Holidays at the Grange; or, A Week's Delight / Games and Stories for Parlor and Fireside

by Emily Mayer Higgins

And I've many curious things to show you when you're there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

At the door of some of the shops, she saw a man standing upon a box, with a hammer in his hand, and a crowd around him, eager, and bidding against one another. "Going, going, a splendid gold watch at five dollars—the greatest bargain in the world—tremendous sacrifice—going, going, gone!"

At last they came to his den; a shop like the rest, piled up with old brass andirons, sofas, bureaus, tables, lamps, coats and pants, ropes, feather-beds, and hideous daubs of pictures. Old-fashioned mantel-ornaments, looking-glasses, clocks pointing to all hours of the day, waiters with the paint rubbed off, old silver candlesticks, and a heap of other trash, completed the furniture of the room. Stumbling through this lumber, Smith led her up to a little garret, where the bare rafters were covered with dust, and one hole of a window let in some light, enough to reveal the nakedness of the place. In one corner, upon the dirty floor, was an old bed; a piece of a mirror was fastened against the wall, which looked quite innocent of the whitewash brush; and a stool, which had lost one of its legs, was lying in a very dejected attitude near the door. "Here you are to lodge," said Smith, with a sardonic grin, as he noticed the child's dismay at the announcement. "You can stay up here till I want you, and when you are hungry, you can go down stairs to the little back kitchen and get a slice of bread; but don't dare to show your face in the shop." "When will my trunks come?" said the little girl, whose wits were sharpened by the necessity of looking out for her own interests. "Never you mind about them trunks," replied Smith; "I advise you to keep quiet, and it will be the better for you." So saying, he descended into his shop, and left the poor child to her meditations, which were none of the pleasantest.

Two days passed without Smith making his appearance, and Margaret worked up her courage to the point of going into the shop, even if it did excite his anger, and insisting upon his taking her to her uncle, or sending her back to the ship. She walked in, unnoticed, and the first object that met her sight was one of her mother's large trunks, open and empty, with the price marked upon the top. Around the room she saw the others, and the contents, so precious to her from association with her deceased parent, were hanging about upon pegs, looking ashamed of their positions. Horrified, the little girl ran up to Smith: "these are my things," she said; "how dare you put them into the shop?" "You had better hush up, little vixen," replied the man, "or I'll take the very clothes from off your back. You don't think I am going to keep you without receiving board, do you?" "But I'm not going to stay here. I'll go back to the ship—the Captain will make you give me my things," cried the child, bursting into passionate tears. "Go—I'd like nothing better; go back to Boston as fast as you can, cry-baby, and give my compliments to the gentleman who cheated me into taking you," replied Smith, with his odious smile. "Then why will you not take me to my uncle? I don't want to stay in this horrid place." "Take care, or you'll get into a worse—as for your uncle, I saw in the paper yesterday an account of his death, so you need have no hopes from him." "Dead! all dead!" said Margaret, sinking down into the nearest seat, for her head swam, and her knees trembled so that she could not stand. "Yes, he's dead as a door nail—no mistake about that. So you had better not be troublesome, or you won't fare as well as you do. Here, Jackson," he said to a rough, bloated-looking, elderly countryman, who had been purchasing some old furniture, and had now re-entered the shop, "didn't you say that you wanted a little girl to do your work?" "Yes, I did," replied the man, "my old woman is not worth any thing any more. But I must have some one that will not be interfered with: I intend to get an orphan from the alms-house, that will suit me best." "Here is an orphan, who is the very thing: she has no relations or friends in the world, and I'm rather tired of keeping her—I'll give her to you for nothing." "That would do, but she does not look like a poor child: she is dressed like a little lady, and her hands are small and white, as if she wasn't used to rough work." "She is dressed up more than she should be, but you can soon mend that; and I'll answer for it, she'll learn to do the rough work soon enough." "Well, I'll take her: have her bundle ready by the afternoon, and I'll call for her in the wagon, and take the girl and the other baggage at the same time." "Agreed—she shall be ready."

It would be hard to describe little Margaret's feelings during the preceding dialogue: she plainly saw that there was no escape for her, unless she rushed into the street, and claimed the protection of any chance passer-by, and that honest Smith took pains to prevent, by locking her up in her room. When there alone, she threw herself down upon the bed, and sobbed as if her heart would break: "If my mother, my dear, dear mother, was living, she would take care of me. She would not let me stay in this filthy place—she would not let me eat dry bread and water—she would not let that ugly old man take me away, to do servants' work. Oh mother! mother! I wish I were dead too!" When her passion of grief was exhausted, comfort and hope began to dawn upon her, and she thought, "It cannot certainly be as bad in the country, where the old man lives, as here, in this vile hole, with all these disgusting smells and sights. And my mother said, that God is a friend who can never die or change, who will never leave or forsake the poor orphan. I will try to be a better child, and then God will love me: perhaps I deserve this, for being naughty. I certainly will try to be good."

