-conditioned boy could resist the fragrance of a tar barrel.

Miss Lily Ludlow wore a red, white, and blue rosette with a tiny portrait of Mr. Polk in the centre. The public-school girls often walked up First Avenue and met Mrs. Craven's little girls going home. Lily used to stare at Hanny in an insolent manner. She and her sister could not forgive the fact that Miss Margaret had not called.

And now the talk was that Miss Margaret Underhill had a beau, a handsome young doctor.

"They do think they're awful grand," said Lily to some of her mates. "But they take up with that Dele Whitney, who sometimes does the washing on Saturdays. It's a fact, girls; and the sister works in an artificial-flower place down in Division Street. And the Underhills think they're good enough to company with."

But the fact remained that the Underhills kept a carriage, and that Mr. Stephen had married in the Beekman family, and Chris had heard that Dr. Hoffman was considered a great catch. She was almost twenty and had never kept company yet. Young men called at the house, to be sure, and attended her home from parties, but the most desirable ones seemed unattainable.

Her mother fretted a little that she didn't get to doing something. Here were girls earning five or six dollars a week, and her father's wages were so small it was a pinch all the time.

"I'm sure I make all our dresses and sew for father, and do lots of housework," replied Chris, half-crying.

There were people even then who considered it more genteel not to work out of the house. And since servants were not generally kept, a daughter's assistance was needed in the household.

And to crown the little girl's troubles her dear mayor was retired to private life and a Democrat ruled in his stead.

But there were the new discoveries to talk about, and the reduction of postage due to the old administration. Now you could send a letter three hundred miles for five cents. Hanny wrote several times a year to her grandmother Underhill, so this interested her. At the end of the century we are clamoring for penny postage, and our delivery is free. Then they had to pay the carrier.

The electro-magnetic telegraph was coming in for its share of attention. Scientific people were dropping into the old University of New York, where Mr. Morse was working it. The city had been connected with Washington. There were people who believed "there was a humbugging fellow at both ends," and that the scheme couldn't be made to work. It was cumbersome compared to modern methods. And Professor John W. Draper took the first daguerreotype from the roof of that famous building. That was the greatest wonder of the day. What was more remarkable, a picture or portrait could be copied in a few moments. Then there was a hint of war with Mexico, and the Oregon question was looming up with its cabalistic figures of "54, 40, or fight." Indeed, it seemed as if war was in the air.

Children too had trials, especially John Robert Charles. He had been allowed to go to Allen Street Sunday-school with the Dean children, and he went over on Saturday afternoon to study the lesson. Hanny used to come in, and occasionally they had a little tea. They played in the yard and the wide back area. The boys did tease him; the target was too good to miss. Hanny sympathized with him, for he was so nice and pleasant. They couldn't decide just what name to call him. Bob did well enough for the boys, but it was a little too rough for girls.

His mother still made him put on a long, checked pinafore to come to meals. His father used a white napkin. And he did wipe dishes for her, and help with the vegetables on Saturday. He could spread up a bed as neatly as a girl, but he kept these accomplishments to himself.

There was another excitement among the small people. Mr. Bradbury, who for years was destined to be the children's delight, was teaching singing classes and giving concerts with his best pupils. Mrs. Dean decided to let the girls go to the four o'clock class. Hanny would join them. They could study the Sunday lesson before or afterward.

"If I only could go," sighed the boy. The tears came into his eyes.

"And you can sing just lovely!" declared Tudie.

Josie stood up with a warmly flushing face.

"I do believe I'd raise an insurrection. It isn't as if you wanted to do anything wicked, like swearing or stealing. And my father said God gave beautiful voices to people to sing with."

"But if I asked mother she wouldn't let me go. And—I couldn't run away. You see that would be just for once. Perhaps then I wouldn't be let to come over here, afterward," the boy replied sadly.

"Couldn't you coax?" asked Hanny.

"I could just ask, and she'd say no."

Hanny felt so sorry for him. He was very fair and had pretty, but rather timid eyes.

"You can't raise an insurrection when you know for certain it'll be put down the next moment," the boy added.

"Well," Josie drew a long breath and studied.

"I'd ask my father," said Hanny.

"And he'd say, 'Ask your mother; it's as she says.' Most everything is as mother says."

"Then I'd put my arms around his neck and coax. I'd tell him I wanted to be like other boys. They think it's queer——"

Hanny stopped, very red in the face.

"Oh, you needn't mind. I know they laugh at me and make fun of me. But mother's so nice and clean, only I wish she'd dress up as your mothers do, and take a walk sometimes and go to church. And she cooks such splendid things and makes puddings and pies, and she lets me sit and read when I'm done my lessons. I have all the Rollo books, and father has Sir Walter Scott, that he's letting me read now. It's only that mother thinks I'll get into bad things and meet bad boys and get my clothes soiled. Oh, sometimes I'm so tired of being nice! Only you wouldn't want me to come over here if I wasn't."

That was very true.

"But there are a great many nice boys. Ben's just lovely, only he is growing up so fast," said the little girl, with a sigh. "And though Jim teases, he is real good and jolly. He doesn't keep his hands clean, and mother scolds him a little for that."

They could not decide about the insurrection. Presently it was time for Charles to go home. He was always on the mark lest he should not be allowed the indulgence next time. The poor boy had been moulded into the straight line of duty.

The girls went out to swing. They could all three sit in at once. And they often talked all at once.

"It's just awful mean!"

"If we only could do something!"

"Girls!" Josie put her foot so firmly on the ground it almost tipped them out. "Girls, let us see Mr. Reed and ask him."

They all looked at each other with large eyes.

"It couldn't be wrong," began Josie; "because I've asked your father, Hanny, to let you come up to our stoop."

"No, it couldn't be," said the chorus in firm approval.

"Then let's do it. He always comes up First Avenue about half-past five on Saturdays. Now if we were to walk down——"

"Splendid!" ejaculated Tudie.

"And I'll ask mother if we can't go out for a little walk."

"We mustn't wait too late."

Tudie ran in to look at the kitchen clock. It was twenty minutes past five.

"I'll go and ask."

"Why, isn't your own sidewalk good enough?" was Mrs. Dean's inquiry. "Well—yes, you may do an errand for me down at the store. I want a pound of butter crackers. Don't go off the block."

They put on their bonnets. Hanny's was a pretty shirred and ruffled blue lawn. They twined their arms around each other's waists, with Hanny in the middle and walked slowly down to the store. Tudie kept watch while her sister was making the purchase. Then they walked up, then down, looking on the other side lest they should not see him. Up and down again—up with very slow steps. What if they should miss him!

They turned. "Hillo!" cried a familiar voice.

"Oh, Mr. Reed!" They blocked his way in a manner that amused him. He looked from one to the other, and smiled at the eager faces.

"Oh, Mr. Reed—we wanted to—to——"

"To ask you——" prompted Tudie.

Josie's face was very red. It was different asking about a boy. She had not thought of that.

"We want Charles to go to singing-school with us next Saturday. Mr. Bradbury said we might ask all the nice children we knew."

