Chapter 8

"Now, where do you live, little pigeons?--got far to go?--toes all out your shoes here in January? Don't like it,--_my_ toes ain't out my shoes;--come in here, and let's see if we can find anything to cover them. There, now, (fitting them both to a pair,) that's something like; it will puzzle Jack Frost to find your toes now. Cotton clothes on? _I_ don't wear cotton clothes;--come in here and get some woolen shawls. Which do you like best, red, green, or blue?--plaids or stripes, hey?

"'Mother won't like it?' Don't talk to me;--mother's don't generally scratch people's eyes out for being kind to their little ones. I'll take care of that, little puss. Uncle Jolly's going home with you. 'How do _I_ know whether you have got any dinner or not?' _I've_ got a dinner--_you_ shall have a dinner, too. Pity if I can't have my own way--New Year's day, too.

"_That_ your home? p-h-e-w! I don't know about trusting my old bones up those rickety stairs,--old bones are hard to mend; did you know that?"

Little Susy opened the door, and Uncle Jolly walked in,--their momma turned her head, then with one wild cry of joy threw her arms about his neck, while Susy and Katy stood in the door-way, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

"Come here, come here," said Uncle Jolly; "I didn't know I was so near the truth this morning when I called myself your _Uncle_ Jolly; I didn't know what made my heart leap so when I saw you there in the street. Come here, I say; don't you ever shed another tear;--you see I don't,"--and Jolly tried to smile, as he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.

Wasn't that a merry New Year's night in Uncle Jolly's little parlor? Wasn't the fire warm and bright? Were not the tea cakes nice? Didn't Uncle Jolly make them eat till he had tightened their apron strings? Were their toes ever out of their shoes again? Did they wear cotton shawls in January? Did cruel landlords ever again make their mamma tremble and cry?

In the midst of all this plenty, did they forget "papa?" No, no! Whenever little Susy met in the street a tall, princely man with large black whiskers, she'd look at Katy and nod her little curly head sorrowfully, as much as to say--"Oh, Katy, I never--never can forget _my own dear papa_."

A PEEP UNDER GROUND.

THE RAFFERTYS AND THE ROURKES.

I have made up my mind, that there is nothing lost in New-York. You open your window and toss out a bit of paper or silk, and though it may be no bigger than a sixpence, it is directly snatched up and carried off, by a class of persons the Parisians call, "Chiffoniers" (rag-pickers)! You order a load of coal, or wood, to be dropped at your door;--in less than five minutes a whole horde of ragged children are greedily waiting round to pick up the chips, and bits, that are left after the wood or coal is carried in and housed; and often locks of hair are pulled out, and bloody noses ensue, in the strife to get the largest share. You will see these persons round the stores, looking for bits of paper, and silk, and calico, that are swept out by the clerks, upon the pavement; you will see them watching round provision shops, for decayed vegetables, and fruits, and rinds of melons, which they sell to keepers of pigs; you will see them picking up peach stones to sell to confectioners, who crack them and use the kernels; you will see them round old buildings, carrying off, at the risk of cracked heads, pieces of decayed timber, and old nails; you will see them round new buildings, when the workmen are gone to meals, scampering off with boards, shingles, and bits of scaffolding. I thought I had seen all the ingenuity there was to be seen, in picking up odds and ends in New-York, but I hadn't then seen Michael Rafferty!

Michael Rafferty, and Terence Rourke, who was a wood sawyer by profession, lived in a cellar together; the little Raffertys, and little Rourkes, with their mammas, filling up all the extra space, except just so much as was necessary to swing the cellar door open. A calico curtain was swung across the cellar for a boundary line, to which the little Rourkes and little Raffertys paid about as much attention, as the whites did to the poor Indians' landmarks.

At the time I became acquainted with the two families, quite a jealousy had sprung up on account of Mr. Rafferty's having made a successful butter speculation. Mrs. Rourke, in consequence, had kept the calico curtain tightly drawn for some weeks, and boxed six of the little Rourkes' ears (twelve in all,) for speaking to the little Raffertys through the rents in the curtain.

