Part 8

After the new room was arranged, and permission given to Bird to see that Billy had what the doctor ordered that he should eat, and to take him out whenever he wanted to go, everything began to move more regularly and in some respects more comfortably, then Bird, to her dismay, saw the city summer, like a long roadway without a tree or bit of shade, stretching out before her.

There was not a book in the house and no one to tell her of the free library where she might get them, and school, where she hoped to find a sympathetic teacher for a friend, belonged to September three months away. No one who has always lived in the city can possibly understand what this change, with its confinement and lack of refined surroundings, meant to this young soul. To be poor, in the sense of having little to spend and plain food, she was accustomed,--in fact, she had much more to eat now, and through her uncle's careless kindness she was seldom without dimes for the trolley rides to Battery Park "where the fishes lived," or Central Park with the swan-boats that were to "make a man" of Billy. But to be shut away from the woods, the sky, the beauty of the sunsets, to have no flowers to gather and love, and to be brought face to face daily with all the ugliness of the life that is merely of the body, was almost too much for her courage.

How could she keep her head above the street level, how remember what her father had taught her?--already the memory of the past was becoming confused. Sometimes she was on the verge of ceasing to try and settling down into a silent drudge, content to take what came, and falling into the habits and commonplace pleasures of the girls of her cousins' acquaintance with whom she was thrown in the parks and on the stoop and streets. It would have been much easier in some respects,--her aunt would have been better pleased to see her go off with the others, to some noisy if harmless excursion, arrayed in a cheap, flower-wreathed hat and gay waist, shrieking with laughter, and chewing gum, than to see her always neat amid disorderly surroundings and ever willing to do the endless little tasks that her own mismanagement piled up, and Ladybird--Jack's name for her--strangely enough seemed a term of reproach, not compliment.

At first Bird had hoped that Sunday might bring better things; but no, Sunday in the quiet, peaceful, Protestant sense that Bird understood it,--there was none. The family straggled to early mass one by one, for Mrs. O'More and her sons were Romanists, though O'More was not, being from the north of Ireland, and the rest of the day was spent by the men either lying in bed and smoking, or standing in groups about the street.

In these hard days little Billy was Bird's only ray of light. The two, being of equally sensitive natures, clung together, and the child was so happy in his new-found friend and ceased his incessant fretting whenever he was with her, that Mrs. O'More at last gave him completely to Bird's charge with a sigh of relief, for her youngest child was as much a puzzle to her as her niece, and she felt that he also was of a different breed, as it were, and it annoyed her.

All the fierce scorching summer days Bird and Billy wandered about together, sometimes going over to Madison Square, sometimes riding in the trolley to Central Park, but more often down to the Battery where the air tasted salt and good, where the wonderful fishes lived in the round house and the big ships went past out to that unknown sea of which Bird was so fond of telling Billy stories.

Bird, too, soon learned to find her way about, for six-year-old Billy had all the New York gamin's knowledge of his whereabouts coupled with a cripple's acute senses. He hopped along with his crutch quite well, and many a lesson in human nature and life did Bird learn these days in the treeless streets of poorer New York.

After a time she found that her uncle had seemed to forget his hatred of anything like drawing or painting, so one day she ventured to buy a good-sized pad and pencil, and then watching Bird "make pictures" became Billy's great joy, while she to her surprise found that she could draw other things besides flowers.

Oftentimes the children would go down to sit on the steps and watch the horses from the great sales stable being exercised up and down the street. Bird tried to draw these too, and one day succeeded so well that her uncle, passing in at the door, stopped and looked down, and then said, "Bully! any one would know it for a horse, sure!" After that she worked at every odd minute.

She loved horses dearly, but she and Billy were forbidden to go into the stables, which were almost underneath the flat, and Bird really had no wish to, for the men there were so rough and there was so much noise and confusion; but a few doors away was a fire-engine house where lived three great, gentle, gray horses that ran abreast, and had soft noses that quivered responsively when they saw their driver even in the distance. Bird made friends with these, taking them bits of bread or green stuff, until the firemen came to expect the daily visit and "Bird" and "Billy" became familiar names in the engine-house; and there was a little dog there that ran with the engine and reminded her of Twinkle.

Dan was the heaviest of the three horses and Bird's favourite, and one day, after many attempts, seated on the stoop of the next house, she succeeded in drawing a small head of him that was really a good likeness, at least so the firemen thought, for they put it in a frame and hung it in the engine-house, and the next day big Dave Murray, Dan's driver, gave her a small box of paints "with the boys' compliments."

Ah, if the big, bluff fellow only knew what the gift meant to poor little Ladybird struggling not to forget and to still keep the heavenly vision in sight.

