Chapter 7

Well, do you know, Harry, it struck me that Mrs. ----, who lives in New-York, might like to adopt the little orphans. She has no children of her own, and she loves children. That's why I took her with me to see the poor emigrants last night.

How she _did_ cry when she saw the poor things eating raw potatoes! She turned round to me, and said, "Fanny, I must have those children. I'll take them right home, and I'll ----" then she couldn't stop to tell me the rest, but ran up to the grandmother, and asked her, in Italian, if she might not have Pietro and Annita.

At first, the poor old grandmother looked at them both, and said she couldn't give them up. Then she looked round that dismal room, and drew her torn shawl up over her shoulders; and then she called them both to her, and hugged and kissed them; and then, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, she took them by the hand and led them up to Mrs. ----, and told her to be "a kind mamma to them."

But poor little Pietro and Annita clung to their grandmother, and kissed her wrinkled face, and hung round her neck, and hid their little curly heads in her lap, for they had seen so many strange faces, and so much misery, that it had made them as shy as little rabbits, and they were afraid to venture away from grandmother. Mrs. ---- spoke to them in Italian, and tried to coax them with promises of all sorts of pretty things. But it was of no use; they only shook their little curly heads, and ran back to their dear old grandma, who patted them both, and laughed and cried together.

Then, Mrs. ---- said "she would take grandma, too:" and that she should help her to take care of Annita and Pietro. When the little rogues heard this, they wiped away their tears, and smiled, and showed their little white, glittering teeth, and kissed Mrs. ----'s hands, and said, "We will go."

So, we got a carriage, and took them all in, to Mrs. ----'s house in Fourth street, where they were washed, and dressed, and ate some nice hot supper; and before I came away, they were asleep in a cunning little trundle-bed, with their little curly heads nestled on the same pillow, and their little cheeks close together, and just as rosy as if they had never shivered, half naked, in that old smoky room.

And Mrs. ----'s husband, who is an artist, stood there over them, with his pencil in his fingers, taking a sketch of their little Italian faces; and by and by he will finish a beautiful picture of Pietro and Annita, in the old ragged dresses in which they were found; and if he paints their little dimpled shoulders and cunning little legs and feet half as pretty as they really are, I know you will say with me, that the "Little Emigrants" are worth looking at, and _worth loving_.

ALL ABOUT THE DOLANS.

Tobacco! tobacco! If there's anything I hate worse than a dandy, it is tobacco. Such a headache as I have this morning, all for that vile pipe that Bridget Dolan's husband was smoking, when I went over to see her.

Charley, I believe if an Irishman hadn't a potato to put in his blarney-ing mouth, he would own a pipe and a puppy. Jim Dolan had both.

Now, Bridget Dolan was full clever enough to have been a born Yankee, and, of course, was a great deal too good for Jim Dolan. She had more children than you could count, if you were in a hurry, and a baby in her arms, year in and year out. For all that, she is never out of patience trying to keep their elbows and knees and toes in, and make up for what Jim wastes in smoking and drinking. I verily believe Bridget would fight anybody who said he was not the best husband in the world,--black and blue spots on her arms to the contrary. Well, if she has patience to put up with it, it is no affair of yours or mine; all I have to say is, that her name ought to be Job, instead of Dolan.

Last night I thought I would go over to see her; so, I lifted up my dress and waded through the alley, and after getting away from a drunken woman, who insisted upon having my bonnet, I reached Bridget's door in safety.

There they were, all in a heap, as usual,--Michael and Johnny, and Sammy and Pat, and Fanny and Katy, and Mike and the baby. Bridget's face shone like a new milk-pan, when I opened the door (she knows I pity her); she flew round and got me a wooden chair, scrubbed the baby's face with her apron, put one hand on Mike's hair to make it lie down, sent Snip, the dog, yelping under the bed, and asked me how I did; while Jim knocked the ashes out of his pipe, twitched a lock of hair that hung over his forehead, and scraped out his hind foot, by way of a bow.

