A family of healthy children well governed cannot be unhappy, even in the most depressing circumstances. My own little brood positively refused to be miserable. They had literally nothing that must be acquired with money, but their own ingenuity supplied all deficiencies. In the vacant space in the rear of our house there was a cherry tree which never fruited, but bore a wealth of green leaves and blossoms. There the children elected to establish a menagerie. They soon stocked it from the "estray" animals in the street. They were "Rebel," the terrier; "Vixen," the dachshund; "Tearful Tommy," the cat; "Desdemona," a white rabbit; and "Othello," her black husband, purchased from a dealer; and "Fleetwing," the pigeon, which had trustfully entered one of Roger's traps. As there were no stockades, no cages, Fleetwing was tethered to the cherry tree, and as cord might wound her slender leg, a broad string of muslin was provided for her comfort.
One day I heard lamentation and excited barking in the menagerie. Fleetwing had vindicated her right to her name, and was calmly sailing in the blue ether, like a kite with a very long tail—her muslin fetter trailing behind her. We hoped she would return, but she never did. Othello and Desdemona were very interesting. They always came, like children, to the table with the dessert, hopping around on the cloth from corner to corner for bits of celery; but when the fires were kindled, Desdemona breathed coal gas from the register, keeled over, and expired. Othello's mourning coat expressed suitable sorrow and respect, but very soon he too experimented with the register and followed his helpmate.
The time came (with these healthy children to feed) when, like Mrs. Cadwalader, I had to get my coals by stratagem and pray to heaven for my salad oil—with this difference, that my prayer was for daily bread, and that alone. Long and painfully did I ponder the dreadful problem—how to keep my family alive without driving the dear head of the house to desperation. Study, work, unremitting study and work from early morning until late at night was his daily portion. Not until the last expedient had failed should he know aught of my household anxieties.
At last I resolved to go to a dignified old gentleman I had observed behind the desk at a neighboring grocery and tell him the truth. But I remembered my New York experience with the silver. So be it! I had borne rebuff more than once—I could bear it again.
I told Mr. Champney—for this was the name of the old gentleman—that I was the wife of General Pryor, that we had come North to live, that my husband's profession was not yielding enough for our support, nor had we any immediate ground upon which to build hope for better fortune; that I did hope, however, to pay for provisions for my family—sometime, not soon, but certainly if we lived; and that certainly, without food, we should not live!
He wished to know if I was the mother of the children he had seen in his store. I answered in the affirmative, and with no further parley he drew forth a little yellow pass-book and handed it to me. "Use this freely, madam," he said; "I shall never ask you for a penny! You will pay me. General Pryor is bound to succeed." He kept his word. His German porter, Fred, came to me every morning for my frugal orders, and gave me every possible attention. At every day of reckoning demanded by myself, my creditor politely remarked, there was "no occasion for hurry"! His name, "S. T. Champney," was, thenceforward, with my children, "the St."—and as such remains in my memory.
The city of Brooklyn had grown almost as rapidly as the Western cities—Chicago, Seattle, and others, and a great number of poor people were crowding into it, seeking homes. Perpetually recurring instances of distress and homelessness appealed to the good women of Brooklyn Heights—Mrs. Bulkley, Mrs. Packer, Mrs. Alanson Trask, Mrs. Eaton, wife of a professor of the Packer Institute, Mrs. Rosman, Mrs. Craig, and others, and they finally resolved to found a home for friendless women and children. They rented a small frame building on one of the upper streets, and in a few months the house was crowded. Mrs. Eaton, early sent by heaven to be my good angel, had longed for an opportunity to relieve my loneliness and isolation, and she procured for me an invitation to join the society of women. I soon became interested, and spent part of every day with the wretched beneficiaries of the charity. Finally our small house was unwisely crowded, and the children became ill. Mrs. Packer took one of the poor little babies in a dying condition to her own home, and nursed it with the utmost tenderness. I gave shelter to one of the women, and others were taken by the different members of the society until we could command healthy quarters for them. We resolved to purchase a large house, and entered with great zeal upon our work. It was my good fortune to discover the present Home on Concord Street, the fine old Bache mansion about to be sold for a beer-garden. I was requested to draw up a petition to the legislature for an appropriation, which I did in the most forceful language I could command. Mrs. Packer went to Albany with it, and $10,000 was immediately granted us. Each of us (we were only fifteen), armed with a little collector's book, undertook to canvass the town. We needed $20,000 more to buy our home.
I went forth with a heavy heart—for I was the only one who had not headed her subscription with $500. I collected a few pitiful sums only. Nobody would listen to me—nobody knew me! I bore it as long as I could, and one evening I announced to my astounded general that I intended to give a concert. He informed me in strenuous English that he considered me a lunatic.
However, I went to work. I engaged a professional reader, who agreed to give his services; persuaded a German music teacher to lend me her pupils; and then looked around for a "star." Investigation resulted in my learning that Madame Anna Bishop was living in New York. Once a very famous prima donna, she was now "shelved," although her voice was still good. She had grown stout, and could no longer create a sensation in "The Dashing Young Sergeant" that "marched away" so gallantly fifteen years before.
I hunted up Madame Bishop. She received my proposition graciously. Would she give an evening for the poor friendless women? "Give, my dear lady! I give nothing. Am I not a friendless woman myself! But I'll come for $100, and bring my accompanist. He shall give his evening. But I never sing for nothing."