Morning again! and New-York is beginning to stir. Lazy creatures! they should have been up hours ago. That old rooster over the way has crowed himself hoarse, trying to start them all out: and he is not as smart as he might be, for I saw the first streak of dawn myself, before he was off his perch.
Now the carts begin to rumble by, with "fresh sweet milk," labelled on the sides. Lucky they tell us of it, for we never should find it out ourselves by tasting. There go the dray-carts, with baggage from the just-arrived cars; then follows a carriage with the owners of the baggage. How hollow-eyed they look, traveling all night. They are evidently thinking of eggs and hot rolls. There go the boarding-house women, basket in hand, to secure their dinner: hope they won't spoil it with bad cooking-butter! There go the shop girls, shrouded in thick brown veils: poor things! they got up late and couldn't stop to comb their hair. There come the market carts from the country, laden with cabbages, and turnips, and beets, and parsnips, and apples, and nobody knows what else beside.
There comes a little boy, screeching "R-a-d-i-shes;" and a little girl just behind him, shouting "Bl-a-ck-ber-ries," and a man in the middle of the street, yelling "Tin-tin-tin—tin ware for sale." Oh dear! I shall have to stuff my ears with cotton wool. I'm as crazy as a Fourth-of-July orator who has forgotten his speech.
There come some business men, chewing the last mouthful of their breakfast as they button the first button of their overcoats and hurry down street. There go the laundresses with their baskets of clean clothes,—hope they haven't ironed off all the shirt-buttons. There's a man with a parcel of old umbrellas on his back: it would puzzle "a Philadelphia lawyer" to find out what he is shouting. Never mind, he makes a noise in the world; so I suppose he is satisfied. There go two or three women with slip-shod feet;—ugh! And there's a little girl fresh from the country, (you may know that) for her eyes are as bright as stars, and her cheeks look like June roses. She has a bunch of flowers in her hand, but they are no prettier than herself;—she is a perfect little rose-bud (if her shoes are clumsy and her bonnet old-fashioned.) If you'll excuse me I'll run down a minute and speak to her.
Well, I declare! she says her name is "Letty Hill," and she has come into town to see Aunt Hopkins; and her aunt, and she, and her little cousin Meg Hopkins, are all going to Barnum's Museum, (Uncle Hopkins isn't going with 'em, because he says Burnum's a humbug;) and she is going to wear a clean white apron, that is stowed away safe in her carpet bag, with blue ribbon strings on it. She don't know whether she shall stay over night, or not; her mother told her she might, if Aunt Hopkins asked her, and she hopes she will ask her, because she and Meg Hopkins want to tell ghost-stories, and play "tent" with the sheets after they get into bed. She has a whole ninepence in her pocket, which Jake (the man on the farm) gave her, and she intends to buy out some of the Broadway shop keepers with it before she sees Clover Farm again. She hopes Aunt Hopkins will have mince pie for dinner, and make it real sweet, too; and she hopes Cousin Tom Hopkins will be at home, because he always gives her sixpences. There she goes, tripping along. God bless her! She don't care whether there's a revolution in Europe or not.
Look over there at that street pump; isn't that a pretty sight now?—that little girl in the short frock, with bare legs, and feet as plump as little partridges. She has set down her basket, and stopped to get a drink of water. The pump handle goes very hard. She concludes to put it to a better use,—she will make a swing of it. So she lifts it way up, and then seizing hold with both hands, swings herself down upon the sidewalk. Ah! she has alighted in a puddle! She looks at her little fat feet, and makes up her mind she will take a bath; so she pumps out the water, and holds first one little plump foot under, then the other, till they are as white and polished as marble, and her little pink-tipped toes look all too dainty to touch the dirty sidewalk. Now, she sees me looking at her, and blushing scampers off.
"Sweep, ho—sweep, ho! want any chimneys swept, ma'am?"
"No, indeed! not if that poor child behind you has got to crawl up the chimney to do it. Why, he can't be more than five years old."