A Little Girl in Old Chicago

by Amanda M. Douglas

Crops were excellent. It seemed as if everything was prosperous and people were full of stir and spirit and hope. We girls used to go in town, as we called it. There were some stores with very pretty goods, and the two quite pretentious drug stores with red and blue jars. I told Sophie about Rosamond, and we wondered how any one could be so silly as to make a sacrifice for a purple jar.

"I just wish I could find some little girls willing to buy them. Mother makes such beautiful dyes," declared Sophie.

Madame Piaget, later on, made quite a little money by dyeing goods.

Of all the places, I liked the bookstore best. There were various articles besides books. Cigars, tobacco, papers from Black Rock, rather from the cities of the east. No matter if the news was a month old if we had not heard it before. Father was very fond of reading about the advances Boston was making.

"I wish we had a greater grasp of intelligence," he would say. Then with a sigh—"But one must have food and shelter first, and a town like this is going to cost a mint of money before we get through. Why, they're talking of raising the whole thing, so the river and the lake will not overflow. Pity it's so low, and no mountains about us to cast into the sea," with a chuckle. "If we had had faith to move 'em, we might transport some from Virginia or Tennessee, or we might find some nearer home, up Michigan way, or farther west. But I'm afraid we haven't the faith, so we must go at the work with good courage."

The Chicago River was not very wide then, but it had a considerable depth. It seemed as if the earth had been split open at some time just as a mighty plough had turned a furrow. It had no current to speak of and was a source of great discomfort.

It was true Chicago did not begin intellectually. There was too much work to do, and all honor to those who evolved a great city out of a trading station after years of work.

But we did take note of what was going on outside. Dickens was attracting attention, and Mr. Harris and his sister were quite enthusiastic about him until he had visited America and written the "Notes," showing up a certain uncouthness and sharpness in national character that was very displeasing. As if England had reached her full glory in a few years instead of centuries. I liked Sir Walter Scott best, though Thackeray was much talked of. I was fond of the illustrations—how crude we thought them twenty years afterward! There was a Mr. Cooper writing Indian stories and novels of the earlier history of the country, but Boston was considered a kind of head centre. And though there were such stirring episodes all up and down the Mississippi River, the Gulf of Mexico and the islands below that, no one thought of putting them in print. Madame Piaget knew many stories about John Lafitte, who had once been such a terror and defied the authorities on his curious unconquerable island. But I liked to hear how he came and offered his services to General Jackson when New Orleans was in danger by the British; and I used to wonder about the old wonderful Spanish French town, with its balconies overhung with roses that bloomed all the year round, and the beautiful women sitting on them and looking down at the passers-by, the streets full of bright merriment and music.

Chicago had begun to consider a regular water supply. The water carts had been the main dependence. Now at Lake Street and Michigan Avenue plans were laid for a great reservoir. An iron pipe was to run out in the lake about a hundred and fifty feet to clear water. There was to be a big pump, worked by steam engines of twenty-five horsepower. Large logs were bored for the water to run through. We all thought it wonderful then, and throngs of people crowded around on Sunday to view the progress, making various amusing comments. Ten years later the work was renewed on what was considered a magnificent scale, and even this was presently outgrown.

I was happy and busy through those years and making friends with the girls, the boys as well. We all played together, rambled around, went to each other's houses and spent evenings in guessing riddles, telling stories and reciting incidents or poems. The girls joined in ball playing and running races. Polly Morrison distanced all competitors, even the boys. I used to like to see her. She never "wriggled," nor threw out her arms like sails, but seemed to cut the air in a straight line. It was like the flying of a bird.