All this I learned from Mrs. Rafferty, as I sat on an old barrel in the north-west corner of her cellar. "It was always the way," she said, "if a body got up in the world, there were plenty of envious spalpeens, sure, to spite them for it;" which I took occasion to remark to Mrs. Rafferty, was as true, as anything I had ever had the pleasure of hearing her say.

Just then the cellar door swung open, and the great butter speculator, Mr. Michael Rafferty, walked in. He nodded his head, and gave an uneasy glance at the curtain, as much as to say "calicoes have ears." I understood it, and told him we had been very discreet. Upon which he said, "You see, they'll be afther staling my thrade, your ladyship, if they know how I manage about the butther."

"Tell me how you do it, Michael," said I; "you know women have a right to be curious.

"Well," said he, speaking in a confidential whisper, "your ladyship knows there are plenty of little grocery shops round in these poor neighborhoods, where they sell onions, and combs, and molasses, and fish, and tape, and gingerbread, and rum. Most of them sell milk, (none of the best, sure, but it does for the likes of us poor folks.) It stands round in the sun in the shop windows, your ladyship, till it gets turned, like, and when they have kept it a day or two, and find they can't sell it," (and here Michael looked sharp at the calico curtain,) "I buys it for two cents a quart, and puts it in that churn," (pointing to a dirty looking affair in the corner,) "and my old woman and I make it into butter." And he stepped carefully across the cellar, and pulled from _under the bed_, a keg, which he uncovered with a proud flourish, and sticking a bit of wood in it, offered me a taste, "just to thry it."

I couldn't have tasted it, if Michael had shot me; but I told him I dare say he understood his trade and hoped he found plenty of customers.

"I sell it as fast as I can make it," said he, putting on the cover and shoving it back under the bed again.

"What do you do with the buttermilk?" said I.

He looked at Mrs. Rafferty, and she pointed to the bright, rainbow ribbon on her cap.

"Sell it?" said I.

"Sure," said Michael, with a grin; "we are making money, your ladyship; we shall be afther moving out of this cellar before long, and away from the likes of them," (pointing in the direction of the curtain); "and, savin' your ladyship's presence," said he, running his fingers through his mop of wiry hair, "Irish people sometimes understhand dhriving a thrade as well as Yankees;" and Michael drew himself up as though General Washington couldn't be named on the same day with _him_.

Just then a little snarly headed boy came in with two pennies and a cracked plate, "to buy some butther."

"Didn't I tell your ladyship so?" said Michael. "Holy Mother!" he continued, as he pocketed the pennies, and gave the boy a short allowance of the vile stuff, "how I wish I had known how to make that butther when every bone in me body used to ache sawin' wood, and the likes o' that,--to say nothing of the greater respictability of being in the mercantile profession."

Well, well, thought I, as I traveled home, this is high life under ground, in New-York.

"BALD EAGLE;"

OR,

THE LITTLE CAPTIVES.

Do you like Indians? Our forefathers didn't admire them much. They had seen too many scalps hanging at their belts, and had heard their war whoops rather too often, to fancy such troublesome neighbors. They never felt as if they were safe, and wouldn't have thought ever of going to meeting without a loaded musket. I suppose that's the way the fashion originated for men to sit at the bottom of the pews, and women and children up at the other end. The men wanted to get on their feet quickly if a posse of Indians yelled at the door. Ah! men were _men_, then, from the tips of their noses to their shoe-ties; they didn't wear plaid pants, and use perfume and Macassar, as they do now-a-days.

And the women, too! they were not ashamed to be seen in calico dresses, and did not go about the country making orations and wearing dickeys. I had rather see an Indian, any time, than such a woman.

Sometimes the men were obliged to go away from home, and then they left a loaded gun where their wives could use it, in case the Indians came while they were absent. The Indians are very cunning. They used to watch their chance; and often, when a man came back to his home, he would find it a pile of smoking ruins, and his wife and children killed, or, what was worse, carried away captives.

