Chapter 13

So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through the woods, with his jack-knife for company.

"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.

Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked forward to a better home than any _this_ world can furnish, and so she bore her trials just as one would the little wearinesses and discomforts of a journey, when every hour is bringing him nearer and nearer to his own dear fireside, with its loving hearts.

Well, little Joe went whistling and whittling along, thinking of Bill Sykes and his arrows. Half a mile was no great distance to go; he might finish one arrow going along; that is, if his jack-knife didn't break, or if he didn't whittle off one of his fingers by mistake. He wished the wood wasn't quite so hard: he wondered whether Bill Sykes would make _his_ arrows of hickory: he wondered whether Bill's brother Tom, wouldn't make them for him--just as like as not, now, he would, and then Bill would be _sure_ to have the best ones: too bad! Joe wished _he_ had a brother, too; he wished----ph-e-w! What's that?

A _bear_! as sure as you are alive! (and may _not_ be long.) What's to be done now? Joe was a nice fat little boy, and the bear might be hungry. He wasn't afraid: pooh!--no. A little backwoods boy afraid? They are made of different stuff than the little ruffled-collar boys that tag about with the nursery maid at their heels, in Broadway.

Joe examined his jack-knife, and took another look at the bear, as he lay behind the bushes. Old Bruin was fast asleep.

All right;--Joe's mother wouldn't have to wait for her flat-irons; so he stepped carefully along (not to disturb Bruin's nap) and reached Aunt Elsie's, with a whole skin.

Aunt Elsie was very glad to see Joe, for she loved children, and always ran to the cupboard to get them a piece of wholesome frontier pie, or gingerbread, or bit of hoe-cake; but Joe said he couldn't stop; because his mother had her clothes already sprinkled and folded ready for the irons, and had told him to hurry back as fast as ever he could.

Did he tell Aunt Elsie about the bear? Do you suppose a frontier boy would take refuge under a woman's apron?

No, sir!

If you should mention such a thing to him, he would tuck up his pinafore, roll up his jacket sleeves, and show you his little brown fists, in a trice!

No, sir; he never _alluded_ to the bear, but taking a flat-iron in each hand, went whistling along as if no such animal had ever walked out of Noah's ark into the back woods.

Well, he had got through "Hail Columbia," and "Auld Lang Syne," when he spied Bruin again; and this time he was wide awake, too.

He began whistling Yankee Doodle; first, to show his independence, and secondly, because he knew if anything would take the nonsense out of the letter _B_, it was Yankee Doodle!

"I'll iron him with these flat-irons, anyhow," said Joe to himself, "if he comes here to eat _me_." But whether the bear wasn't hungry, or whether he didn't like the looks of the flat-irons, or whether Joe's house was a little too near, or whether it was all three, I can't say; all I know is that he never touched a paw to him, and Joe and his flat-irons arrived home in perfect safety.

"I'm _so_ glad you are come, Joe," said his mother, taking the irons and putting them over the fire to heat. "I've a heap of work to do, and besides I felt uneasy like, after you went off alone through the woods, for fear you might _possibly_ meet a bear."

"I did," said Joe, quietly whittling away at his arrow.

"_Did?_ Sakes alive! Where? how? when? Did he bite you?" and she caught him up by the waistband and held him up to the light, and turned him round to see where he was damaged.

Joe told her all about it, and she flew and bolted all the doors, and every now and then she'd set down her flat-iron, and putting her arms a-kimbo, say, "Sakes alive! 'spose that bear had ate him up?" That night she insisted on his eating a _whole_ pie for supper, gave him two lumps of white sugar, and put an extra blanket on his bed, and all night long she was traveling back and forth in her night cap, from her bed to his, to feel if Joe was safe between the sheets.

Now, while Joe's asleep, if you like that story, I will tell you another about Aunt Elsie.

* * *

One day she went to her door and blew her horn, as if all creation was let loose; (you know I told you that when frontier folks want to call the neighbors together that's the way they manage.)