Presently Johnny began to whisper to Sammy, and Sammy whispered to Mike, and Mike whispered to his mother; and then his mother got up and gave them something out of the closet, which they came and laid in my lap, with their eyes shining like a cat's in the dark. And when I held it up to the light, it turned out to be two new jackets, one for Sammy and one for Johnny, that their good, thrifty mother had made out of an old coat that somebody had given her.

Of course, I admired them; and of course, I buttoned the little boys up in them; and of course, they strutted round, as smart as little corporals; and Sammy shook his red head, and said he would "like to hear Brian Doherty call him a beggar _now_!"

Bridget smiled, and said, "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy;" and then, Johnny pulled at my gown again, and pointed up in the corner, and right between the windows, where nearly every pane of glass was broken out, stood a brand new cooking stove, with all its shining pots and pans and kettles, set in order on the top, as if the most magnificent dinner that ever was dreamed of, was hissing and stewing and broiling and baking and roasting inside.

As to Sammy, he lifted up all the lids, and poked his nose in, as if he could already smell the dinner. Mike spread out his little blue hands, as if _some time or other_ they would get warm over it; Johnny shouldered the poker and showed me how they were going to rattle the coal out when somebody should give mother work enough to earn money to buy it, and the baby got well enough to let her do it. Then Sammy held the light, and we all walked in a procession, round and round the stove, and voted it a most magnificent affair.

But how did they get it? That's what I wanted to know. Stoves cost money. Sammy saw I was dying to know, so he whispered in my ear, loud enough to be heard in South America, "Mammy earned it shaking carpets, _she_ did."

I turned round and looked at Jim Dolan. If I could have had my own way, I would liked to have put a petticoat and a bonnet on him, and marched him up to the looking-glass!--a great, able-bodied, idle six-footer! I don't think much of a man that will _let his wife support him_. Do you?

All the way home I was thinking over what poor Bridget said: "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy." I want you to think of that, children, when you pout because the potato is not put on the right side of your plate; or, because little Minnie has climbed into your chair at the table; or, because the apple dumplings are not sweet enough for your dainty little tooth; or, because the tailoress put six buttons instead of seven, on your new overcoat.

Johnny and Sammy would toss their caps up in the air and go wild with joy, if they had all the nice things you have. Poor little fellows! I loved them, because they were so proud of their mother. Oh, children! there's nothing in the wide earth like a mother. All the friends in the world couldn't make up to you for her loss. There's no arm but God's so true and safe to lean upon; there's no heart but His so full of love and pity, so long-suffering and forgiving.

Love your mother, little ones.

FRONTIER LIFE:

OR,

MITTY MOORE.

"Frontier life!" I think I hear my little readers echo, knitting their brows; "frontier life,--I wish FANNY FERN wouldn't write about things we don't understand."

Suppose I should tell you a story to _make_ you understand it? How would you like that?

Mitty Moore's father took it into his head that _he_ should like frontier life. So he traveled hundred and hundreds of miles--way off where the sun goes down, to find a place in which to settle. The roads were rough and bad. Sometimes it would be a long while before they reached a place where travelers could get drink and food; and Mitty's little bones would ache, and she began to think with "Paddy," that the end of the journey was cut off.

At last Mr. Moore found a place to his mind; and they all halted, with the old baggage wagon, in the woods; and Mitty, and her little brothers and sisters, jumped out and stretched their limbs, and looked way up into the great tall trees to try to see the tops, which seemed to pierce the clouds.

They made a sort of pic-nic dinner, out of some provisions stowed away in the old wagon; after which Mitty's father and eldest brother pulled off their coats, stripped up their shirt-sleeves, and went to work to make a "clearing," as they called it, for a log house--felling the trees, and cutting and burning the underbrush.

It took them a long while to hew down those fine old trees. I'm glad I didn't see it done, for I should have sung out, with General Morris,

"Woodman! spare that tree! Touch not a single bough,"--

for, a house, you know, can be put up by any carpenter who owns a set of tools, but it takes many a long year of dew and sunshine to make those grand old trees tower up to heaven.