You wouldn't have relished living in those days, would you? What do you think you would have done had the Indians come into your door?--scampered under the bed, or seized the gun and defended your mother? It is hard telling, isn't it? I'm very glad you are not obliged to live in such days. The poor Indians had also their story of wrong to tell. God will judge both rightly.

The sun shone brightly one autumn afternoon into a room where two little children were playing, in a pretty little village in the State of South Carolina. "Robert," said little Nina, to a dark-eyed boy of twelve years, "I'm tired of staying in this unfurnished room; it isn't pretty. Hasn't mother most done baking, Robert? Can't we go into the kitchen? I'm afraid of the Indians, too, without mamma."

Robert took his little sister in his arms, and stroked her little black head, and kissed her cheek, and then he drew himself proudly up, saying, "Nina? Do you see that gun? Well, it is loaded, and I know how to use it."

"Oh, Robert!" said Nina, "hush! Is not that mamma screaming? Oh, Robert, hide me--the Indians--the Indians!"

Robert had just time to seize his gun, when a tall Indian opened the door, and receiving the contents of it in his face, fell, quivering, to the floor.

Bald Eagle, the chief of the party, heard the report of Robert's gun, and rushed in with a dozen Indians. Robert, with his eye flashing, was standing over the dead Indian, with one arm round his little sister, who was clinging to his jacket.

Bald Eagle admired bravery; so, when the other Indians seized Robert by the hair to tomahawk him, for killing their comrade, he said, "No;--the pappoose is brave enough to make a chief. He shall go home with Bald Eagle and be his son."

The Indians frowned, for they thirsted for somebody's blood. They seized hold of Nina's long curls to kill _her_; but Robert clung to the old chief's knees, and, though he didn't think much of girls or women, Bald Eagle said, "She shall live--to please the boy."

The Indians lowered their tomahawks, for they didn't dare to disobey Bald Eagle, and led Nina and Robert out of the house, which had been set on fire and was beginning to burn.

As they passed the kitchen door, Nina gave a loud scream, for there lay her mother, across the threshold, quite dead. The old chief lifted his tomahawk, frowning at her fiercely from beneath his nodding plume, and Robert whispered, "Hush, Nina, or they will kill you, too;" and Nina stifled her sobs, and permitted the Indians to lead her away.

What a weary, weary march they had of it, through the forest; and how Nina shrunk when the Indians lifted her up to carry her in their arms; how she looked imploringly at Robert, and how he smiled and nodded, and tried to make her feel as if he would protect her always. How frightened she was when Bald Eagle tied a cord to Robert's hands every night, and fastened the end of it to his wrists before he went to sleep; and how she used to lie awake and look at those grim old Indians, sleeping there on their blankets, and think of her mother, till it seemed as though God must be dead, or such wicked men wouldn't be alive.

After many, many miles had been traveled over, they reached the Indian camp, where the squaws and pappooses and old men lived. The old squaws walked round Nina, and turned her about, and then they gave her some food which she couldn't eat, because she wanted to cry so much; and they gave her a blanket, to wrap round her, and taught her how to sew beads on bags and moccasins, and put a pair of pewter earrings in her ears, and combed her hair all back, and named her "The Little Fawn," and tried to make a little Indian of her.

Bald Eagle was very fond of Robert. He named him "The Young Eagle;" and gave him a bow and arrow, and a gun; and took him out hunting; and every time he shot a bird, or wounded a deer, he would pat him on the head and say: "Good,--by and by scalp the pale faces."

Robert never contradicted Bald Eagle, but appeared as if he were quite contented, and tried to shoot as well as he could, to please him; and so Bald Eagle gave him much more liberty to run about, and thought every thing he did was about right.

But Robert had a great many thoughts passing in that little head of his, that Bald Eagle knew very little about. He couldn't look at Nina's little pale, sorrowful face without resolving to get away as soon as he could. It made his heart ache to see her wrapped in that ugly blanket, sitting there sewing beads, instead of learning to read and spell and write; and whenever he got a chance he would whisper something in her ear that would make her smile, and nod her little head, and press his hand confidingly.