Hanny had crossed the Rubicon in a very lady-like manner.

Mr. Reed laughed pleasantly, but they knew he was not making fun of them.

"Why, yes; I haven't any objection. It will be as his mother says."

They all looked blank, disappointed.

"If you would say it," pleaded Josie. "Then we should be sure."

"Well, I will say it. He shall go next Saturday. He has a nice voice, and there is no reason why he should not be singing with the rest of you."

"Oh, thank you a thousand times."

"It's hardly worth that." Mr. Reed was a little nettled. Had Charles put them up to this?

They were at the corner and turned down their side of the street, nodding gayly.

"You see it was just as easy as nothing," remarked Josie complacently.

Mr. Reed entered his own area, wiped his feet, and hung up his hat. He went out in the back area and washed his hands. Every other day a clean towel was put on the roller. The house was immaculate. The supper-table was set. Mrs. Reed was finishing a block of patchwork, catch-up work, when she had to wait two minutes. She went out in the hall taking the last stitch, and called up the stairway:

"John Robert Charles!"

Meals were generally very quiet. Charles had been trained not to speak unless he was spoken to. Once or twice his father looked at him. A pinafore was rather ridiculous on such a big boy. How very large his white collar was! His hair looked too sleek. He was a regular Miss Nancy.

He helped his mother take out the dishes and wiped them for her.

"Come out on the stoop, Charles," said his father afterward, as he picked up his paper.

Mrs. Reed wondered if Charles had committed some overt act that she knew nothing about. Could anything elude her sharp eyes?

Mr. Reed pretended to be busy with his paper, but he was thinking of his son. In his early years the child had been a bone of contention. His mother always knew just what to do with him, just what was proper, and would brook no interference. What with her cleanliness, her inordinate love of regularity and order, she had become a domestic tyrant. He had yielded because he loved peace. There was a good deal of comfort in his house. He went out two or three evenings in the week, to the lodge, to his whist club, and occasionally to call on a friend. Mrs. Reed never had any time to waste on such trifling matters. He had not thought much about his boy except to place him in a good school.

"Charles, couldn't you have asked me about the singing-school?" he said rather sharply.

"About—the singing-school?" Charles was dazed.

"Yes. It wasn't very manly to set a lot of little girls asking a favor for you. I'm ashamed of you!"

"Oh, father—who asked? We were talking of it over to Josie Dean's. I knew mother wouldn't let me go. I—I said so." Charles' fair face was very red.

"You put them up to ask!"

"No, I didn't. They never said a word about it. Why, I wouldn't have asked them to do it."

Mr. Reed looked suspiciously at his son.

"You don't care to go?"

"Yes, I do, very much." The boy's voice was tremulous.

"Why couldn't you ask me?"

"Because you would leave it to mother, and she would say it was not worth while."

"Was that what you told them?" Mr. Reed was truly mortified. No man likes to be considered without power in his own household.

"I—I think it was," hesitated the boy. The girls had started an insurrection, sure enough. Well, the poor lad had no chance before. It was not a hope swept away, there had been no hope. But now he gave up.

"Don't be a fool nor a coward," exclaimed his father gruffly. "Here, get your hat and go straight over to the Deans'. Tell them your father says you can go to singing-school next Saturday afternoon, that he will be very glad to have you go. And next time you want anything ask me."

If the boy had only dared clasp his father's hand and thank him, but he had been repressed and snipped off and kept in leading-strings too long to dare a spontaneous impulse. So he walked over as if he had been following some imaginary chalk line. The Deans were all up in the back parlor. He did his errand and came back at once, before Josie and Tudie had recovered from their surprise.

Nothing else happened. Mrs. Reed went out presently to do the Saturday-night marketing. She preferred to go alone. She could make better bargains. When she returned Mr. Reed lighted his cigar and took a stroll around the block. There was no smoking in the house, hardly in the back yard.

Saturday noon Mrs. Reed said to her son:

"You are to go to singing-school this afternoon. If I hear of your loitering with any bad boys, or misbehaving in any way, that will end it."

The poor lad had not felt sure for a moment. Oh, how delightful it was! though a boy nudged him and said, "Sissy, does your mother know you're out," and two or three others called him "Anna Maria Jemima Reed."

However, as Mr. Bradbury was trying voices by each row, the sweetness of Charles' struck him, and he asked him to remain when the others were dismissed. One other boy and several girls were in this favored class, and next week they had the seats of honor.

The next great thing for all the children was the May walk. All the Sunday-schools joined in a grand procession and marched down Broadway to Castle Garden. There was a standard-bearer with a large banner, and several smaller ones in every school. The teachers were with the classes, the parents and friends were to be at the Garden. Most of the little girls had their new white dresses, the boys their summer suits and caps. For May was May then, all but Quaker week, when it was sure to rain.

A pretty sight it was indeed. The bright, happy faces, the white-robed throng, and almost every girl had her hair curled for the occasion. There was a feeling among some of the older people that curls were vain and sinful, but they forgave them this day.

The audience was ranged around the outside. The little people marched in, and up the broad aisle, singing:

"We come, we come, with loud acclaim, To sing the praise of Jesus' name; And make the vaulted temple ring With loud hosannas to our King."

The platform—they called it that on such occasions—was full of clergymen and speakers for the festival. Some of the older eminent divines, some who were to be eminent later on, some of the high dignitaries of the city; and they could hardly fail to be inspired at the sight of the sweet, happy, youthful faces.

And how they sang! The most popular thing of that day was:

"There is a happy land— Far, far away."

It was fresh then and had not been parodied to everything. No doubt it would have shocked some of the sticklers if they had known that the words and tune were, in a measure, adapted from a pretty opera song:

"I have come from a happy land, Where care is unknown; And first in a joyous band I'll make thee mine own."

There were many other hymns that appealed to the hearts of the children of those days. "I Think When I Read that Sweet Story of Old," and "Jesus Loves Me, this I Know."

There were speeches, short and to the point, some with a glint of humor in them, and then hymns again. Perhaps we have done better since, but the grand enthusiasm of that time has not been reached in later reunions.

It seemed to the little girl that this really was the crowning glory of her life. She could not have guessed under what circumstances she was to recall it, indeed this day had no future to her. At first her mother had insisted the walk was too long, but Steve said he and Dolly would bring her home in the carriage. Margaret promised to get her new white dress done, and it was to be tucked almost up to the waist. Her mother gave in at last, and went down to see the children, being delighted herself.

Aunt Eunice was there, too. She had come to the city for the long-talked-of visit, and next week was to be Quaker Meeting. She had not been to one in years. Indeed, she could hardly call herself a Friend. She had married out of the faith and said you oftener than thee, but she kept to the pretty, soft gray attire and plain bonnet.

Hanny and the Deans and Nora thought her "just lovely." Hanny went to the Friends' Meeting-House with her on Sunday afternoon, down in Hester Street. It was severely plain, and the men sat on one side, the women on the other, while a few seats were reserved for any of the world's people that might stray in. The men looked odd, Hanny thought, with their long hair just "banged" across the forehead and falling over their collars. The coats were queer, too, and they kept on their hats, which shocked her a little at first.