However, it was all fine fun for Mitty, who sat on an old stump, with her chin resting in her hands, watching to see the stout old trunk stand like a rock against their heavy blows; then lean a little; then creak, as if it were groaning with pain that its green branches must so soon wither; then totter; then fall, crashing to the earth, like the "giant" before little "David." Mitty liked it, though it was rather dangerous sport; for, if the tree had fallen upon her pretty little head, she never would have tossed back _her_ bright curls again.

Mitty was just the right sort of a Mitty for a little frontier girl. She seemed to know just when to hand her father the axe, or the hatchet, or the pick-axe; and just when they could rest a minute to take a drink of water, or a mouthful of bread and cheese. She didn't talk to them when they were busy, but amused herself making little log houses, with chips, for her dolly. She didn't scream or run, if a snake or a rabbit went over her foot; she was not all the time conjuring up bears, and tigers, and raccoons, or catching hold of her father every time she heard a little squirrel squeal;--not she--she loved everything; and her soul looked out as fearlessly from her sweet blue eyes, as if pain and danger and death had never followed the Serpent into Eden.

Now, I suppose you are wondering what people so buried in the woods did for stores, and shops, in which to buy things, and for meeting-houses and newspapers.

In the first place, when they went there, they made up their minds that silk dresses and ice-creams didn't grow on frontier bushes! and they soon became astonished to find how many things there were that were not at all necessary to their happiness, which they had always felt they _could not do without_.

They kept a cow, and she found them in milk; they kept hens, and the hens kept _them_ in eggs; they kept a pig, and the pig made no objection to being cut up, whenever they got ready to eat him; then, they brought meal and flour enough with them, to last till they could plough the land, and raise corn and wheat of their own, which they intended doing as soon as the log house should be raised over their heads.

Oh, they got on famously. It was good, healthy work, this digging, and hewing, and ploughing. It made the muscles on their arms stand out like whip cords; it bronzed their pale faces, and made their eyes bright, and gave them a good appetite for their bread and milk; and when they went to bed, they didn't stop to see if the seam of the sheet was exactly in the middle, or to count the feathers in the pillows under their heads. They had neighbors (off in different directions); some four miles away; some two; some six, and some eight. Not city neighbors who shut themselves up in their great jails of houses, and wouldn't care if a hearse stood before your door every day in the year. No, indeed! They were warm-hearted country folks, with hearts as big as their pumpkins. If you were out of meal, or molasses, or sugar, or tea, you were welcome to borrow of them till you could spare time to send to "the settlement" for some. That's the way _they_ lived. The men folks had too many trees to cut down to keep tackling up the old oxen every five minutes, and go "gee-hawing" over to the stores, every time the women wanted an Indian cake. No; they borrowed of each other till somebody had time to go to the store or to mill; and then, whoever went, took all their errands and did them up in a bunch, to save time. _They_ went by the "golden rule."

People who live in the woods, where the trees are all the time whispering of God, and the little birds singing of Him, don't feel like being quarrelsome, and disobliging, and ugly; no, they leave that to city people, who live in such a whirl that they never remember they have a soul till Death comes after it.

Well, as I was saying, they helped one another. Orphy Smith, Mr. Moore's next neighbor, took his bag of corn one day, to carry it to mill. Mitty was very glad, because they had been out of meal some days, and she was rather tired of potatoes. So she made up her mind, and her mouth, that when Orphy came back, they would all have "a prime supper." But Orphy didn't _come_ back that night, or the next morning, either; but, late the next afternoon, he came crawling back, with the meal, and told them that "he should have been home with it long ago, if that pesky wheel hadn't come off his wagon, and it hadn't taken such a powerful long time to blacksmith it on again."

How glad little Mitty was to see that bag of meal! and what a nice time she had of it that night, sitting on a little cricket before a blazing hickory fire, and eating the buttered cakes that her mother handed down to her from the table. Oh, you city children couldn't get up such a frontier appetite for your fricassees, and mince-pies, if you tried a lifetime.

"They didn't have any newspapers there."

Ah! there you have me! More especially as I had as lief go without my breakfast as without my newspaper; but, then, I can tell you, that there were things all the time happening there on the frontier, that many a newspaper editor would have given his scissors and easy chair to have got hold of, for his paper. I'll tell you about some.