Well, there was a general stampede to see what was to pay with Aunt Elsie. Some said the bears must have run off with her little girl;--some said an Indian might have strayed into her log hut, and frightened her;--some said the house might be on fire, and they all said they'd stand by Aunt Elsie as long as there was a timber left of them, _whatever_ was to pay. Zeke Smith said, (Zeke was an old bachelor,) that "he'd thought for a great while, that it wasn't safe for Elsie to live there alone without some _man_ to protect her;" and Jim Brown who was a widower, said "it _was_ a lonesome piece of business and no mistake;" and they all rushed through the woods to see which should pitch into the house first and help her the fastest.

Well--what do you think _was_ to pay when they got there?

Her old cow was choking with a turnip!

Now I'm going to tell you one more backwoods story while I'm about it.

* * *

A great roaring fire was burning in Zeke Smith's log house; and all the Tims, and Joes, and Bills, and Jacks, and Sams had come in to see him. They peeled chestnuts and threw the shells into the fire, and the shells cracked and snapped, and the blaze lit up all their weather-beaten, bronzed faces, and they drank cider out of a great mug, and talked about one thing and another that you and I don't care about; and then Zeke Smith said he lost a sheep last night.

"So did I," said Pete Parker.

"I lost two hens," said Joachim Jones.

"I lost a _ram_," said Bill Bond.

"Don't _say_ so!" said Zeke. "Well, that _is_ a loss. There's a bear about,--that's certain; and it's just as certain that we are the boys to kill him. I should like to see a bear get out of the way of _my_ rifle!"

"Or mine"--

"Or mine," said they all.

Well, they agreed to start the next morning, by daylight, to hunt up the bear. They fixed their rifles the night before, and in the morning got up bright and early, and got into their great boots, and buttoned up their coats and strided off, with provisions in their pouches, for they were determined not to come back without him.

On they tramped, over bush and bog and briar; the dogs running before and scenting round among the bushes. All day, no luck. Night came on, and still no luck; so they "camped out," and started fresh again the next morning.

About dark the dogs scented the bear, sure enough,--and what a monstrous fellow he was--black as Topsy, too! Never mind, his time had come _now_. He ran up an old stub, and sat perched on the top. They pointed their rifles--took aim--not a rifle went off! and Bruin sat grinning at them.

Wern't they furious? I wouldn't undertake to repeat what they said, 'cause it wouldn't answer. The bear came down from the stub, and ran off into a swamp; so they had the hunt all over again. They primed their guns anew and picked the flints (for percussion locks had not then been invented,) so that their rifles would be sure to go off; for you may be certain that they wouldn't have that story told in "the settlement," for a barrel of their best cider. So taking their newly-primed rifles, off they started again, with their teeth set together, looking as fierce as so many Hospidars. If Bruin had understood what stuff _a disappointed backwoodsman_ is made of, he would have kept out of their way--but he didn't; and as their rifles this time had the genuine "stand and deliver" in 'em, there was nothing left for him to do, but to cross his paws and surrender.

Didn't they drink cider and crack nuts over the old fellow's remains? Certainly; they never would have showed _their_ heads at "a raising" again, I can tell you, hadn't they captured him.

A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS.

Well, I don't know as there is any use in my sitting here at the window any longer. Bricks and mortar, mortar and bricks! and little strips of yards not big enough to swing a cat round in. You may, perhaps you will, ask with the Frenchman, "Vat for you _want_ to swing a cat round?"

But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them--there is _one_, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat, with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle, from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and provides her that pretty little garden.

Now just look in the next yard--it is just the same size as the other, but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of "Bogles Hyperian."

There's a little child dancing out _that_ door, too; now he stands poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard; _unpromising_, isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I know very well what _you_ would tell _her_; that mamma lies in bed asleep--although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfast _alone_ and gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little fellow--I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and flowers--yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a little hot-house plant.

I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)

Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I know nobody _finds_ old maids). There now, didn't I tell you so? See,--she moves a little table up to the window and holds the table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with only _one_ cup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and bows her head--and _now_ I am sorry for what I've said about her, because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she fancies going. Don't you?

There's an old bachelor's room;--fussy old thing! he has been one good hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers--(red ones, too!) I could warm my hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to find its latitude; that you see will be a work of _time_. He has got it in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so--he is too busy shaving himself, to go down there to _shave_ them! that's a settled point.

Look now at that window!--a young mother comes to it with a little new baby,--its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs its _five_ hairs, and thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has got _her_ work cut out for the winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and put down--washed--dressed and undressed--nursed, rocked and trotted--laid on its back, and laid on its stomach--and laid on its side. Just as if _I_ didn't know!--I could tell her a great many things she don't know about taking care of that baby.