Bald Eagle had a brother-in-law named "Winged Arrow," because he could run so fast. He was a white man that had been taken captive by the Indians some years before, and had married Bald Eagle's sister. Robert liked him,--perhaps, because he was a pale face; perhaps, because he thought he might pity him and Nina enough to help them get away some time; so, he used to stay all he could with Winged Arrow, and bring him game that he shot; and Nina worked a pair of moccasins for his squaw; and Winged Arrow was a very good friend to them.

One day he and Robert were out hunting together, and Robert told him how much he wanted to get away with Nina; and then Winged Arrow told him that he was getting tired of Indian life, too; and that very soon there was to be a hunting party, when all the Indians would go away for two days, leaving Nina and Robert with the squaws and some old chiefs, and that he (Winged Arrow) was to go, too. But he said that he would pretend to hurt his foot just as they started, so as to be left behind; and then he would manage to get away with Nina and Robert.

Robert didn't jump up and down and clap his hands;--no; he had lived among the Indians too long for that; he just nodded, as gravely as if he were sitting with Bald Eagle over a council fire, and they separated and went into the wigwam.

Well, the hunting day name, and Winged Arrow managed to get left; and after the Indians had all gone, Nina, who sat making moccasins, asked the old squaw to let her play with Robert outside the wigwam. At first, she said no; but Winged Arrow said he would watch them; so she gave them leave.

They played about some time, running in and out of the wigwam, and then going off, gradually, farther and further. By and by Winged Arrow joined them, and getting out of sight, he caught Nina in his arms, and made good his name never stopping to breathe till they were miles and miles away from the encampment.

Toward nightfall of the second day, they halted for a few minutes, when a dog bounded past them, that belonged to the tribe. Winged Arrow knew that unless the dog was instantly killed, he would run back and betray them. He did not dare to shoot him with his rifle, on account of the noise; so he told Robert to fire an arrow at him; and then Winged Arrow knocked him in the head with his gun, and hid him under the bushes.

Then Winged Arrow put his ear to the ground and listened; then he caught up Nina and ran (telling Robert to follow) till they came to a stream in which they all waded for some distance, to throw their followers off the trail. Then Winged Arrow stepped out and put Nina up in a great tree, and Robert and he got up in another. Before long Bald Eagle and several other Indians came along, listening and peeping, and finally halted under the very trees where they were; and some of the Indians proposed building a council fire and staying there all night, but Bald Eagle objected; so they rested a while and then moved on.

You may be sure that the children were in a dreadful fright, and very glad, when they came down, to be on the Indians' trail, instead of having them on theirs.

Winged Arrow made up his mind to take the children to Charleston, where the American army was; so, they traveled cautiously on, not meeting any more Indians, till they reached the American camp in safety.

Robert and Nina were so glad to get among white people again, even though they were strangers. The General was very kind, and promised to protect them.

It was not long before Bald Eagle found them out. He really loved Robert, and was quite determined to have him back. When he saw him again, although he was an Indian, he almost cried for joy.

The General asked Robert if he wished to go back with Bald Eagle. Robert put his arms around Nina and said, "No!" Bald Eagle looked very sorrowful, but the General wouldn't let him have the children; so he had to go away home, to his old squaw, without 'em.

Winged Arrow found kind friends who gave him some work to do, and he and Robert and Nina lived together very happily. You never would have guessed, had you seen Nina in her little calico dress and white apron, with her curls hanging about her face, that she had ever made moccasins, or worn a blanket in an Indian wigwam.

As to Robert, if your father could have heard his speeches, he wouldn't have been sorry that "a chief" was spoiled, to make a lawyer.

A STREET SCENE.

I was taking a walk, some mouths since, when I saw a carriage driving at a furious rate over the pavements. Inside was a woman, with a handkerchief bound under her chin, spotted with blood, and in her lap a little girl with her arm in a sling, and drops of blood upon her collar and face.