Bird had written a short note to Mrs. Lane telling of her safe arrival in the city, and giving her address, but more than that she could not say. If she said that she was happy and gilded the account of her surroundings, it would have been false. If she told the truth, her Laurelville friends would be distressed, and it would seem like begging them to take her back when it evidently was not convenient, for she did not know that her Uncle John had refused to let her stay with Mrs. Lane unless she was legally adopted.

Neither was Bird worldly wise enough to act a part and simply write of her visits to the park and the little excursions with Billy which in themselves were pleasant enough. She was crystal clear, and knew of but two ways, either to speak the whole truth or keep silent. She was too loyal to those whose bread she was eating to do the first, and so she did not write.

In due time a long letter came from Lammy written with great pains and all the copy-book flourishes he could master, telling of Aunt Jimmy's strange will, of how he was going to work all summer at the fruit farm, and ended up by telling her of the preparations he had made for the Fourth, never dreaming it possible that, the matter of tickets disposed of, Bird should refuse his invitation.

At first the thought of getting away from the city, and being among friends again quite overcame her. She began to wonder if Twinkle would be glad to see her, and if the ferns met over the brook as they did last year, and if Mrs. Lane would have the white quilt on the best-room bed, or the blue-and-white patch with the rosebuds. Then she realized that if she met the Laurelville people face to face, she would surely break down, while the saying "good-by" again would be harder than not going. Then, too, there was little Billy. How could she leave him at the very time when, in spite of continued hot weather, he seemed to be gaining?

No--she sat down resolutely and wrote a short note that wrung her heart and kissed it passionately before she mailed it, for was it not going to the place that now seemed like heaven to her?

But the letter that arrived as the Lanes sat on porch after supper said no word of all this, and seemed but a stiff, offish little note to warm-hearted Mrs. Lane and Lammy who, having now quite earned the ticket money, was cut to the quick when he found that it was all in vain.

"She's gone to the city and forgotten us," he gulped in a quavering voice, as he read the letter, coming as near to letting a tear run down his nose as a sturdy New England boy of fourteen could without losing his self-respect.

"It doos _appear_ that way," said Mrs. Lane, who was gazing straight before her out of the window with an abstracted air; "but, after all, what's in appearances, Lammy Lane? Don't your copy-book say that they are deceitful? Well, that's what I think of 'em. Likely 'nough it appears to Bird that I didn't want to keep her, 'cause owing to this other mix-up, I couldn't divide the share of you boys without thinking it over, and 'dopt her then and there. But my intentions and them appearances is teetotally different.

"No, Lammy, I'm goin' straight on lovin' Bird and trustin' her and keepin' a place in my heart for her, besides havin' the best-room bed always aired and ready, and jest you keep on lovin' and trustin' her, too, and like as not the Lord will let her know it somehow, for I do believe kind feelings is as well able to travel without wires to slide on as this here telegram lightnin' that hollers to the ships that's passin' by in the dark. 'Think well and most things 'll come well,' say I."

"How about Aunt Jimmy's will? Yer always thought well enough o' her," said Joshua, who had laid down his paper and folded his spectacles to listen to the reading of the letter.

"An' I do still," Mrs. Lane averred stoutly; "it doos _appear_ disappointing, but I allers allowed that if we was only able to read her meanin', 'twould be a fair and kindly one."

VIII

THE FLOWER MISSIONARY

It was the last day of June when one morning, before the sun had a chance to turn the pavements into ovens, Bird, having finished some marketing for her aunt, was leading Billy slowly in and out along the shady sides of the streets toward Madison Square, where they were watching the lotus plants in the fountain for the first sign of an open flower, for already buds were pushing their stately way through the great masses of leaves.

Chancing to glance at the window of a newly finished store that was not yet rented, Bird read the words, "Flower Mission." As she paused to look at the sign, wondering what it might mean, an express wagon stopped at the curb and several slat boxes and baskets filled with flowers, for sprays peeped from the openings, were carried into the building, a wave of moist coolness and perfume following them.

Bird's heart gave a bound of longing, for the fragrance of the flowers painted a picture of her little straggling garden and held it before her eyes for a brief moment.

"Oh, look, Bird, come quick and look; it's all full of pretty flowers in there! Do you think they would let Billy go in and smell close?" Billy was standing by the open door, and, as Bird glanced over his shoulder, she saw that one side of the store was filled by a long counter, improvised by placing boards upon packing cases, which was already heaped with flowers of every description in addition to those that the expressman had just brought.

An elderly lady, with a big, white apron tied over a cool, gray, summer gown, was sorting the flowers from the mass, while a tall, slender young girl, of not more than sixteen, dressed all in white, was making them into small bouquets and laying them in neat rows in an empty hamper.

It was the young girl who overheard Billy's question to Bird and answered it, saying, "Of course Billy may come in and smell the flowers as much as he pleases, and have as many as he can carry home."