Young mothers are very _experiment-y_. Do you know what _that_ means? Well, they worry a baby out of a year's growth, for fear it _will_ worry; _your_ mother knows all about it--ask her if she didn't do just that way with you till Grandma and Aunt Charity taught her better? First babies are poor little victims. I can remember how _I_ used to be plagued! Stifled alive for "fear I should get cold;" trotted up and down when there was a great pin sticking into my shoulder--and held so close to the candle to be looked at, that I came near being blind as a mole. It's a wonder to me that I am here now, writing this juvenile book; if I hadn't been a baby of spirit, I should have keeled over, and died of sheer torment long before I got into short clothes.

Well, there's another window. An old lady sits at it; not so _very_ old, either, for she's as brisk as a musquito. Her head flies round if any one opens the door, as if it were strung on wires. I don't believe she has any fire in her room, for she keeps hitching round after the sun all day--and when he bids her good afternoon, she comforts her shoulders with a blanket shawl; then, her lamp is always out long before I go to bed, and nobody who has a good fire, ever wants to go to bed and leave it; they'll find a thousand things to do--a letter to write, or a book to read, or some chestnuts to eat; or, if they haven't anything else to do, they will sit and look at the fire. I am sure I've been forced to look at more disagreeable objects than that, for many an hour.

There's a woman at another window, writing, or rather she has got her table before her, and her inkstand, and the pen between her fingers; all that she wants is a few ideas; see, she rolls up her eyes like a pussy in a fit, and looks _up_, and looks _down_, and makes a love knot on the paper with her pen, and coaxes her temples with her fingers; but it's no use, there's nothing _there_! So she may as well get off her stilts and darn her stockings.

There are two little girls at another window playing with their dollies. Now I like that--it's a good thing--it teaches them how to sew, and to cut out little garments, and to contrive and fix up things, so that when they have _live_ dollies it will come handy to cut out _their_ frocks. I always like to see little girls play with dollies, and big girls, too, if they want to; it is better than a novel; better than a thousand other things that girls do now-a-days, who fancy themselves ladies as soon as they twist up their ringlets with a comb. Heigh-ho, it makes me sigh to think there are so few _children_ in 1853.

Over there at another window in the same block, is a very sad sight. A drunken husband! See how patiently his poor wife is trying to coax him not to go out. She is fearful he may fall in the street, and get hurt, and then she feels ashamed to have him seen in such a plight; now she gently removes his hat--then he puts it on again; now her arm is about his neck--but only to have it rudely pushed aside, poor woman. I hope she believes in God, and knows how to _lean_ upon Him.

Now her husband has gone, and she sits down and covers her face with her hands, and weeps. They are bitter tears--she thinks of the time he took her proudly away from a happy home, and promised she should be dear to him as his own life blood. Perhaps she cannot go to that home _now_--perhaps her father and mother (happily for them) have not lived to see her joy so soon turned to sorrow; or, if she could go there, she loves her husband still too much to leave him. She hopes each morning that he will come home and love her at night--and she tidies up the hearth, and makes the fire bright, and keeps his supper warm, and wipes away her tears, and braids her hair in shining plaits as he once loved to see it, and looks often at the little mantel clock, and then out the window. By and by she hears his step; oh, it is the same old story--he reels, cursing, into her presence--perhaps aims at her a blow.

Her little child lies there sleeping. She is glad he is not old enough to know his father's shame. Sometimes she even prays the babe may die. She knows, were she taken away, how much it must suffer. Then, she remembers the time when its father was steady and kind and industrious, and she thinks of those who roll about in carriages, on the money taken from _her_ husband's pocket, and that of other poor victims like him. And then the angry flush mounts to her temples, and she says, "Is there _no law_ to punish these wicked rumsellers?" Poor thing! that wailing cry has gone up from Maine to Georgia--from many a houseless wife and shivering child!

God hears it! I had rather be in _their_ place than the rumseller's.

Well, now it is quite dark, and I must light my lamp and shut my shutters, or some of those folks may be peeping in and taking notes of _me_!--who knows? Wouldn't that be a joke?

THE ENGLISH EMIGRANTS.

