A MERRY CHRISTMAS
George Underhill came down and made a nice long visit. He felt he liked his own home people a little the best, but his heart was still set on farming. Thanksgiving came after a lovely Indian summer, such as one rarely sees now. Then each State appointed its own Thanksgiving, and there were people who boasted of partaking of three separate dinners.
After that it was cold. The little girl had a good warm cloak and hood and mittens, and it was nothing to run to school. She studied and played, and knew two pretty exercises on the piano. Jim and Benny Frank grew like weeds. But Benny somehow "gave in" to the boys, and two or three of the school bullies did torment him.
"I'd just give it to them!" declared Jim. "I wouldn't be put upon and called baby and a mollycoddle and have that Perkins crowding me off the line and losing marks. I'd give him such a right-hander his head would hum like a swarm of bees."
It was not because Benny was afraid. But he was a peace-loving boy and he thought fighting brutal and vulgar. His books were such a delight. He liked to go in and talk to Mr. Theodore, as they all called the eldest Whitney son. Mr. Theodore in his newspaper capacity had found out so many queer things about old New York, they really called New York that in early 1800. He had such wonderful portfolios of pictures, and nothing in the Whitney house was too good to use.
Hanny often went in as well. And though Dele was such a harum-scarum sort of girl, she was good to the children and found no end of diversions for them. Nora was a curious, grave little thing, and her large dark eyes in her small, sallow face looked almost uncanny. She devoured fairy stories and knew many of the mythological gods and goddesses. They had a beautiful big cat called Old Gray. It really belonged to Mr. Theodore, but Nora played with it and tended it, and dressed it up in caps and gowns and shawls and carried it around. It certainly was a lovely tempered cat. Hanny was divided in her affection between the Deans' dolls and Nora's cat. The play-house was too cold to use now, and Mrs. Dean objected to having it all moved down to her sewing-room. But Mr. Theodore's room had a delightful grate, a big old lounge, a generous centre-table where the girls used to play house under the cover, and such piles of books everywhere, so many pictures on the wall, such curious pipes and swords and trophies from different lands. You really never knew whether it was cleared up or not, and the very lawlessness was attractive.
Sometimes they sat in the big rocker, that would hold both, and they would divide the cat between them and sing to her. Occasionally kitty would tire of such unceasing attention, and emit a long, appealing m-i-e-u. If Mr. Theodore was there—and he never seemed to mind the little girls playing about—he would say, "Children, what are you doing to that cat?" and they would no longer try to divide her, but let her curl up in her own fashion.
"Oh, mother!" said the little girl, one rainy afternoon when she had to stay in, "couldn't we have a Sunday cat that didn't have to stay out in the stable and catch mice for a living? Nora's is so nice and cunning and you can talk to it just as if it was folks. And you can't quite make dolls, folks. You have to keep making b'lieve all the time."
"Martha doesn't like cats. And Jim would torment it and plague you continually. And you know I wouldn't let Jim's little dog come in the house."
"But so many people do have cats."
"There's hardly room with so many folks. You wait until Christmas and see what Santa Claus brings you," said her mother cheerily.
There came a little snow and the boys brought out their sleds. For two days the air was alive with shouts and snowballing, and then it was like a drift of gray sand alongside of the street gutter. But winter had fairly set in. Stoves were up.
In the back room at the Underhills' they had a fire of logs on the hearth, and it was delightful.
Ben was tormented more and more. The boys knocked off his cap in the gutter and made up rhymes about him which they sang to any sort of tune. This was one:
"Benjamin Franklin Underhill,
Was a little boy too awfully still:
Forty bears came out of the wood,
And ate up the boy so awfully good."
"Come out from under that hill," while some boy would reply, "Oh, he dassent! He's afraid his shadder'll meet him in the way."
One day he came home with his pocket all torn out. Perkins had slipped a crooked stick in it and given it what the boys called a "yank."
"Go in and ask your mother for a needle and thread. You'll make a good tailor!" he jeered.
"What is all this row about?" asked his mother, who was in the front basement.
Ben held out his jacket ruefully, and said, "Perkins never would leave him alone."