Oh, how still it was! Hanny waited and waited for the minister, but she could not see any pulpit. There was no singing, only that solemn silence. If she had been a little Quaker girl she would have been thinking of her sins, and making new resolves. Instead she watched the faces. Some were very sweet; many old and wrinkled.

Suddenly an old gentleman arose and talked a few moments. When he sat down a tall woman laid off her hat and, standing up, began to speak in a more vigorous manner than the brother. She seemed almost scolding, Hanny thought. After her, another silence, then a lovely old lady with a soft voice told of the blessings she had found and the peace they ought all to seek.

Everybody rose and went out quietly.

"It doesn't seem a real church, Aunt Eunice," said Hanny. "And there was no minister."

"Oh, child, it isn't! It's just a meeting. It did not seem very spiritual to-day."

"If they only had some singing."

Aunt Eunice smiled, but made no reply. Hanny decided she did not want to be a Friend.

They went down to visit Aunt Nancy and Aunt Patience, and Margaret took Aunt Eunice up to see Miss Lois Underhill, who had gone on living alone. She said she could never take root in any other place, and perhaps it was true. Her kindly German neighbor looked after her, but she was very grateful for a visit.

Steve was building his new house and they thought to get in it by the fall. It was on the plot Dolly's father had given her at Twentieth Street near Fifth Avenue. The Coventry Waddells, who were really the leaders of fashionable society, were erecting a very handsome and picturesque mansion on Murray Hill, between Fifth and Sixth avenues on Thirty-eighth Street. The grounds took the whole block. There were towers and gables and oriels, and a large conservatory that was to contain all manner of rare plants, native as well as foreign. But everybody thought it quite out in the country.

Steve laughingly said they would have fine neighbors. The Waddells were noted for their delightful entertaining.

They took Aunt Eunice a walk down Broadway to show her the sights. The "dollar side" had become the accepted promenade. Already there were some quite notable people who were pointed out to visitors. You could see Mr. N. P. Willis, who was then at the zenith of his fame. When a Sunday-school entertainment wanted to give something particularly fine, the best speaker recited his poem, "The Leper," which was considered very striking. There was Lewis Gaylord Clark, of The Knickerbocker, who wrote charming letters, and these two were admitted to be very handsome men. There was George P. Morris, whose songs were sung everywhere, and not a few literary ladies. There was the Broadway swell in patent-leather boots and trousers strapped tightly down, in the style the boys irreverently called pegtops. He had a high-standing collar, a fancy tie, a light silk waistcoat with a heavy watch-chain and seal, a coat with large, loose sleeves, a high hat, and carried his cane under his arm, while, as one of the writers of the day said, "he ambled along daintily."

Then you might meet the Hammersley carriage with its footman and livery that had made quite a talk. Young and handsome Mrs. Little, whose marriage to an old man had been the gossip of the season, sat in elegant state with her coachman in dark blue. Now one hardly notes the handsome equipages, or the livery either.

But the "Bowery boy" was as great a feature of the time as the Broadway swell. He, too, wore a silk hat, and it generally had a three-inch mourning band. His hair was worn in long, well-oiled locks in front, combed up with a peculiar twist. He wore a broad collar turned over, and a sailor tie, a flashy vest with a large amount of seal and chain, and wide trousers turned up. His coat he carried on his arm when the weather permitted, and he always had a cigar in the lower corner of his mouth. He walked with a swagger and a swing that took half the sidewalk. He ran "wid de machine," and a fire was his delight; to get into a fight his supreme happiness. He really did not frequent the Bowery so much as the side streets. There were little stores where cigars and beer were sold, something stronger perhaps, and they were generally kept by some old lady who could also get up a meal on a short notice after a fire. On summer nights they had chairs out in front of the door, and tilting back on two legs would smoke and take their comfort. For diversion they went to Vauxhall Garden or the pit of the Bowery Theatre. Yet they were quite a picturesque feature of old New York.

Bowery and Grand Street were the East Side's shopping marts. Stewart was building a marble palace at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street. You went to Division and Canal streets for your bonnets. There were a few private milliners who made to order and imported.

There were sails and short journeys to take even then. Elysian Fields had not lost all its glory. And yet the little girl was quite disappointed in her visit to it. She had lived in the country, you know, she had looked off the Sound at Rye Beach and seen the Hudson from Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, and really there were lovely spots up the old Bloomingdale road. And she had pictured this as beyond all.

Aunt Eunice was very much struck with the changes. Her surprise really delighted the little girl. They took her over in Hammersley Street. Old Mr. Bounett seemed quite feeble, and though he was not in his court attire, he had a ruffled shirt-front and small-clothes. Aunt Eunice thought him delightful. It seemed queer to think of a French quarter in New York in the old part of the last century where people met and read from the French poets and dramatists, and almost believed when civilization set in earnestly, French must be the polite language of the day.

The little girl felt quite as if she was one of the hostesses of the city. She knew so many strange things and could find her way about so well. And yet she was only ten years old.

Aunt Eunice thought her a quaint, delightful little body, and wise for her years. But she was small. Nora Whitney had outgrown her and the Dean children were getting so large. As for the boys, they grew like weeds, and the trouble now was what to do with Ben. There was no free academy in those days, but the public school gave you a good and thorough education in the useful branches.



CHAPTER XV

A PLAY IN THE BACK YARD

The pretty block in First Street that had been so clean and genteel, a word used very much at that time, was fast changing. The lower part on the south side was rilling up with undesirable people, some foreigners who crowded three families into a house. Houston Street was growing gaudy and common with Jew stores. And oh, the children! There was a large bakery where they sold cheap bread, and in the afternoon there really was a procession coming in and going out.

Chris and Lily Ludlow had teased their mother to move. The place was comfortable and near their father's business, so why should they? But the girls Lily was intimate with had moved away, and she hated to go around Avenue A to school.

There were changes at the upper end as well. The Weirs had gone from next door, and two families with small children had taken the house. The babies seemed so pudgy and untidy that the little girl did not fancy them much. Frank Whitney was married with quite a fine wedding-party, and had gone to Williamsburg to live. Mrs. Whitney had rented two rooms in the house to a dressmaker. Delia was almost grown up. She had shot into a tall girl, though she would have her dresses short; she despised young ladyhood. She was smart and capable. She helped with the meals; often, indeed, her mother did not come down until breakfast was ready, when she had had a "bad night." That was when she read novels in bed until two or three o'clock. Delia swept the house—she often did wash on Saturday, though her brother scolded when she did it. She was the same jolly, eager, careless girl, and delighted in a game of tag, but she could so easily outrun the smaller children. She and Jim sometimes raced round the block, one going in one direction, one in the other, and Jim didn't always beat, either.

Then she would sit out on the stoop with a crowd of children and tell wonderful stories. She didn't explain that they were largely made up "out of her own head." Next door above the Deans two new little girls had come, very nice children, who played with dolls. There was quite an array when five little girls had their best dolls out. Nora generally brought Pussy Gray, and they were always entertained with her talking.

