So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.
Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny, and a stick of candy to bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to “meetin’” on Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! There’s a poor labouring man, with his market basket on one arm and his wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite sure that their stock will “keep” till Monday. And then it is quite a treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then’s the time “just to stop and look” at a new ribbon or collar.
See that party of country folks, going to the “National” to see “Uncle Tom.” Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with,
“Please buy one for your lady, sir.”
Jonathan don’t understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn to begrudge a “quarter” for his lady! So he buys the nuisance, and scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who “walks on thrones” the remainder of the evening.
There’s a hand-organ, and a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the neighbourhood are grouped on that door-step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise the performance, but no Cathedral Te Deum could be grander to that unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl who, spite of her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph. Poor and beautiful! God help her.
WHOM DOES IT CONCERN?
“Stitch—stitch—stitch! Will this never end?” said a young girl, leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small hands hopelessly in her lap. “Stitch—stitch—stitch! from dawn till dark, and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;” and she drew her thin shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders.
Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and luxury, too; for the rich satin curtains were looped gracefully away from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there are statues and vases and pictures there: now two young girls trip lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, and jewelled bracelets glistening, and quivering, and sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, and are whirled rapidly away.