Jim had complained and said Ben always showed the white feather. Mrs. Underhill couldn't endure cowards. She was angry, too, to see his nice winter jacket in such a plight.
"Benny Frank, you just march out and thrash that Perkins boy, or I'll thrash you! I don't care if you are almost as tall as I am. A great boy of fifteen who can't take his own part! I should be ashamed! March straight out!"
She took him by the shoulder and turned him round, whisked him out in the area before he knew where he was. She would not have him so meek and chicken-hearted.
Ben stood a moment in surprise. Jim had been scolded for his pugnacity. Perkins was always worse when Jim wasn't around.
"Go on!" exclaimed his mother.
Ben walked out slowly. The boys were down the street. If they would only go away. He passed the Whitneys and halted. He could rescue hounded cats and tormented dogs, and once had saved a little child from being run over. But to fight—in cold blood!
"Oh, here comes my Lady Jane!" sang out some one.
"She's quite too young—
To be ruled by your false, flattering tongue."
"Sissy, wouldn't your mother mend your coat? Keep out of the way of the ragman!"
Perkins was balancing himself on one foot on the curbstone.
"Come on, Macduff!" he cried tragically.
Macduff came on with a quick step. Before the boys could think he strode up to Perkins and with a well-directed blow landed him in the sloppy débris of snow and mud, where the children had been making a pond. And before he could recover Ben was upon him, roused to his utmost. The boys were nearly of a size. They rolled over and over amid the plaudits of their companions, and Ben, who hated dirt and mud and all untidiness, didn't mind now. He kept his face pretty well out of the way, and presently sat on his adversary and held one hand, grasping at the other.
The boys cheered. A fight was a fight, if it was between the best friends you had.
"Beg," said Ben.
"I'll see you in Guinea first!"
Ben sat still. The kicks were futile. With such a heavy weight breathing was a difficult matter.
"You—you—if you'd said fight I'd a-known——" and Perkins gasped.
"Oh, let up, Ben. You've licked him! We didn't think 'twas in you. Come—fair play."
"There's a good deal in me," cried Ben sturdily. "And I'm going to sit here all night till Perkins begs. I've a good seat. You boys keep out. 'Tisn't your fight. And you all know I hate fighting. It may do for wild animals in a jungle."
Ben's lip was swelling a little. A tooth had cut into it. But his eyes were clear and sparkling and his whole face was resolute. Perkins' attempts at freeing his hands grew more feeble.
"Boys, can't you help a fellow?"
"'Twas a fair thing, Perk. You may as well own up beat. Come, no snivelling."
Quite a crowd was gathering. There was no policeman to interfere.
Perkins made a reluctant concession. Ben sprang up and was off like a shot. His mother met him at the door.
"Go up-stairs and put on your best clothes, Ben," she said, "and take those down to the barn." She knew he had come off victor.
"I s'pose I'd had to do it some time," Ben thought to himself. "Mother's awful spunky when she's roused. I hope I won't have to go on and lick the whole crew! I just hate that kind of work."
As he came down his mother kissed him on the white forehead, but neither said a word.
When he went in to see Mr. Theodore that evening he told him the story. It was queer, but he would not have admitted to any one else his mother's threat. Mr. Theodore laughed and said boys generally had to make their own mark in that fashion. Then he thought they would try a game of chess, as Ben knew all the moves.
Jim was surprised and delighted to hear the story the next day. He nodded his head with an air of satisfaction.
"Ben's awful strong," he said. "He could thrash any boy of his size. But he isn't spoiling for a fight."
A few days later there came a real snowstorm of a day and a night. Jim sprung the old joke on Hanny "that they were all snowed up, and the snow was over the tops of the houses." She ran to the window in her night-dress to see. Oh, how beautiful it was! The red chimneys grew up out of the white fleece, the windows were hooded, the trees and bushes were long wands of soft whiteness, the clothes-line posts wore pointed caps.
"Don't stand there in the cold," said Margaret.