Some boys had invaded the Reed's side of the block. Charles had strict injunctions not to parley with them. But one went in an office as errand boy, and the other quite disdained Jane Robertine Charlotte, as he called him. It did begin to annoy Mr. Reed to have his son made the butt of the street. He was a nice, obedient, upright, orderly boy. What was lacking? In some respects he was very manly. Mr. Reed suddenly concluded that a woman wasn't capable of bringing up boys, and he must take him in hand.

For two weeks Mrs. Reed had been threatening to cut his hair. The boys said, "Sissy, why don't your mother put your hair up in curl papers?" It looked so dreadful when it was first cut that Charles always spent these weeks between Scylla and Charybdis. He knew all about the rock and the whirlpools. But something had been happening all the time, even to this Saturday afternoon, when all the silver had to be scoured. Mr. Reed inspected his son as he sat at the supper-table. He had a rather poetical appearance with his long hair curling at the ends, but it was no look for a boy.

"Don't you want to take a walk down the street with me?" said his father.

Charles started as if he had been struck.

"I'm dead tired and I want him to wipe my dishes. I haven't been off my feet since five o'clock this morning only at meal-time. Then he must go to the store."

"I'll wait until then."

Mrs. Reed looked sharply at them. Had Charles done something that had escaped her all-sided vision and was his father going to take him to task? Or was there a conspiracy?

"What do you want him for?" she inquired sharply.

"Oh, I thought we'd walk down the street."

"Smoking a cigar, of course," as Mr. Reed took one out of his case. "It certainly won't be your fault if the child hasn't every bad tendency under the sun. I've done my best. And you know smoking is a vile habit."

Mr. Reed had long ago learned the wisdom of silence, which was even better than a soft answer.

Charles put on a pinafore that hung in the kitchen closet. He could dry dishes beautifully.

"You've been cutting behind on stages," said his mother. "Some one has told your father."

"No, I haven't. Upon my word and honor."

"That's next to swearing, John Robert Charles. How often have I told you these little things lead to confirmed bad habits."

John Robert Charles was silent.

"Well, you've done something. And if your father does once take you in hand——"

The boy trembled. This awful threat had been held over him for years. Nothing had come of it, so it couldn't as yet be compared to Mrs. Joe Gargery's "rampage."

Mr. Reed sat comfortably on the front stoop smoking and reading. The wind drove the smoke straight down the street, and not into the house. How it could get in with the windows shut down was a mystery, but it seemed to sometimes.

Charles brushed his hair and washed his hands.

"I must cut your hair. I ought to do it this very night, tired as I am. Now brush your clothes and go out to your father. I'll be thinking up what I want. Pepper is one thing. Go down to the old man's and get some horseradish. If there is anything else I'll come out and tell you."

Charles went reluctantly out to the front stoop.

"Hillo!" said his father cheerfully. "You through?"

That did not sound very threatening.

"We are to get pepper and horseradish."

Mr. Reed nodded, folded his paper and, slipping it into his pocket, settled his hat.

"Mother may think of something else."

She positively couldn't. She considered that it saved time to do errands when you were going out, and she spent a great deal of time trying to think how to save it.

They walked down First Avenue past Houston Street. Almost at the end of the next block there was a barber-pole with its stripes running round. The barber-pole and the Indian at the cigar shops were features of that day, as well.

"Wouldn't you like to have your hair cut, Charles?" inquired his father.

The world swam round so that Charles was minded to clutch the barber-pole, but he bethought himself in time that it was dusty. He looked at his father in amaze.

"Oh, don't be a ninny! No one will take your head off. Come, you're big enough boy to go to the barber's."

The palace of delight seemed opening before the boy. No one can rightly understand his satisfaction at this late day. The mothers, you see, used to cut hair as they thought was right, and nearly every mother had a different idea except those whose idea was simply to cut it off.

They had to wait awhile. Charles sat down in a padded chair, had a large white towel pinned close up under his chin, his hair combed out with the softest touch imaginable. The barber's hands were silken soft; his mother's were hard and rough. Snip, snip, snip, comb, brush, sprinkle some fragrance out of a bottle with a pepper-sauce cork—bulbs and sprays had not been invented. Oh, how delightful it was! He really did not want to get down and go home.

Mr. Reed had been talking to an acquaintance. The other chair being vacant, he had his beard trimmed. He was not sure whether he would have it taken off this summer, though he generally did. He turned his head a little and looked at his son. He wasn't as poetical looking, but really, he was a nice, clean, wholesome, and—yes—manly boy. But he blushed scarlet.

"That looks something like," was his father's comment. What a nice broad forehead Charles had!

"He's a nice boy," said the barber in a low tone. "Boy to be proud of. I wish there were more like him."

Mr. Reed paid his bill and they went to the store. Then they strolled on down the street. But Charles was in distress lest the pungent berry and odoriferous root should take the barber's sweetness out of him. He was puzzled, too. It seemed to him he ought to say something grateful to his father. He was so very, very glad at heart. But it was so hard to talk to his father. He always envied Jim and Ben Underhill their father. He had found it easy to talk to him on several occasions.

"I must say you are improved," his father began presently. "You mother has too much to do bothering about household affairs. And you're getting to be a big boy. Why don't you find some boys to go with? There are those Underhills. You're too big to play with girls."

"But mother doesn't like boys," hesitatingly.

"You should have been a girl!" declared his father testily. "But since you're not, do try to be a little more manly."

The father hardly knew what to say himself. And yet he felt that he did love his son.

They were just at the area gate. Charles caught his father's hand. "I'm so glad," breathlessly. "The boys have laughed at me, and you—you've been so good."

Mr. Reed was really touched. They entered the basement. Mrs. Reed, like Mrs. Gargery, still had on her apron. Charles put the pepper in the canister, his mother took care of the horseradish. Then he sat down with his history.

"For pity's sake, Abner Reed, what have you done to that child! He looks like a scarecrow! He's shaved thin in one place and great tufts left in another. I was going to cut his hair this very evening. And I'll trim it to some decency now."

She sprang up for the shears.

"You will let him alone," said Mr. Reed, in a firm, dignified tone. "He is quite old enough to look like other boys. When I want him to go to the barber's I'll take him. You will find enough to do. Charles, get a lamp and go up to your own room."

"I don't allow him to have a lamp in his room. He will set something a-fire."

"Then go up in the parlor."

"The parlor!" his mother shrieked.

"I'll go to bed," said Charles. "I know my lesson."

There was a light in the upper hall. On the second floor were the sleeping-chambers. Charles' was the back hall room. He could see very well from the light up the stairway.

What happened in the basement dining-room he could not even imagine. His father so seldom interfered in any matter, and his mother had a way of talking him down. But Charles was asleep when they came to bed.

Still, he had a rather hard day on Sunday. His mother was coldly severe and captious. Once she said:

"I can't bear to look at you, you are so disfigured! If that is what your father calls style——" and she shook her head disapprovingly.

He went to church and Sunday-school, and then his father took him up to Tompkins Square for a walk. It seemed as if they had never been acquainted before. Why, his father was real jolly. And it was a nice week at school after the boys got done asking him "Who his Barber was?" He could see the big B they put to it.