"Oh, can we?" said Bird, clasping her hands involuntarily with her old gesture that expressed more joy than she could speak.

At the sound of the second voice, the young girl pushed back the brim of her drooping, rose-trimmed hat and looked up with clear, gray eyes. As she did so Bird recognized her as Marion Clarke, the daughter of the man who spent his summers in the stone house on the hillside beyond Northboro, and it was she who had passed Bird and Lammy on the roadside the day when she had left her old home and, carrying Twinkle, was going to Mrs. Lane's.

But if Bird recognized Marion, the memory was on one side, as it is apt to be where one sees but few faces and the other many. This however did not prevent Marion from holding out her free hand to the younger girl, as she made room for her to pass between the boxes, saying, in a charming voice, low-keyed and softly modulated, yet without a touch of affectation: "If you are fond of flowers and can spare the time, perhaps you would help us this morning; so many of our friends have left the city that we are short-handed. Here is a little box your brother can sit on if he is tired." Oh, that welcome touch of companionship, and that voice,--it made Bird almost choke, as she said:--

"Billy is my cousin, and I should love to tie the flowers, for Aunt Rose does not expect us back until noon."

It was one of Marion Clarke's strong points, young as she was, that she had insight as well as tact. She saw at a glance that these children were not of the ordinary class that play about the streets, interested in every passing novelty, merely because it is new, so she had given Bird a friendly greeting and asked her to help, instead of merely offering the children a bouquet and letting them pass on as objects of charity, no matter how light the gift.

When Bird replied in direct and courteous speech, Marion knew that she had read aright. An ordinary street child of that region would have said, "I dunno 's I will," or "What 'll ye give me 'f I do?" or perhaps declined wholly to answer and bolted off after grabbing a handful of flowers.

"Aunt Laura, will you let us have some string? There, see, it is cut in lengths, so that you can twist it around twice and tie it so. I do wish people would tie up their flowers before they send them, they would keep so much better; but as they do not, we have to manage as best we may.

"Oh, how nicely you do it," she continued, as Bird held up her first effort for approval,--a dainty bouquet of mignonette, a white rose, and some pink sweet-william, with a curved spray of honeysuckle to break the stiffness.

"So many people put the wrong colours together, and tie the flowers so tight that it seems as if it must choke the dear things,--see, like this," and Marion held up a bunch in which scarlet poppies and crimson roses were packed closely together without a leaf of green.

"Yes, I understand; those colours--hurt," Bird answered, groping for a word and finding exactly the right one.

"You must have lived in the country and been a great deal with flowers to touch them so deftly and know so well about the colours."

"I always lived in the country until this summer, and Terry taught me all about the colours and how to mix them."

"Who was Terry?" asked Marion, much interested, and not knowing that she was treading upon dangerous ground.

"He was father," and Bird, remembering where she was, stopped abruptly, and Marion, who had noticed the rusty black gown, understood that there was a story in its shabby folds and forbore to intrude.

Miss Laura Clarke, who was the lady in gray, gave Billy a pasteboard box lid of short-stemmed blossoms to play with, and he sat quite content, while the others kept on tying the flowers until only one basketful was left.

"The flowers come in every Wednesday morning, and I ask people to send them in as early as possible, so that they may be sorted and tied up by ten o'clock when the ladies come to distribute them," Marion explained as they worked. "They are Miss Vorse, the deaconess from the mission, beside two workers from the College Settlement, and half a dozen district visitors. Those two hampers go direct to hospitals, but the ladies take the flowers about to the sick in the tenements and to special cases.

"I have come here from the country place where I live every week all through May and June, but this is my last day this season, because I'm going to Europe next week with my aunt, and Miss Vorse will take my place."

Another disappointment for Bird. At last she had met some one to whom she had felt drawn, and whom she thought she might see occasionally, and almost in the same breath learned that she was going away.

"Do you know of any children who would like some flowers, or any one who is ill?" she added, as she noticed that Bird was silent and loath to go, even though all the bouquets were ready and Miss Laura was packing them in the baskets and boxes for distribution.

"There's Tessie; oh, I know that Tessie would love to have some!" cried Bird, eagerly; "she has not waved to us for nearly a week, and I was going to see her this afternoon when Billy takes his nap, if Aunt Rose will let me," and Bird told what she knew of the little cripple who "kept house" by herself while her mother and sister worked.

Then a happy idea came to Marion Clarke. Handing out a flat wicker basket, that held perhaps twenty-five bouquets, to Bird, she said: "Would you like to be one of the Flower Missionaries this summer and carry bouquets? Yes?" as she saw the glad look in her eyes; "then you may fill this basket, and here is a big bouquet for you and something extra sweet to add to the basket,--see, a bunch of real wallflowers, such as grow over seas, some foreign-born body will go wild with joy over it, and here is a fruit bouquet a youngster has evidently put together,--big strawberries on their stalks set in their own leaves.