They all turned out to shovel snow. The areas were full. The sidewalks all along were being cleared, and it made a curious white wall in the street. Mr. Underhill insisted that the boys should level theirs. Some wagons tried to get through and made an odd, muffled sound. Then there was the joyful jingle of bells. The sun came out setting the world in a vivid sparkle, while the sky grew as blue as June.
Not to have snow for Christmas would have spoiled the fun and been a bad sign. People really did believe "a green Christmas would make a fat graveyard." It was so much better in the country to have the grain and meadows covered with the nice warm mantle, for it was warm to them.
Father Underhill took the little girl to school, for all the walks were not cleared. Men and boys were going around with shovels on their shoulders, offering their services.
"I could earn a lot of money if I didn't have to go to school to-day," said Jim, with a longing look at the piles of snow. "If it only was Saturday!"
But there was no end of fun at school. The boys began two snow-forts, and the snowballing was something tremendous. The air was crisp and cold, and it gave everybody red cheeks.
Before night the stage sleighs were running, for the omnibuses really couldn't get along. Steve came home early to take the boys and Hanny out. Hanny still wore the red cloak and a pretty red hood and looked like a little fairy.
They went over to the Bowery. You can hardly imagine the gay sight it was. Everything that could be put on runners was there, from the dainty cutter to the lumbering grocery box wagon. And oh, the bells on the frosty air! It was enough to inspire a hundred poets.
There were four horses to the long sleigh. Steve found a seat and took the little girl on his lap, covering her with an extra shawl. The boys dropped down on their knees in the straw. It was a great jam, but everybody was jolly and full of good-natured fun. Now and then a youngster threw a snowball that made a shower of snow in the sleigh, but the passengers shook it off laughingly.
They went down to the Battery and just walked across. Castle Garden was a great white mound. Brooklyn looked vague and ghostly. The shipping was huddled in the piers with fleecy rigging, and only a few brave vessels were breasting the river, bluer still than the sky. And here there was such a splendid turnout it looked like a pageant.
They came up East Broadway. The street lamps were just being lighted. They turned up Columbia Street and Avenue D, and stopped when they came to Houston Street. A man on the corner was selling hot waffles as fast as half a dozen men could bake them, and a colored woman had a stand of hot coffee that scented up the air with its fragrance.
They had to walk up home, but Steve carried Hanny over all the crossings. It was a regular carnival. The children decided snow in New York was ever so much more fun than snow in the country.
But after a few days they settled to it as a regular thing, though the sleighs were flying about in their tireless fashion, making the air musical with bells. And Christmas was coming.
It really was Christmas then. Not to have hung up your stocking would have been an insult to the sweetest, merriest, wisest, tenderest little man in the world. There were some fireplaces left for him to come down, and he was on hand promptly.
And such appetizing smells as lurked in every corner of the house! Fruit cake, crullers and doughnuts, and mince pies! Everybody was busy from morning till night. When Hanny went to the kitchen some one said, "Run up-stairs, child, you'll be in the way here," and Margaret would hustle something in her apron and say, "Run down-stairs, Hanny dear," until it seemed as if there was no place for her.
The Dean children were busy, too. But Nora Whitney didn't seem to have anything to do but nurse dear Old Gray and read fairy stories. Delia told them Ophelia was to be married Christmas morning, and "they were going over to his folks in Jersey to spend a week."
"But it won't make a bit of difference," Delia announced. "Frank has a steady beau now and they'll take the parlor. And then, I suppose, it'll be my turn. I shall just hate to be grown up and have long skirts on and do up my hair, and be so fussy about everything. When I think of that I wish I was a boy."
The little girl wondered if Margaret would get married next Christmas. Her gowns were quite long now, and she did have a grown-up air. It seemed years since last Christmas. So many things had happened.
The cousins were to come down from Tarrytown and make a visit, and Aunt Patience and Aunt Nancy were to come up from Henry Street for the Christmas dinner. If they only could bring the cat!
"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" some one shouted while it was still dark. Hanny woke out of a sound sleep. "Merry Christmas," said Margaret with a kiss.
"Oh dear, I shan't get ahead of anybody," she sighed. "Do you think I could get up, Peggy?"
"I must light a candle," Margaret said.