On Saturday afternoon Mrs. Reed had to go out shopping with a cousin. She was an excellent shopper. She could find flaws, and beat down, and get a spool of cotton or a piece of tape thrown in. When Charles came home from singing-school he was to go over to the Deans and play in the back yard. He was not to be out on the sidewalk at all.

They were going to have a splendid time. Elsie and Florence Hay would bring their dolls. Even Josie envied the pretty names, though she confessed to Hanny that she didn't think Hay was nice, because it made you think of "hay, straw, oats" on the signs at the feed stores. But the girls were very sweet and pleasant. Nora had come in with the cat dressed in one of her own long baby frocks.

Hanny ran in to get her doll. It was still her choice possession, and had been named and unnamed. Her mother began to think she was too big to play with dolls, but Margaret had made it such a pretty wardrobe.

Ben sat at the front basement window reading. Mr. and Mrs. Underhill had gone up to see Miss Lois, who was far from well. Margaret was out on "professional rounds," which Ben thought quite a suggestive little phrase. Martha was scrubbing and of course he couldn't talk to her. He had cut the side of his foot with a splinter of glass, and his mother would not allow him to put on his shoe.

Hanny brought down her doll. Ben looked rather wistfully at her.

"I wish you'd come in too. We're going to have such a nice time," she said in a soft tone.

"I'd look fine playing with dolls."

"But you needn't really play with dolls. Mrs. Dean doesn't. She's the grandmother. We go to visit her, and she tells us about the old times, just as Aunt Nancy and Aunt Patience do. Of course she wasn't there really, she makes believe, you know. And you might be the—the——"

"Grandfather who had lost his leg in the war."

Ben laughed. He had half a mind to go.

"Oh, that would be splendid. And you could be a prisoner when the British held New York. There'd be such lots to talk about. You could wear John's slipper, you see——"

She smiled so persuasively. She would never be as handsome as Margaret, but she had such tender, coaxing eyes, and such a sweet mouth.

"Well, I'll bring my book along." It was one of Cooper's novels that boys were going wild over just then. "Do you really think they'd like to have me?"

"Oh, I know they would," eagerly.

Ben had to walk rather one-sided. Joe said he must not bear any weight on the outside of his foot to press the wound open.

"I've brought Ben," announced the little girl. "And he's going to be a Revolutionary soldier."

"We are very glad to see him," and Mrs. Dean rose. She had a white kerchief crossed on her breast, and a pretty cap pinned up for the occasion.

The yard was shady in the afternoon. There was a piece of carpet spread on the grass, and some chairs arranged on it, and two or three rugs laid around. On the space paved with brick stood the table, and two boxes were the dish closets. There were some cradles, and a bed arranged on another box. It really was a pretty picture.

Josie and Charles were generally the mother and father of one household. Charles blushed up to the roots of his hair. He liked playing with the girls, when he was the only boy, with no one to laugh at him.

"Now you mustn't mind me or I shall go back home and stay all alone," said Ben. That appealed to everybody's sympathy. "I'm coming over here to talk to grandmother about what we did when we were young."

Grandmother had some knitting. People even then knit their husband's winter stockings because they wore so much better. "And Mrs. Pennypacker, you might come and call on us."

Nora laughed. That was Ben's favorite name for her when she had the cat.

The soft gray head and the gray paws looked rather queer out of the long white dress. Pussy Gray had a white nose and his eyes were fastened in with a black streak that looked like a ribbon.

"How is your son to-day?" Ben inquired.

"He is pretty well, except he's getting some teeth. Ain't you, darling?" and Nora hugged him up.

"Wow," said Kitty softly.

"Have you had the doctor?"

"No-o," answered Kitty, looking up pathetically.

"I'm afraid I've neglected him," explained Mrs. Pennypacker. "You poor darling! But your mother has been so busy."

"Meaow," said Kitty resignedly.

"Are you hungry, dear? Would you like a bit of cold chicken? He has to have something to keep up his strength. Teething is so hard on children."

"Me-e-a-ow," returned Kitty, with plaintive affirmation.

Mrs. Pennypacker went over to the table and gave him a mouthful of something. If it wasn't chicken it answered the purpose. Then she sat down to rock him to sleep and asked Ben in what battle he had lost his leg.

Ben thought it was the battle of White Plains. He was very young at the time.

"How hard it must be to have a wooden leg," sighed Nora. "And of course you can't dance a bit."

"Oh, no, indeed!"

"Did they treat you very badly when you were a prisoner?"

"Dreadful," answered Ben. "They didn't give us half enough to eat."

"That was terrible. I hope you'll be contented here, where everything is so nice and cheerful. I am going to see Mr. and Mrs. Brown now."

"Please give them my compliments and tell them I should be very happy to have them call."

Charles had been watching Ben furtively with an apprehension that the real enjoyment of the afternoon would be spoiled. And no doubt he would tell the Houston Street boys "all about it." He was hardly prepared to see Ben enter so into the spirit of the "make believe."

Then Ben and Mrs. Dean had a little talk that might have been considered an anachronism, since it was about the foot still fast to his body. He had stepped on a piece of glass in the stable, and it had gone through the old shoe he had on for that kind of work. But Joe had seen it that morning and thought it would get along all right.

They were talking very eagerly over the other side of the city. And presently quite a procession came to call on the old veteran. Ben and Charles fell into a discussion about some battles, and the misfortune it was to the country to lose New York so early in the contest. They compared their favorite generals and discussed the prospect of war with Mexico that was beginning to be talked about. And Mr. Brown said he had some cousins who were very anxious to see an old soldier of the Revolution. Could he bring them over?

Then Elsie and Florence Hay came. Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Pennypacker asked him to tea and he said he should be glad to accept.

Mrs. Dean thought they had better have their tea in the dining-room, but Josie said let them spread the cloth on the coping of the area, and bring the chairs and benches just inside. Charles said that would be a sort of Roman feast and the guests would make believe there were couches. They put down papers and then a cloth, and Josie brought out her dishes. Grandmother held the Pennypacker baby, who certainly was the best cat in the world and settled himself down, white dress and all.

Ben asked Charles if he was studying Roman history, and found he was reading the Orations of Cicero in Latin, and knew a great deal about Greece and Rome. He had read most of Sir Walter Scott's novels, and liked "Marmion" beyond everything.

"What was he going to do—enter college?"

"Mother wants me to. Father says I may if I like."

He colored a little, but did not say his mother had set her heart on his being a minister because his Uncle Robert, who died, had intended to enter that profession. Ben said the boys, John and the doctor, wanted him to go, but he wished he could be a newspaper man like Nora's father. His mother thought it a kind of shiftless business. They talked over their likes and dislikes in boy fashion, and Charles enjoyed it immensely. He thought it would be just royal to have a big brother who was a doctor, and a little sister like Hanny.

Meanwhile the little women had been very much engrossed with their children and their tea party, and the prospect of a grandmother and an old soldier coming to visit them.