"Miss Vorse is coming now. I will introduce you and tell her to give you the flowers. What is your name? Bird O'More. I'm glad of that; it seems to fit you. I should have been disappointed if it had been Jane Jones," she continued, as a sweet-faced, tall young woman, dressed in a dark blue gown and bonnet, entered, saying: "I'm afraid that I am late, but there is so much illness among the little children in the district now that I could not get away. A new Flower Missionary! That is good; children can reach those whom we cannot."

Presently Bird found herself walking along the street, Billy's hand in one of hers, and the basket of flowers in the other. Billy was prattling happily, but for once she scarcely heard what he said, the flower voices were whispering so gently and saying such beautiful things.

"Take us to Tessie," whispered one. "God lets us bring sunlight to dark places," said another--"You can do the same." "Be happy, you have something to give away," breathed another, and this flower was a spray of cheerful honeysuckle that blooms freely for every one alike.

Yes, Bird was happy, for Marion Clarke had held her by the hand and called her a Flower Missionary; she had flowers to give away and flowers to take home. Oh, joy! she could try to paint them, and she pushed the bouquet that held the old garden flowers, the mignonette, sweet brier and honeysuckle under the others to keep for her own.

If she waited to go home first, the flowers might fade, so an impulse seized her to give Tessie her flowers first, and then turned into the street below their own, trying to remember Mattie's directions--"Count six houses from the butcher's, and then go through the arch, and up two pairs of stairs to the top."

Before she had gone a block, two little girls had begged her for flowers, one rosy and sturdy chose red and yellow zenias; the other, who, like Billy, had a "bad leg" and hopped, chose delicate-hued sweet peas. Bird had never seen a lame child in Laurelville, but now she met them daily, for such little cripples are one of the frequent sights of poorer New York.

At the first corner a blind woman, selling the mats she herself crocheted, begged for "a posy that she could tell by the smell was passing." To her Bird gave the bunch of mignonette. A burly truckman, who thought she was selling the flowers, threw her a dime and asked for a "good-smellin' bokay for the missis who was done up with the heat," so she tossed him back the coin and a bouquet of spicy garden pinks and roses together, while Billy called in his piping voice, "We're a Flower Mission--we gives 'em away," so that the man drove off laughing, his fat face buried in the flowers.

When Bird had counted the "six houses from the butcher's" and found the archway, which was really the entrance to a dismal alley, her basket was almost empty. She hesitated about taking Billy into such a place, and in fact but for her great desire to give Tessie the flowers, she would have turned back herself. As she looked up and down the street, a policeman passing noticed her hesitation and stopped.

"Sure it's the plucky girl from Johnny O'More's beyond that tried to catch the thief,--and what do you be wantin' here?"

Bird recognized the policeman and explained, and he said, "Ye do right not to be pokin' in back buildings heedless; it's not fit fer girls like you, but this same is a dacent place, though poor, and as I'm not on me beat, only passin' by chance, I'll go through to the buildin' with ye, and the kid can stay below with me while ye go up, for stairs isn't the easiest fer the loikes av him."

So through they went, the big policeman leading the way, and entering the back building Bird began to grope upward. When the house had stood by itself in the middle of an old garden, the sun had shone through and through it, but now the windows on two sides were closed, and the halls were dark, and the bannister rails half gone.

At the first floor landing she paused a moment. What was that tap, tapping? It came from a small room made by boarding off one end of the broad, old-fashioned hallway. The door was open and a single ray of sun shot across from an oval window that had originally lighted the stairs and was high in the wall.

In the streak of sun was a cobbler's bench and on it sat a man busily at work fastening a sole to a shoe, so old that it scarcely seemed worth the mending.

Then she went on again and, after knocking at two wrong doors, finally found the right one.

"Come in," piped a shrill, cheery voice; "I can't come to open it," and in Bird went.

"I hoped that you would come to-day," said the small figure, sitting bolstered up in a wooden rocking-chair with her feet on a box covered with an end of rag carpet, by way of greeting. No introduction was necessary, for the two girls knew each other perfectly well, although their previous acquaintance had merely been by waving rags across the yards.

"My legs haven't felt as if they had bones in 'em in a week," Tessie continued, "so's I couldn't reach up high enough to wave, and it seemed real lonesome, but I've got a new pattern for lace, and there's a man in the store where Mattie works who says he'll give me half-a-dollar for every yard I make of it,--what do you think of that?" and she spread out proudly a handsome bit of Irish crocheted lace upon which she was working. It was four inches wide, a combination of clover leaves, and very elaborate, of the kind that is so much sought now and costs many dollars a yard in the shops.

"It is beautiful," explained Bird; "how do you know how to do it?"