One night Mitty lay in her little bed of straw and husks, almost asleep, when she heard her father at the door, singing out, "H-a-l-l-o-o! h-a-l-l-o-o!" as loud as ever he could; and then a faint voice, way off, caught it up, and echoed back, "H-a-l-l-o-o! h-a-l-l-o-o!" Then Mitty's father lit a great bright torch, and moved it, flaming, back and forth before the door; and in a little while a poor, weary, frightened traveler, who had got lost in the dark woods, heard the voice that had answered to his, and saw, by the torch, where to come to find Mr. Moore; and in less than an hour after, he was snoring away under Mr. Moore's roof, with a good, comfortable supper tucked under his ribs while the bears had to go without any.

_Bears?_ Certainly!--I didn't mention the gentlemen before, for fear it would make your mother trouble when it came your bed-time; but, nevertheless, it is a naked fact that _bears_ live on the frontier.

One day a woman came in to Mr. Moore's, crying and "taking on" in a most pitiful manner. Mitty couldn't understand (the woman sobbed so much) what it was all about; but she concluded that something _special_ was to pay, because her mother let her brown bread all burn to a crisp in the oven, while she was listening to her. Then her mother ran out in the cornfield, with her cap strings all flying, after her father; and Mr. Moore dropped his hoe, ran to the house and caught up a great tin horn, and stood at the door, blowing with all his might; "Too--hoo--too--hoo--too--hoo;" and then Orphy Smith, the next neighbor, caught up _his_ horn, and blew, too; and then the next, and the next; and, in a very short time, all the neighbors knew that Mr. Moore wanted them to come to his log house, just as fast as their horses legs could carry them.

So, in they flocked,--Orphy Smith, and Seth Jones, and Pete Parker, and Jesse Jenkins, and Eph. Ellet, and a whole host more; and Mitty's father told them that Desire Dibden's child (whose father had been killed by the Indians,) was lost in the woods; and that was _enough_ to say;--every man of them started off through the door, as if he had been shot out of a pop-gun, to help find the child.

Certainly;--didn't I tell you that "_farmers had hearts_?" When a child gets lost in the city, the fat old town crier (if he is paid for it) "takes his time" and his bell, and crawls through the street, whining out sleepily, "C-h-i-l-d l-o-s-t;" and the city folks pay about as much attention to it, as if you told them that a six-days' kitten had presumptuously stepped into a wash-tub.

You didn't catch the nice, big-hearted farmers acting that way; they didn't say it was none of their business,--that their corn wanted hoeing, and their hay wanted stacking, and their meadows wanted ploughing! The sight of that poor weeping mother was enough. They started right off in companies, to scour the woods for the poor, little, lost boy, hoping to find him before night-fall.

There sat poor Desire, in the chimney corner, sobbing and wringing her hands, and rocking her body to and fro. She wouldn't eat, though good, kind, motherly Mrs. Moore, baked, on purpose for her, some of her most tempting cakes; she wouldn't drink, though Mrs. Moore handed her a nice hot cup of tea. She did nothing but cry fit to break her heart; while sensible little Mitty whispered to her mother to know "if she hadn't better go out of the way, for fear the sight of her, safe in her mother's log house, might make poor Desire cry the harder."

Dinner time came; but the men didn't come back. Supper time;--then evening came on, dark and chilly, and Desire's lips grew paler every minute: still, no tidings yet of the boy. Through the long night she listened--listened--listened, till every gust of wind made her tremble like the leaves. Morning dawned,--noon came again,--then night. Then, indeed, at last they heard the tramp of heavy feet.

Desire sprang from her chair and ran toward the door, then back again to her seat, with her hands pressed tightly on her heart; then back to the door, as if her straining eye could pierce the darkness. It did, God pity her! What did she see? Her little Willy, quite dead, lying on a litter, carried by Mr. Moore and Orphy.

Poor little Willy! They had tracked him to an old shanty, in the woods, where he had gathered some dry leaves and slept. There was the mark of his little form upon the leaves. Then they tracked him out into the woods, along, along, farther than one would have thought his little feet could have carried him; and then they found him, with his little head leaning against a tree, quite dead from exhaustion and hunger.