"And Mr. Brown is so heedless," said Mrs. Brown. "He ought to be here to go to the store, but he's off talking and men are so absent-minded."

Elsie said she'd go to the store, which was the closet in the basement.

Then the company came, and the old soldier limped dreadfully. Mrs. Brown scolded her husband a little, and then excused him, and everybody was seated in a row. There was a plate of thin bread-and-butter, some smoked beef cut in small pieces, some sugar crackers, quite a fad of that day, and a real cake. Mrs. Dean had given them half of a newly baked one.

It was quite a tea. Mr. Dean came home in the midst of it and sympathized warmly with the hero of 1776, and was extremely courteous to grandmother. The little girls cleared away the dishes, put their children to bed, had a fine swing and played "Puss in the Corner" with two sets.

Mr. Reed came in for Charles.

"I wish you'd come over and see my boy," he said to Ben. "He's a rather lonely chap, having no brothers or sisters."

"Let him come over to our house," returned Ben cordially. "We have a good supply."

Then everybody dispersed. They'd had such a good time, and were eager in their acknowledgments.

"Why, I quite like John Robert Charles," said Ben. "He's a real smart fellow."

"If you would please not call him all those names," entreated Hanny. "He doesn't like them."

"Well, I should say not. I'd like just plain Bob. He wants the girlishness shaken out of him."

"But he's so nice. And if he should come over please don't let Jim plague him."

"Oh, I'll look out."

It was a week before Ben could put on his shoe, and of course it was not wisdom for him to go to school. He went down-town in the wagon and did some writing and accounts for Steve, and read a great deal. Mr. Reed and Charles sauntered over one evening. Hanny was sitting out on the stoop with "father and the boys," and gave Charles a soft, welcoming smile. Margaret was playing twilight tunes in a gentle manner, and the dulcet measures fascinated the boy, who could hardly pay attention to what Ben was saying.

"Do you want to go in and hear her?" Hanny asked, with quick insight as she caught his divided attention.

"Oh, if I could!" eagerly.

"Yes." Hanny rose and held out her hand, saying: "We are going in to Margaret."

The elder sister greeted them cordially. After playing a little she asked them if they would not like to sing.

They chose "Mary to the Saviour's Tomb" first. It was a great favorite in those days. The little girl liked it because she could play and sing it for her father. She was taking music lessons of Margaret's teacher now, and practised her scales and exercises with such assiduity that she had been allowed to play this piece. She did sometimes pick out tunes, but it was after the real work was done.

"Your boy has a fine voice," said John to Mr. Reed.

The father was not quite sure singing was manly. He had roused to the fact that Charles was rather "girly," and he wanted him like other boys.

"He is a good scholar," his father returned in half protest. "Stands highest in his class."

"Going to send him to college?"

"I don't just know," hesitatingly.

"Has he any fancy for a profession? He'd make an attractive minister."

"I don't know as I have much of a fancy for that."

Mr. Reed knew it was his wife's hope and ambition, but it had never appealed to him.

"The boys want Ben to go to college," said John, the "boys" standing for the two older brothers.

"I don't want to be a lawyer nor a doctor," subjoined Ben decisively. "And I shouldn't be good enough for a minister. There ought to be some other professions."

"Why, there are. Professorships, civil engineering, and so on."

While the men discussed future chances, the children were singing, and their sweet young voices moved both fathers curiously. Mr. Reed decided that he would cultivate his neighbor, even if Charles had not made much headway with Ben and Jim.



CHAPTER XVI

DAISY JASPER

What to do with Ben was the next question of importance. He was fond of books, an omnivorous reader, in fact, a very fair scholar, and, with a certain amount of push, could have graduated the year before. He really was not longing for college.

There was only one line of horse-cars, and that conveyed the passengers of the Harlem Railroad from the station on Broome Street to the steam-cars up-town. Only a few trains beside the baggage and freight cars were allowed through the city. Consequently a boy's ambition had not been roused to the height of being a "car conductor" at that period. A good number counted on "running wid de machine" when they reached the proper age, but boys were not allowed to hang around the engine-houses. Running with the machine was something in those days. There were no steam-engines. Everything was drawn by a long rope, the men ranged on either side. The force of the stream of water was also propelled by main strength, and the "high throwing" was something to be proud of. There was a good deal of rivalry among the companies to see who could get to a fire the first. Sometimes, indeed, it led to quite serious affrays if two parties met at a crossing. "Big Six" never gave up for any one. "Forty-one" was another famous engine on the East side. Indeed they had a rather menacing song they sometimes shouted out to their rivals, which contained these two blood-curdling lines:

"From his heart the blood shall run By the balls of Forty-one."

Later on the fights and disturbances became so bitter that the police had to interfere, and as the city grew larger some new method of expediting matters had to be considered. But the "fire laddies" were a brave, generous set of men, who turned out any time of day or night and dragged their heavy engines over the rough cobble-stones with a spirit and enthusiasm hard to match. They received no pay, but were exempt from jury duty, and after a number of years of service had certain privileges granted them. Jim counted strongly on being a fireman. John had sometimes gone to fires but was not a "regular."

But all differences were forgotten in the "great fire," as it was called for a long time. There had been one about ten years before that had devastated a large part of the city. And in February of this year there had been quite a tragic one in the Tribune Building. There was a fierce drifting snowstorm, so deep it was impossible to drag the engines through it, and some of the hydrants were frozen. Men had jumped from the windows to save their lives, and there had been quite a panic.

Early in the gray dawn of July nineteenth, a watchman discovered flames issuing from an oil store on New Street. A carpenter shop next door was soon in flames. A large building in which quantities of saltpetre was stored caught next. A dense smoke filled the air, and a sudden explosive sound shot out a long tongue of flame that crossed the street. At intervals of a few moments others followed, causing everybody to fly for their lives. And at last one grand deafening burst like a tremendous clap of thunder, and the whole vicinity was in a blaze. Bricks and pieces of timber flew through the air, injuring many people. Then the fire spread far and wide, one vast, roaring, crackling sheet of flame. One brave fireman and several other people were killed, and Engine 22 was wrecked in the explosion.

It was said at first that powder had been stored in the building, but it was proved on investigation that the saltpetre alone was the dangerous agent. Three hundred and forty-five buildings were destroyed, at a loss, it was estimated, of ten millions of dollars. For days there was an immense throng about the place. The ruins extended from Bowling Green to Exchange Place.

A relic of Revolutionary times perished in this fire. The bell of the famous Provost prison, that had been used by the British during their occupancy of the city, had been removed when the building was remodelled and placed on the Bridewell at the west of the City Hall, and used for a fire-alarm bell. When the Bridewell had been destroyed it was transferred to the cupola of the Naiad Hose Company in Beaver Street. It rang out its last alarm that morning, for engine house and bell perished in the flames.

Stephen had been very fortunate in that he was out of the fire district. He took Margaret and Hanny down to view the great space heaped with blackened debris, and when a fire alarm was given the little girl used to shiver with fright for months afterward.

And now schools were considering their closing exercises, and parents of big boys were puzzled to know just where to start them in life. Ben declared his preference at last—he wanted to be some sort of a newspaper man.