In the afternoon, Jackson came for his baggage, as he called it, and after the furniture was stowed away, Smith brought down the little girl, and gave into her hand a very small bundle of clothes, bidding her tell no tales, or she should find she was in his power yet. She was put into the wagon, on top of the furniture, and the old man, whose face was red, and whose breath smelt of liquor, set off at a smart pace. It was late in the evening before they reached the solitary and desolate farm-house, which Jackson called his home: Margaret scrambled out as best she could, and entered the dwelling. Although it was now late in the autumn, there was no fire upon the hearth, and the room looked to the last degree dismal. It had something more of a habitable aspect when the furniture was brought in, but it was evident that no "neat-handed Phillis" had been accustomed to range through the house; and the spiders had provided the only ornaments to be found anywhere about, by hanging the walls with tapestry, which certainly could not be produced in the looms of France. Margaret found that there were two other inhabitants of this neglected house—Jackson's wife, a sad, heart-broken woman, only too evidently in a dying condition, and a son of about fifteen, rude, stubborn, and rebellious, whose only good-feeling seemed to be love to his poor mother. Jackson brought out some food, of which Margaret stood greatly in need, and she was then happy to be allowed to retire to the loft allotted to her, as she was exhausted by the ride and the agitation of mind she had gone through during the past week. Miserable as was her attic, she slept soundly until waked by the sun shining into her eyes: she quickly dressed, but did not escape a scolding from her sullen master, who commanded her to make a fire, and get his breakfast for him. Margaret was remarkably quick and handy for a child of her age, as her affection to her mother and grandfather had prompted her to do many little things for them which so young a girl seldom thinks of; but her delicate white fingers were unused to menial tasks, and to make a fire was quite beyond the circle of her accomplishments. Jackson then called upon his son to do it, but told her that he should not make it a second time, and grumbled and swore at her while he remained in the house.

It is astonishing how human nature can adapt itself to circumstances, so that the thing which we must do we can do: little Margaret, who had ever been so tenderly nurtured, soon learned to make the fire, to sweep the rooms, and cook the meals. Not in the most scientific manner, truly; her cookery would scarcely have been approved by Kitchener, Glass, or Soyer, but it was done to the best of her slender ability. While poor Mrs. Jackson lived, Maggie had at least the satisfaction of feeling that her efforts to please her were understood: the grateful look, the languid smile, and the half-expressed pity for the little slave, who was now to fill her place, reminded the child of her mother, and made her more contented with her situation. But when, exhausted by the life of hardship and cruelty which the drunkard's wife must ever experience, Mrs. Jackson slept her last sleep, and went to the home appointed for all the living, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest," then the little girl had none to feel for her. In a few days, the boy, Bill Jackson, told her that now his mother was dead, he wasn't such a fool as to stay there to be kicked and starved by his father; he intended to run off and go to sea, and he advised her too "to make herself scarce" as soon as she could. When he had gone, all the brutality which had been divided between the mother and son, was now visited on the innocent head of little Maggie; and unassisted even by counsel, she had to perform all the household tasks. If she had received kind words in payment, she could have overlooked many of the hardships of her condition; but these she never got. Let her be as diligent and pains taking as she would, severity and reproaches were all she met: Jackson was always sullen and morose in the morning, and at night, frequent potations from a large stone jug worked him up to a passion. Then he would knock the furniture about, throw chairs at Margaret's head if she came in his way, and swear in such a dreadful manner that the little girl was glad to seek shelter in her cold and cheerless loft, where at least she could be alone, and could pray to the One Friend she had left.

As the winter advanced, the child's sufferings greatly increased. The cold was intense, the situation a bleak one, and the old farm-house full of cracks and crannies which admitted the winter winds. Her clothing was of a thin description, and nearly worn out by hard usage: at night also, in her airy loft, she was often kept awake by the cold, or cried herself to sleep. But the more severe the weather was, the more did Jackson think it needful to take something a little warming, and the stone jug was frequently replenished: of course his temper became more violent, and Margaret was the sufferer. She kept out of the way as much as possible, but had no place to which she could retreat, except her loft. Here she would frequently solace herself by bringing out her medallion, which, according to her mother's directions, she wore next her heart, and gazing upon the beloved countenances of her parents—this dying gift was the only relic she had left of former times. One day a snow-storm set in, which reminded her of those she had seen among her own Scottish hills, where the drifts are so great that the shepherd frequently loses his life in returning to his distant home. The wind was piercing, and the snow was so driven about that you could scarcely see a few feet before you; and by evening it lay in deep piles against the door, and around the house. Jackson had of course resorted to the whiskey jug very frequently during the day, for consolation; and little Margaret, seeing him more than usually excited, had sought refuge in the cold and dismal loft, wrapping herself up as well as she could. As she sat there, shivering, and thinking how differently she was situated on the last snow-storm she remembered, when she was seated on a little stool, between her mother and grandfather, holding a hand of each, before a large blazing fire, and listening to beautiful tales—she heard Jackson call her name in savage tones. She hastened, but before she could get down the ladder which led to the room below, he called her again and again, each time more fiercely so that her heart trembled like a leaf upon a tree, dreading to meet his rage. He received her with oaths and abuse; called her a lazy little wretch, who did not earn the bread she eat, and commanded her to bring in an armful of wood from the pile, as the fire was going out. She ventured to tell him that she had already tried to find some, but ineffectually; in some places the snow was above her head, and the air was so thick with it, now that night had come on, that she could not see before her. But the violent man would take no excuse: he drove her out with threats, and long she groped about, vainly trying to discover the wood, which was completely hidden by the snow. Her hands and feet became numb, and she felt that she must return to the house, if he killed her—she would otherwise die of the cold. She came, timidly crawling into the room—the moment her master saw her, he started up; fury made him look like a demon. Seizing a stick of wood which still remained, he assailed her violently: the child, so tender hearted, and so delicately reared, who could be recalled to duty by one glance of the eye, was now subjected to the chastisement of a brutal, insensate drunkard! At last he stopped, but his rage was not exhausted. Opening the door, he told her never to darken it again—never more should she dare to show herself within his house. Falling upon her knees, the little girl besought him with tears not to expel her—she had no one to go to, no father, no mother to take care of her. If she was driven out into the snow, she should die with cold—if he would only allow her to stay that night, she would leave on the morrow, if he wished it! But tears and prayers were unavailing; all of man he had ever had in his nature was now brutified by strong drink; as well might she have knelt to the tiger thirsting for blood, as to him. Driving her out with a curse, he shut and bolted the door.