At first, the poor old grandmother looked at them both, and said she couldn't give them up. Then she looked round that dismal room, and drew her torn shawl up over her shoulders; and then she called them both to her, and hugged and kissed them; and then, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, she took them by the hand and led them up to Mrs. ——, and told her to be "a kind mamma to them."
But poor little Pietro and Annita clung to their grandmother, and kissed her wrinkled face, and hung round her neck, and hid their little curly heads in her lap, for they had seen so many strange faces, and so much misery, that it had made them as shy as little rabbits, and they were afraid to venture away from grandmother. Mrs. —— spoke to them in Italian, and tried to coax them with promises of all sorts of pretty things. But it was of no use; they only shook their little curly heads, and ran back to their dear old grandma, who patted them both, and laughed and cried together.
Then, Mrs. —— said "she would take grandma, too:" and that she should help her to take care of Annita and Pietro. When the little rogues heard this, they wiped away their tears, and smiled, and showed their little white, glittering teeth, and kissed Mrs. ——'s hands, and said, "We will go."
So, we got a carriage, and took them all in, to Mrs. ——'s house in Fourth street, where they were washed, and dressed, and ate some nice hot supper; and before I came away, they were asleep in a cunning little trundle-bed, with their little curly heads nestled on the same pillow, and their little cheeks close together, and just as rosy as if they had never shivered, half naked, in that old smoky room.
And Mrs. ——'s husband, who is an artist, stood there over them, with his pencil in his fingers, taking a sketch of their little Italian faces; and by and by he will finish a beautiful picture of Pietro and Annita, in the old ragged dresses in which they were found; and if he paints their little dimpled shoulders and cunning little legs and feet half as pretty as they really are, I know you will say with me, that the "Little Emigrants" are worth looking at, and worth loving.
Tobacco! tobacco! If there's anything I hate worse than a dandy, it is tobacco. Such a headache as I have this morning, all for that vile pipe that Bridget Dolan's husband was smoking, when I went over to see her.
Charley, I believe if an Irishman hadn't a potato to put in his blarney-ing mouth, he would own a pipe and a puppy. Jim Dolan had both.
Now, Bridget Dolan was full clever enough to have been a born Yankee, and, of course, was a great deal too good for Jim Dolan. She had more children than you could count, if you were in a hurry, and a baby in her arms, year in and year out. For all that, she is never out of patience trying to keep their elbows and knees and toes in, and make up for what Jim wastes in smoking and drinking. I verily believe Bridget would fight anybody who said he was not the best husband in the world,—black and blue spots on her arms to the contrary. Well, if she has patience to put up with it, it is no affair of yours or mine; all I have to say is, that her name ought to be Job, instead of Dolan.