The woman was pretty, spite of the blood-stained handkerchief about her face, and was caressing the frightened girl upon her lap in such a gentle, womanly way, that I concluded she must be her mother. On the box, with the coachman, was a police officer. What could it all mean?

I will tell you.

Some years ago, in one of the handsomest houses in New-York, lived a lady and her husband, and a little girl named Rosa. They had plenty of money, plenty of servants, and, of course, plenty of friends. They had a fine carriage and horses, and every day you might have seen Mrs. Simon, dressed like a queen, seated upon the velvet cushions, with black John, the coachman, upon the box, and black Peter, the footman, standing behind, while little Rosa, as gay as a little paroquet, peered out from her little plumed hat, laughing merrily at all the fine sights she saw.

The shop-keepers flew round as if they had St. Vitus' dance, when Mrs. Simon's carriage stopped at their door, with the glossy, sleek-coated horses and their silver-mounted harness, and the liveried servants. They bowed and smirked, and skipped round, and pulled little "Cash's" ears for not getting her "change" quicker, and offered to send home any, and all, and every bundle she chose to order, quicker than chain lightning, if it were only a paper of No. 6 needles.

When she got into her carriage again, and rode down Broadway, whiskered gentlemen on the pavement hoisted their beavers, and bent themselves as low as their corsets would possibly allow, and ladies nodded, and showed their pretty little teeth, and declared that Mrs. Simon was "a perfect little love."

From all this show and luxury, she came down to an empty purse, and a widow's weeds. Her husband lost all his property at once. Money was all the poor man had ever cared for. He had not the courage to live and look his misfortune boldly in the face, but took his own life, (like a coward,) and left his dainty wife and child to bear _alone_ the cross that his manly shoulders couldn't carry.

Well, Mrs. Simon buried her husband, and then looked about her for her friends; but alas! they had all fled, like butterflies, with the sunshine. Her fine house, furniture and carriage and horses, were all taken from her, to pay her husband's debts; and she wandered forth, no one knew whither.

My dear children, it is a very sad thing to be proud and poor. Mrs. Simon was very proud. She could not make up her mind to work. She fancied, poor mistaken woman, that it would degrade her. She didn't see that all whose opinion is worth caring for, would respect her the more, for her striving to earn bread for herself and her child.

So she sat and cried, and worried herself almost sick, instead of looking at little Rosa, and then stepping out, with a brave heart, and saying: I have been rich; I am now poor:--I want some work to do. She couldn't bring her mind to _that_; so, as I told you, she disappeared, nobody knew whither, and the world went on just the same without her.

Other gay carriages rolled up and down Broadway, with the glittering harness, and sleek horses, and pampered servants; bearing ladies as gay and as pretty as Mrs. Simon. None of them asked what had become of their old friend; they were all too busy about their own affairs; frolicking and dancing away their lives, just as if they were to live that way forever.

Where was Mrs. Simon? If you had looked into a house where wicked people dwell, who live by breaking all God's commandments, there you would have found her and little Rosa.

Was she happy there? Can any body be happy who makes up his mind to do wrong? No; poor woman; she dreaded nothing so much as her own thoughts; and sometimes when Rosa bounded into the room, she would start us if a serpent had stung her. She didn't think when she went there, that sickness and death would come to her in that wretched place; but they did. And what was to become of little, innocent Rosa? Must she die and leave her _there_? The thought of it made great drops of agony start out on her pale face. She looked about her. There were none there who feared either God or man, and her moments were fast numbering. She called to her bedside one of the inmates who had been kind to her--a young girl, whose heart was not hard and stony. She said to her, with her hands clasped,

"Promise me, before I die, that you will get Rosa away from this wretched place--quick--promise!"

"I will, I will!" said the young girl, wiping the death-damp from her forehead.

The grave closed over poor Mrs. Simon and her errors; and poor little Rosa sobbed as if she had been the best mother in the world; and then the young girl, of whom I have spoken, whispered to Rosa that _she_ would be kind to her,--and so she was; for Mrs. Simon's death had made her think of a great many good thoughts, and she wanted to get away, too, and live where God was feared.