They could see the small clusters of houses on Long Island, and the end of Blackwell's Island,—a terrible place to them. The boys had seen the "Black Maria," which the little girl thought must be some formidable giant negress capable of driving the criminals along as one would a flock of sheep, and she was quite surprised when she learned it was a wagon merely. The East River was quite pretty up here, and the ferry-boats made a line of foam that sparkled in the sun.
Occasionally Doctor Joe joined the party, and took them in other directions. He had accepted the offer of an old physician on East Broadway, which was then considered very aristocratic. The basement windows had pretty lace curtains, and the dining-rooms had beaufets in the corners, on which the glass and silver were arranged. The brass doorknobs and the name-plate shone like gold, and the iron railings of the stoops were finished with quite pretentious newels, that the children called sentry boxes.
Grand Street, at the eastern end, had many private dwellings. Ridge and Pitt and Willet streets were quite steep and made splendid coasting places in winter. There was the Methodist church, in which many famous worthies had preached, and even at the end of the century the old place keeps its brave and undaunted front.
Strawberries did not come until June; and the girls took them round the streets in tiny deep baskets. There were no such mammoth berries as we have now; but, oh, how sweet and luscious they were! Little girls carried baskets of radishes from door to door, and first you heard "strawbrees," then something that sounded like "ask arishee," which I suppose was brief for "ask any radishes."
The fish and clam men were a great delight to the children. One curious, weather-beaten old fellow who went through First Street had quite a musical horn, and a regular song.
"Fine clams, fine clams, fine clams, to-day,
That have just arrived from Rockaway.
They're good to boil, and they're good to fry,
And they're good to make a clam pot-pie.
My horse is hired, and my waggon isn't mine.
Look out, little boys, don't cut behind!"
Where the rhyme was lame, he made up with an extra flourish and trill to the notes. The cats used to watch out for him. They seemed to know when Friday came, and they would be sitting on the front stoops, dozing until they heard the welcome sound of the horn. There were huckster waggons with vegetables, and a buttermilk man.
An old coloured woman used to come round with brewer's yeast, and one morning she had a great piece of black cambric twisted about her bonnet.
"Who are you in mourning for, auntie?" asked Margaret.
"My ol' man, Miss Margret. Happened so lucky! He jest died Sat'day night, an' we buried him on Sunday, an' here I am goin' round on Monday,—not losin' any time. Happened so lucky!"