When I was your age

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

Laura E. Richards.

So, I think, all we who jumped and changed our feet, who pirouetted and chasséed under Mr. Papanti, owe him a debt of gratitude. His hall was a paradise, the stiff little dressing-room, with its rows of shoe-boxes, the antechamber of delight,—and thereby hangs a tale. The child Laura grew up, and married one who had jumped and changed his feet beside her at Papanti’s, and they two went to Europe and saw many strange lands and things; and it fell upon a time that they were storm-bound in a little wretch of a grimy steamer in the Gulf of Corinth. With them was a travelling companion who also had had the luck to be born in Boston, and to go to dancing-school; the other passengers were a Greek, an Italian, and—I think the third was a German, but as he was seasick it made no difference. Three days were we shut up there while the storm raged and bellowed, and right thankful we were for the snug little harbor which stretched its protecting arms between us and the white churning waste of billows outside the bar.

We played games to make the time pass; we talked endlessly,—and in the course of talk it naturally came to pass that we told of our adventures, and where we came from, and, in short, who we were. The Greek gentleman turned out to be an old acquaintance of our father, and was greatly overjoyed to see me, and told me many interesting things about the old fighting-days of the revolution. The Italian spoke little during this conversation, but when he heard the word “Boston” he pricked up his ears; and when a pause came, he asked if we came from Boston. “Yes,” we all answered, with the inward satisfaction which every Bostonian feels at being able to make the reply. And had we ever heard, in Boston, he went on to inquire, of “un certo Papanti, maestro di ballo?” “Heard of him!” cried the three dancing-school children,—“we never heard of any one else!” Thereupon ensued much delighted questioning and counter-questioning. This gentleman came from Leghorn, Mr. Papanti’s native city. He knew his family; they were excellent people. Lorenzo himself he had never seen, as he left Italy so many years ago; but reports had reached Leghorn that he was very successful,—that he taught the best people (O Beacon street! O purple windows and brown-stone fronts, I should think so!); that he had invented “un piano sopra molle,” a floor on springs. Was this true? Whereupon we took up our parable, and unfolded to the Livornese mind the glory of Papanti, till he fairly glowed with pride in his famous fellow-townsman.

And, finally, was not this a pleasant little episode in a storm-bound steamer in the Gulf of Corinth?

CHAPTER IX.
OUR FRIENDS.

We had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all, perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called “D. D.” She had another name, but that is nobody’s business but her own. D. D. was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright and black as a young girl’s. One of the pleasantest things about her was the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp. Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow or purple, as they pleased,—she wore her white dimity; and we children knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress that she could have chosen.

Another wonderful thing about D. D. was her store-closet. There never was such a closet as that! It was all full of glass jars, and the jars were full of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and raisins, and all manner of good things. Yes, and they were not screwed down tight, as jars are likely to be nowadays; but one could take off the top, and see what was inside; and if it was cinnamon, one might take even a whole stick, and D. D. would not mind. Sometimes a friend of hers who lived at the South would send her a barrel of oranges (she called it a “bar’l of awnges,” because she was Scotch, and we thought it sounded a great deal prettier than the common way), and then we had glorious times; for D. D. thought oranges were very good for us, and we thought so too. Then she had some very delightful and interesting drawers, full of old daguerreotypes and pieces of coral, and all kinds of alicumtweezles. Have I explained before that “alicumtweezles” are nearly the same as “picknickles” and “bucknickles”?