Poor Desire! There wasn't one of those nice old farmers who wouldn't have given his farm to bring that little sleeper back to life. They took his mother's cold hands in theirs, and chafed them, and bathed her temples, and wept (strong men as they were) to think of the bitter waking she would have. But God was merciful;--she never _did_ wake in _this_ world. In Heaven she found her boy.

UNCLE JOLLY.

"Well, I declare! here it is New Year's morning again, and cold as Greenland, too," said Uncle Jolly, as he poked his cotton night-cap out of bed--"frost an inch thick on the windows, water all frozen in the pitcher, and I an old bachelor. Heigho! nobody to give any presents to--no little feet to come patting up to my bed to wish me 'A happy New Year.' Miserable piece of business! Wonder what ever became of that sister of mine who ran off with that poor artist? Wish she'd turn up somewhere with two or three children for me to love and pet. Heigh-ho! It's a miserable piece of business to be an old bachelor."

And Uncle Jolly broke the ice in the basin with his frost-nipped fingers, and buttoned his dressing gown tightly to his chin; then he went down stairs, swallowed a cup of coffee, an egg, and a slice of toast. Then he buttoned his surtout snugly up over them, and went out the front door into the street.

Such a crowd as there was buying New Year's presents. The toy-shops were filled with grandpas and grandmas, and aunts and uncles and cousins. As to the shopkeepers, what with telling prices, answering forty questions in a minute, and doing up parcels, they were as crazy as a bachelor tending a crying baby.

Uncle Jolly slipped along over the icy pavements, and finally halted in front of Tim Nonesuch's toy shop. You should have seen _his_ show windows! Beautiful English dolls at five dollars a-piece, dressed like Queen Vic's babies, with such plump little shoulders and arms that one longed to pinch 'em; and tea sets, and dinner sets, cunning enough, for a fairy to keep house with. Then, there were dancing Jacks, and jumping Jennys, and "Topsys," and "Uncle Toms" as black as the chimney back, with wool made of a raveled black stocking. Then, there were little work-boxes with gold thimbles and bodkins, and scissors in crimson velvet cases, and snakes that squirmed so naturally as to make you hop up on the table to get out of the way, and little innocent looking boxes containing a little spry mouse, that jumped into your face as soon as you raised the lid, and music boxes to place under your pillows when you had drank too strong a cup of green tea, and vinaigrettes that you could hold to your nose to keep you from fainting when you saw a dandy. Oh! I can tell you that Mr. Nonesuch understood keeping a toy shop; there were plenty of carriages always in front of it, plenty of taper fingers pulling over his wares, and plenty of husbands and fathers who returned thanks that New Year's didn't come _every_ day!

"Don't stay here, dear Susy, if it makes you cry," said the elder of two little girls; "I thought you said it would make you happy to come out and _look_ at the New Year's presents, though we couldn't _have_ any."

"I did think so," said Susy; "but it makes me think of last New Year's, when you and I lay cuddled together in our little bed, and papa came creeping up in his slippers, thinking we were asleep, and laid our presents on the table, and then kissed us both, and said, 'God bless the little darlings!' Oh! Katy--all the little girls in that shop have their papa's with them. I want MY papa," and little Susy laid her head on Katy's shoulder and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

"Don't, dear Susy," said Katy, wiping away her own tears with her little pinafore; "don't cry--mamma will see how red your eyes are,--poor, sick, tired mamma,--don't cry, Susy."

"Oh, Katy, I can't help it. See that tall man with the black whiskers, (don't he look like papa?) kissing that little girl. Oh! Katy," and Susy's tears flowed afresh.

Uncle Jolly couldn't stand it any longer;--he rushed into the toy shop, bought an armful of play-things helter-skelter, and ran after the two little girls.

"Here, Susy! here, Katy!" said he, "here are some New Year's presents from Uncle Jolly."

"Who is Uncle Jolly?"

"Well, he's uncle to all the poor little children who have no kind papa."