They called Mr. Whitney in to council. He was not quite sure he would recommend beginning there. It would be better to learn the trade thoroughly at such a place as the Harpers'. Then there would always be something to fall back upon. Steve did not cordially approve, and Dr. Joe was quite disappointed. He was ready to help Ben through college.

Newspaper people did not rank as high then as now. There was a good deal of what came to be called Bohemianism among them, and it was not of the artistic type. For the one really good position there were a dozen precarious ones.

Aunt Nancy Archer rather amused them with another objection. She wasn't at all sure the publishing of so many novels was conducive to the advancement of morals and religion. She never could quite understand how so good a man as Brother Harper could lend it countenance. When she was young the girls of her time were reading Hannah More. And there was Mrs. Chapone's letters, and now Charlotte Elizabeth and Mrs. Sigourney.

"Did you know Hannah More wrote a novel?" inquired John, with a half smile of his father's humor. "And Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Edgeworth and Charlotte Elizabeth's stories are in the novel form."

"But they have a high moral. And there are so many histories for young people to read. They ought to have the real truth instead of silly make-believes and trashy love stories."

"There are some histories that would be rather terrible reading for young minds," said John. "I think I'll bring you two or three, Aunt Nancy."

"But histories are true."

"There are a great many sad and bitter truths in the world. And the stories must have a certain amount of truth in them or they would never gain a hearing. Do we not find some of the most beautiful stories in the Bible itself?"

"Well, I can't help thinking all this novel reading is going to do harm to our young people. Their minds will get flighty, and they will lose all taste and desire for solid things. They are beginning to despise work already."

"Aunt Nancy," said Ben, with a deprecating smile, "the smartest girl I know lives just below here. She does most all the housekeeping, she can wash and iron and sweep and sew, and she reads novels by the score. She just races through them. I do believe she knows as much about Europe as any of our teachers. And I never dreamed there had been such tremendous conquests in Asia, and such wonderful things in Egypt until I heard her talk about them; and she knows about the great men and generals and rulers who lived before the Christian era, and at the time Christ was born——"

Aunt Nancy gasped.

"Of course there were Old Testament times," she returned hesitatingly.

"And I am not sure but Mayor Harper is doing a good work in disseminating knowledge of all kinds. I believe we are to try all things and hold fast to that which is good," said John.

He brought Aunt Nancy the history of Peter the Great and the famous Catharine of Russia, but she admitted that they were too cruel and too terrible for any one to take pleasure in.

Mrs. Underhill and Margaret went to the closing exercises of Houston Street school. Jim as usual had a splendid oration, one of Patrick Henry's. Ben acquitted himself finely. There was a large class of boys who had finished their course, and the principal made them an admirable address, in which there was much good counsel and not a little judicious praise as well as beneficial advice concerning their future.

But at Mrs. Craven's there was something more than the ordinary exercises. The front parlor was turned into an audience-room, and a platform was raised a little in the back parlor almost like a stage. There was a dialogue that was a little play in itself, and displayed the knowledge as well as the training of the pupils. Some compositions were read, and part of a little operetta was sung quite charmingly by the girls. Then there was a large table spread out with specimens of needlework that were really fine; drawing, painting, and penmanship that elicited much praise from the visitors.

The crowning pleasure was the little party given in the evening, to which any one was at liberty to invite a brother or cousin, or indeed a neighbor of whom their mother approved. And strange to relate, there were a good many boys who were really pleased to be asked to the "girls' party." Charles Reed came and had a delightful time. Josie had waylaid Mr. Reed again and told him all about it, and hoped he would let Charles come, and he said he would be very happy to. Mrs. Reed did not approve of parties for children, and Charles had been but to very few.

Mr. Underhill and Dr. Joe went down to the Harpers', having decided to place Ben there to learn a trade. Thinking it all over, he resolved to acquiesce, though he told Hanny privately that some day he meant to have a newspaper of his own and be the head of everything. But he supposed he would have to learn first.

Margaret and Hanny went with them, and found many changes since their first visit. The making of a book seemed a still more wonderful thing to the child, but how one could ever be written puzzled her beyond all. A composition on something she had seen or read was within the scope of her thought, but to tell about people and make them talk, and have pleasant and curious and sad and joyous happenings, did puzzle her greatly.

Ben was not to go until the first of September. So he would help Steve, go to the country for a visit, and have a good time generally before he began his life-work. Stephen's house was approaching completion, and it was wonderful to see how the rows of buildings were stretching out, as if presently the city would be depleted of its residents. One wondered where all the people came from.

John Robert Charles had grown quite confidential with his father and began to think him as nice as Mr. Underhill—not as funny, for Mr. Underhill had a way of joking and telling amusing stories and teasing a little, that was very entertaining, and never sharp or ill-natured.

He had carried off the honors of his class and was proud of it. Mr. Reed showed his satisfaction as well. Mrs. Reed was rather doubtful and severe, and thought it her duty to keep Charles from undue vanity. She was in a fret because she had to go away and leave the house and waste a whole month.

"I don't want to go," said Charles to his father. "It's awful lonesome up there in the mountains, and there's no one to talk to. Aunt Rhoda's deaf, and Aunt Persis hushes you up if you say a word. And the old gardener is stupid. There are no books to read, and I do get so tired."

"Well, we'll see," replied his father.

To his wife Mr. Reed said: "Why do you go off if you don't want to?"

"I won't have Charles running the streets and getting into bad company, and wearing out his clothes faster than I can mend them," she replied shortly.

It would not be entertaining for Charles in his office, and he didn't just see what the boy could do. But he met a friend who kept a sort of fancy toy store, musical instruments and some curios, down Broadway, and learned that they were very much in want of a trusty, reliable lad who was correct in figures and well-mannered. A woman came in the morning to sweep the store and sidewalk, to wash up the floor and windows, and do the chores. So there was no rough work.

"I'll send my boy down and see how you like him. I think he would fancy the place, and during the month you might find some one to take it permanently. There seems to be no lack of boys."

"You can't always find the right sort," said Mr. Gerard. "Yes, I shall be glad to try him."

Mr. Reed did not set forth the matter too attractively to his wife, not even to Charles, who had learned to restrain his enthusiasm before his mother. And though she made numerous objections, and the thought of bad company seemed to haunt her, she reluctantly decided to let him try it for a week. He would go down in the morning with his father, so he could not possibly begin his day in mischief.

Charles was delighted. The city was not over-crowded then. The Park gave "down-town" quite a breathing space.

Now a boy would think it very hard not to have any vacation after eleven months of study. He would be so tired and worn and nervous that ten weeks would be none too much. The children then studied hard and played hard and were eager to have a good time, and generally did have it. And now Charles was delighted with the newness of the affair. He walked up at night fresh and full of interest, and was quite a hero to the girls over on Mrs. Dean's stoop.