"Come down and see what's in your stocking, Han!" shouted Jim.
Margaret sprang out of bed and put on the little girl's warm woollen wrapper and let her go down. She ran eagerly to her mother's room, and her father made believe asleep that she might wake him up. She wanted to wish some one Merry Christmas the first of all.
Two wax candles were burning in the back room and the fire was crackling. There were stockings and stockings, and hers were such little mites that some one had hung a white bag on the brass nail that held the feather-duster, and marked it "For Hanny." And a box lay in a chair.
There was a cruller man with eyes, nose, and mouth. There were candies galore, the clarified ones, red and yellow, idealized animals of all kinds. There was an elegant silver paper cornucopia tied with blue ribbons. There was a box of beautiful pop-corn that had turned itself inside out. Ribbon for her hair, a paint-box, a case of Faber pencils, handkerchiefs, a lovely new pink merino dress, a muff that purported to be ermine, a pair of beautiful blue knit slippers tied with ribbons. These didn't come from Santa Claus, for they had on a card—"With best love and a Merry Christmas, from Dolly." That was Dolly Beekman. Hanny laid them up against her face and kissed them, they were so soft and beautiful.
She drew a long breath before she opened the box. Of course it couldn't be a real live kitty. John and Steve were coming in at the door.
"Merry Christmas!" she shouted with the boys They were not so very far ahead of her.
Steve caught her under the arms and held her almost up to the ceiling, it seemed. She was so little and light.
"Ten kisses before you can come down."
She paid the ten kisses, and would have given twice the number.
"I'm trying to guess what is in the box." She looked perplexed and a crease came between her eyes.
"It's a chrononhontontholagosphorus!"
"A—what?" Her face was a study.
The boys shouted with laughter.
"Yes, Joe sent it. Santa Claus had given his all out, and Joe had to skirmish around sharp to get one."
"Is it alive?" she asked timidly, her eyes growing larger with something that was almost fright.
"Oh, Steve!" said Margaret, in an upbraiding tone. "Boys, you're enough to frighten one."
Steve untied the string and took off the cover. Hanny had tight hold of her sister's hand. Steve lifted some tissue paper and tilted up the box. There lay a lovely wax doll with golden hair, a smiling mouth that just betrayed some little teeth, eyes that would open and shut. She was dressed in light-blue silk and beautiful lace. Though her mother had said she was too big to have a doll, Joe knew better.
She was almost speechless with joy. Then she knelt down beside it and took one pretty hand.
"Oh," she said, "I wish you could know how glad I am to have you! There's only one thing that could make me any gladder, that would be to have you alive!" Steve winked his eyes hard. Her delight was pathetic.
Then she had to see the boys' Christmas. Benny Frank had a new suit of clothes, Jim had a pair of boots, which was every boy's ambition then, and an overcoat. And lots of books, pencils, gloves, and the candy it would not have been Christmas without.
Mr. Underhill poked up the fire and took the little girl on his knee. Mrs. Underhill put out the candles, for it was daylight, and then went down to help get breakfast. Cousin Fannie and Roseann, as Mrs. Eustis was always called, came in and had to express their opinion of everything. Then breakfast was ready.
John went down in the sleigh for Aunt Patience and Aunt Nancy Archer. They were not own sisters but sisters-in-law and each had a comfortable income. It did not take very much to make people comfortable then. They owned their house and rented some rooms.
Hanny had to go in and see Josie and Tudie Dean's Christmas and bring them in to inspect hers. Then Dele and Nora Whitney were her next callers. Nora had a silk dress and a gold ring with a prettily set turquoise.
"The marriage was at ten," began Dele, "and it was just nothing at all. I wouldn't be married in such a doleful way. She just had on a brown silk dress with lots of lace, and white gloves, and the minister came and it was all over in ten minutes. There was wedding-cake and wine. I've brought you in some to dream on. Nora and I are going down to Auntie's in Beach Street where there's to be a regular party and a Christmas tree and lots of fun. After 'Phelia comes back she's going to have a wedding-party and wear her real wedding-dress."
Nora thought the doll beautiful. Hanny just lifted it out of the box and put it back. It seemed almost too sacred to touch.