It was very weary on ship board. Julien and Victor had spied out all there was to be seen the first week they set sail, and the sailors had told them all the stories they could possibly think of. Mrs. Adrian (their mother) was too sick to leave the cabin, and the little boys were getting very impatient to reach shore.

How would America look? What sort of houses did they have there? What sort of children? Would they be good play-fellows? These were the things little Julien and Victor were thinking about.

Their father was thinking of the price of provisions, and about house rent, and the probabilities of his finding customers for his tailoring work; and whether they should all have to live in the shop, and whether his sickly wife would thrive under the changeable climate, and whether they should make a _home_, or always be like "strangers in a strange land."

And their mother; she was thinking of the gray-haired old father who had blessed her for the last time, and of the sunny homes of England, with their wealth of shrub and tree and blossom, and of a dear little girl whom she left sleeping in a quiet church-yard, between whom and herself the swift blue waves were building up a wall of separation.

Land ho! shouted the old tars.

Land ho! echoed the merry little boys.

And this was America! this New-York! How very odd and strange everything was! How anxious the people all looked! How slender!--how pale!--and what a hurry they all seemed to be in! How they jostled about, as if they were afraid they shouldn't get their share of terra-firma! How the cab-men and porters and hack-drivers were just as independent as the gentlemen and ladies they worked for! and how showily and gaily the ladies dressed, just to take a promenade.

It was all very funny.

The children and their mother looked with all their eyes; they could not make up their minds whether they should like it or not; but that was not the first thing to be considered; they must first decide where to live.

Mr. Adrian concluded to go to B----, about two days' journey by the railroad. So their trunks were taken from the ship and carried to the baggage cars. Little Julien and Victor had nice seats by the window, and it was very delightful to see the green fields after having seen nothing but the dashing billows for so many weeks. They felt as glad as Noah's dove did, when she spread her wings from the door of the ark, after "the waters were abated." They threw their limbs about, whenever the cars stopped for the great "iron horse" to lay in some wood for his supper, as if they were determined to make up for the time they had been cramped on ship-board.

"Things are not so very cheap after all, over here in America," said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh, as he took possession of the room that was to serve them for shop, parlor, kitchen and bed-room. "Well, we must be patient and industrious; I will put up my sign to-day, and if you and the children (turning to his wife) are only in good health, I shall have courage to work."

So the sign was put up: "John Adrian, tailor, from England--all orders promptly and neatly executed." Then John took out his shears and "goose," crossed his legs and seated himself with a jacket to make, in front of the window, where pedestrians could see that he was at his post, ready for orders.

Julien and Victor, the rosy little Englishmen, didn't fancy much the small room they lived in. It was almost as much of a prison to them as the vessel; they liked better to play in the streets. Their mother looked out the window at them, with a sigh, for her children had been carefully brought up, and she shuddered at the bad words they were hearing, and the groups of idle, noisy, vicious children, swarming about the neighborhood. Oh, how should she keep her little boys pure and unspotted?

Three weeks had passed by. Little Julien came in, one day, from his play, when his mother met him at the door, saying, "Run, Julien, quick--quick--for the doctor."

"Where, mother--where shall I find him?"

"Oh! I don't know," said the distracted woman, chafing her husband's temples; "ask somebody--quick, dear Julien, for the love of God!--the death dew is on your father's forehead."

"Cholera," said the doctor. "I can do nothing for him, my poor woman; the disease is raging fearfully here; he cannot live an hour."

"_Nothing_ to be done?" said the poor wife, fixing her eyes on her dying husband, and watching his spasms; "_nothing_ to be done? Oh, sir, don't tell me _that_."

But even while she spoke the dark shadow fell. The loving eyes grew glassy; the hand she held relaxed its hold, and that "change," so subtle, so fearful, (that all have _seen_ yet none may _tell_,) flitted over his face.

Death came for more than _one_ victim, to that doomed house. First one little head drooped, then another, then the soft eyes closed, and the little lip said, quiveringly, "It is all dark; kiss us, dear mother;" and Mrs. Adrian was a childless widow.

Dear children, God be praised that the world is not all a desert--that there are hearts that feel, eyes that weep, and hands that minister to the sorrow-stricken. Mammon has left some hearts that he has not shrivelled, some eyes that he has not blinded, some hands that he has not fettered.