"I hope you will bring them down even if you shouldn't want to buy anything. Mr. Gerard said the stock was low now, as it is the dullest season of the year. But there are such beautiful articles for gifts, china cups and saucers and dainty pitchers and vases, and sets like yours, Josie, some ever so much smaller, and a silver knife and fork and spoon in a velvet case, and lovely little fruit-knives and nut-picks and ever so many things I have never heard of. And musical instruments, flutes and flageolets and violins, and oh, the accordeons! There are German and French. Oh, I wish I could own one. I know I could soon learn to play on it!" declared Charles eagerly.

In that far-back time an accordeon really was considered worth one's while. A piano was quite an extravagance. A good player could evoke real music out of it, and at that period it had not been handed over to the saloons. In fact, saloons were not in fashion.

The children listened enchanted. It was a great thing to know any one in such a store. Mrs. Dean promised to take them all down.

Hanny had a new source of interest. Dr. Joe had told her a very moving story when he was up to tea on Sunday evening, about a little girl who had been two months in the hospital and who had just come home for good now, who lived only a little way below them. It was Daisy Jasper, whom they had seen a little while last summer in a wheeling chair, and who had disappeared before any one's curiosity could be satisfied. She was an only child, and her parents were very comfortably well off. When Daisy was about six years old, a fine, healthy, and beautiful little girl, she had trodden on a spool dropped by a careless hand and fallen down a long flight of stairs. Beside a broken arm and some bruises she did not seem seriously injured. But after a while she began to complain of her back and her hip, and presently the sad knowledge dawned upon them that their lovely child was likely to be a cripple. Various experiments were tried until she became so delicate her life appeared endangered. Mr. Jasper had been attracted to this pretty row of houses standing back from the street with the flower gardens in front. It seemed secluded yet not lonely. She grew so feeble, however, that the doctors had recommended Sulphur Springs in Virginia, and thither they had taken her. When the cool weather came on they had gone farther south and spent the winter in Florida. She had improved and gained sufficient strength, the doctors thought, to endure an operation. It had been painful and tedious, but she had borne it all so patiently. Dr. Mott and Dr. Francis had done their best, but she would always be a little deformed. The prospect was that some day she might walk without a crutch. Joe had seen a good deal of her, and at one visit he had told her of his little sister who was just her age, as their birthdays were in May.

Hanny had cried over the sorrowful tale. She thought of her early story heroine, "Little Blind Lucy," whose sight had been so marvellously restored. But Daisy could never be quite restored to straightness.

After supper Joe had taken her down to call on Daisy. Oh, how pretty the gardens were, a beautiful spot of greenery and bloom, such a change from the pavements! A narrow brick walk ran up to the house, edged with rows of dahlias just coming into bloom. On the other side there were circles and triangles and diamond-shaped beds with borders of small flowers, or an entire bed of heliotrope or verbena. The very air was fragrant. Up near the house was a kind of pavilion with a tent covering to shield one from the sun.

Daisy, with her mother and aunt, were sitting out here when Dr. Joe brought his little sister. Daisy's chair was so arranged that the back could be adjusted to any angle. It was of bamboo and cane with a soft blanket thrown over it, a pretty rose color that lighted up the pale little girl whose languor was still perceptible.

After a little Mrs. Jasper took Dr. Joe into the house, as she wanted to question him. Then Hanny and Daisy grew more confidential. Daisy asked about the children in the neighborhood and thought she would like to see Nora and Pussy Gray. She was very fond of cats, but theirs, a very good mouser, was bad-tempered and wanted no petting. And then the Dean girls and Flossy and Elsie Hay, and last but not least of all, Charles Reed with his beautiful voice.

"I do so dearly love music," said Daisy longingly. "Auntie plays but she doesn't sing. Mamma knows a good many old-fashioned songs that are lovely. When I am tired and nervous she sings to me. I don't suppose I can ever learn to play for myself," she ended sadly.

Hanny told her she was learning and could play "Mary to the Saviour's Tomb" for her father. And there were the boys and Stephen and her lovely married sister Dolly and her own sister Margaret.

"Oh, how happy you must be!" cried Daisy. "I should like such a lot of people. I never had any brothers or sisters, and I do get so lonesome. And the doctor is so pleasant and sweet; you must love him a great deal."

"I can't tell which one is best. Steve teases and says funny things, and is—oh, just as nice as any one can be! And John is splendid, too. And Ben is going to learn to make books, and I can have all the books I want."

Daisy sighed. She was very fond of reading, but it soon tired her.

"I should so like to see you all. You know I've never been much with children. And I like live people. I want to hear them talk and sing and see them play. One gets tired of dolls."

"If you would like I will bring Nora and Pussy Gray. And I know Josie's mother will let them come. If you could be wheeled up on our sidewalk."

"Oh, that would be delightful!" and the soft eyes glowed.

Hanny had taken Nora the very next afternoon, and Pussy Gray had been just too good for anything. Daisy had to laugh at the conversations between him and Nora. It really did sound as if he said actual words. And they told Daisy about the time they went to the Museum and had a double share for their money. Daisy laughed heartily, and her pale cheeks took on a pretty pink tint.

"You are so good to come," said Mrs. Jasper. "My little girl has had so much suffering in her short life that I want her to have all the pleasure possible now."

Josie and Tudie Dean had been out spending the day, and really, there was so much to tell that it was nine o'clock before it was all discussed. Charles was very much interested in Daisy Jasper.

"You know I can tell just how she feels about not having any brothers and sisters," he exclaimed. "I've wished for them so many times. And I do think Hanny is the luckiest of the lot; she has so many. It is like a little town to yourself."

"I'm so glad it is vacation," declared Josie. "If we were going to school we wouldn't have half time for anything."

Mr. Underhill came for his little girl. While he was exchanging a few words with Mr. Dean Hanny caught one hand in both of hers and hopped around on one foot. She was so glad she could do it. Poor Daisy, with her beautiful name, who could never know the delight of exuberant spirits.

Hanny's thoughts did not take in the long word, but that was what she felt in every fibre of her being.

Charles wondered how she dared. He was frightened when he caught his father's hand with an impulse of gratitude. But in pure fun!

There was quite a stir with the little clique in the upper end of the block. Mrs. Underhill, Mrs. Dean, and Margaret called on their neighbor, and the wheeled chair came up the street a day or two after. It had to go to the corner and cross on the flagging, as the jar would have been too great on cobble stones. They had a young colored lad now who kept the garden in order, did chores, and waited upon "Missy" as he called her.

The sidewalk was generally sunny in the afternoon, but this day it was soft and gray without being very cloudy. The chariot halted at the Underhills'. The little girls brought their dolls to show Daisy, their very best ones, and Nora dressed up Pussy Gray in the long white baby dress, and pussy was very obliging and lay in Daisy's arms just like a real baby. The child felt as if she wanted to kiss him.

What a pretty group of gossips they were! If Kate Greenaway had been making pictures then, she would have wanted them, though their attire was not quite as quaint as hers. They went up and down the steps, they told Daisy so many bright, entertaining things, and the fun they had with their plays. Josie's party was described, the closing exercises at school, and the many incidents so important in child life. Sometimes two or three talked together, or some one said, "It's my turn, now let me." They referred to Charles so much it really piqued Daisy's curiosity.