Jim went out presently to get some Christmas cake. The grocers and bakers treated the children of their customers to what was properly New Year's cake, and the boys thought it no end of fun to go around and wish Merry Christmas.
The dinner was at two. Doctor Joseph came in to dine and to be congratulated by the cousins. The little girl's gratitude and delight was very sweet to him. He put up the piano stool and she played her pretty little exercises for him. Then about four he and Steve went down to the Beekmans, where there was a dancing party in the evening.
The elders sat and talked, to Benny Frank's great delight. The "old times" seemed so wonderful to the children. Aunt Patience was the elder of the two ladies, just turned seventy now, and had lived in New York all her life. She had seen Washington when he was the first President of the United States, and lived in Cherry Street with Mrs. Washington and the two Custis children. Afterward they had removed to the Macomb House. Everything had been so simple then, people going to bed by nine o'clock unless on very special occasions. To go to the old theatre on John Street was considered the height of fashionable amusement. You saw the Secretaries and their families, and the best people in the city.
But what amused the children most was the Tea Water Pump.
"You see," said Aunt Patience, "we had nice cisterns that caught rainwater for family use, and we think now our old cistern-water is enough better than the Croton for washing. There were a good many wells but some were brackish and poor, and people were saying then they were not fit to use. The Tea Water pump was on the corner of Chatham and Pearl, and particular people bought it at a penny a gallon. It was carried around in carts, and you subscribed regularly. My, how choice we were of it!"
"There's a pump down here at the junction that's just splendid!" said Jim, "I used to go for water last summer, it was so good and cold."
"We miss our nice spring at home," said Mrs. Underhill, with a sigh.
"And what else?" subjoined Ben.
"Oh, the milk did not go round in wagons. There were not half so many people to supply. We kept a cow and sold to our neighbors. The milkmen had what was called a yoke over their shoulders, with a tin can at each end. They used to cry, 'Milk ho! ye-o!' The garbage man rang his bell and you brought out your pail. A few huckster men were beginning to go round, but Hudson Market was the place to buy fresh vegetables that came in every morning. And, oh, there were the chimney-sweeps!"
"We had our chimney swept here," said Jim. "The man had a long jointed handle and a wiry brush at the end."
"But then there were little negro boys who climbed up and down and sometimes scraped them as they went. But several were smothered or stuck fast in London and it was considered cruel and dangerous. You'd hear the boys in the morning with their 'Sweep ho!' and you wouldn't believe how many variations they could make to it."
"Poor little boys!" said Hanny. "Didn't they get awful black and sooty?"
The boys laughed. "They were black to begin with," said Jim. "All they had to do was to shake themselves."
"And how do you suppose Santa Claus keeps so clean?" asked the little girl, nothing daunted.
That was a poser. No one could quite tell.
"We used to burn out our chimney," announced Aunt Patience.
"Burn it out?"
"Yes. We'd take a rather lowering day, or start in just as it was beginning to rain. We'd put a heap of straw in the fireplace and kindle it, and the soot would soon catch. Then some one would go up on the roof to see if the sparks caught anywhere. We never let it get very dirty. But presently they passed a law that no one should do it on account of the danger. But sometimes chimneys caught fire by accident," and Aunt Patience laughed.
"Why, it was like the wolf in little Red Riding Hood," declared Hanny.
Then they all talked of the old roads and streets and the Collect which was a great marshy pond, and the canal through Lispenard's meadows over to the North River, where present Canal Street runs. In the Collect proper there was a beautiful clear lake where people went fishing. A great hill stood on Broadway, and had to be cut down more than twenty feet.
Father Underhill recalled his first visit to the city when he was nineteen, and going skating with some cousins. And now it was all graded and finished streets, houses, and stores.
But Aunt Patience said it was time to go home, and they planned for the Morgan cousins to come and spend the day. They were to bring the little girl with them.
They had a light supper and then John escorted the ladies home. Benny Frank wanted his father to tell some more incidents of the old times. The little girl was tired and sleepy and ready to go to bed, but she had one wish saved up for next Christmas already—a set of dishes.