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Little Girl in Old New York

<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h3>WHEN CHRISTMAS BELLS WERE RINGING</h3> The boys tried to be merry with a big M to it, on Christmas morning. But something was lacking. The stockings hung in a row, and there were piles of gifts below them. Books and books and books! They were all too old for playthings now. Hanny had two white aprons ruffled all round, and a pretty pair of winter boots. They were beginning to make them higher in the ankle and more dainty, and stitching them in colors. These were done with two rows of white. She had a set of the Lucy books that all little girls were delighted with. Oh, I do wonder what they would have said to Miss Alcott and Susan Coolidge and Pansy! But they were very happy in what they had. Jim was delighted with two new volumes of Cooper. Ben had a splendid pair of high boots, and three new shirts Margaret and the little girl had made for him. But, oh, dear! what was it all without mother! They missed her bright, cheery voice, her smile and her ample person that had a warm buoyant atmosphere. They would have been glad to hear her scold a little about the litter of gifts around, and their lagging so when breakfast was ready. To make the little girl laugh her father told her that once a man was driving along a country road when he saw seven children sitting on the doorstep crying, and seven more on the fence. Startled at so much grief he paused to inquire what had happened, and with one voice they answered: "Our mother's gone away and left us all alone!" "There's only seven of us with Martha, and I am not crying," said the little girl spiritedly. Joe dropped in just as they were seated at the table, and whispered something to his father and Margaret. He seemed very merry, and Mr. Underhill gave a satisfied nod. He brought Margaret a beautiful cameo brooch, which was considered a fine thing then, and put a pretty garnet ring on Hanny's finger. Hanny guessed what the word had been. Mother was going to bring Steve and Dolly down to dinner. Dolly had changed her mind, for she had said she could not come. That was what they were smiling about. At ten Stephen brought mother down in the sleigh, and they were more mysterious than ever. Peggy and the little girl must bundle up and go back with him, for he had such a wonderful Christmas present to show them. "But why didn't you bring Dolly and stay to dinner? And oh, Mother! Christmas morning wasn't splendid at all without you!" said the little girl, clinging to her. Mrs. Underhill stooped and kissed her and said in a full, tremulous sort of voice: "Run and get your hood, dear, and don't keep Stephen waiting." The horses tossed their heads and whinnied as if they too, said, "Don't keep us waiting." The sun was shining and all the air seemed infused with joy, though it was a sharp winter day. The weather knew its business fifty years ago and didn't sandwich whiffs of spring between snow-banks. And the children were blowing on tin and wooden horns, and wishing everybody Merry Christmas as they ran around with the reddest of cheeks. Steve took Hanny on his lap. What did make him so laughing and mysterious? He insisted that Hanny should guess, and then kept saying, "Oh, you're cold, cold, cold as an icehouse! You should have put on your guessing cap," and the little girl felt quite teased. They stopped down-stairs to get good and warm and take off their wraps. Then Stephen led them up to the front room. It was a kind of library and sitting-room, but no one was there. In the window stood a beautiful vase of flowers. Hanny ran over to that. Roses at Christmastide were rare indeed. "Here," said Stephen, catching her arm gently. She turned to the opposite corner. There was an old-fashioned mahogany cradle, black with age, and polished until it shone like glass. It was lined overhead with soft light-blue silk, and had lying across it a satin coverlet that had grown creamy with age, full of embroidered flowers dull and soft with their many years of bloom. On the pillow lay her brother's Christmas gift that had come while the bells were still ringing out their message first heard on the plains of Judea. "Oh!" with a soft, wondering cry. She knelt beside the cradle that had come from Holland a century and a half ago, and held many a Beekman baby. A strange little face with a tinge of redness in it, a round broad forehead with a mistiness of golden fuzz, a pretty dimpled chin and a mouth almost as round as a cherry. Just at that instant he opened the bluest of eyes, stared at Hanny with a grave aspect, tried to put his fist into his mouth and with a soft little sound dropped to sleep again. A wordless sense of delight and mystery stole over the little girl. She seemed lifted up to Heaven's very gates. She reached out her hand and touched the little velvet fist, not much larger than her doll's, but oh, it had the exquisite inspiration of life and she felt the wonderful thrill to her very heart. Something given to them all that could love back when its time of loving came, when it knew of the fond hearts awaiting the sweetness of affection. "That's my little boy," said Stephen, with the great pride and joy of fatherhood. "Dolly's and all of ours. Isn't it a Christmas worth having?" "Oh!" she said again with a wordless delight in her heart, while her eyes were filled with tears, so deeply had the consciousness moved her. There was a sort of poetical pathos in the little girl, sacred to love. She had never known of any babies in the family save Cousin Retty's, and that had not appealed with this delicious nearness. Stephen bent over and kissed her. Margaret came to look at the baby. "He's a fine fellow!" said the new father. "We wanted to surprise you," looking at Hanny and smiling. "We made Joe promise not to tell you. And now you are all aunts and uncles, and we have a grandmother of our very own." "Oh!" This time Hanny laughed softly. There were no words expressive enough. "And now you will have to knit him some little boots, and save your money to buy him Christmas gifts. And what's that new work—crochet him a cap. Dear me! how hard you will have to work." "There were such lovely little boots at Epiphany Fair. If I only had known! But I'm quite sure I can learn to make them;" her eyes lighting with anticipation. "Oh, when will he be big enough to hold?" "In a month or so. You will have to come up on Saturdays and take care of him." "Can I? That will be just splendid." He was silent. He could not tease the little girl in the sacredness of her new, all-pervading love. The nurse entered. She had a soft white kerchief pinned about her shoulders, and side puffs of hair done over little combs. She nodded to Margaret and said "the baby was a very fine child, and that Mrs. Underhill was sleeping restfully. They had been so glad to have Mr. Underhill's mother." Then she patted the blanket over the baby, and said "it had been worked for his great, great grandmother, and they put it over every Beekman baby for good luck." Margaret declared they must return. Mother was tired, and the Archers were coming up to dinner after church. "Could I kiss it just once?" asked Hanny timidly. "Oh, yes." The nurse smiled and turned down the blanket, and the baby opened his eyes. Hanny felt that in some mysterious manner he knew she loved him. Her lips touched the soft little cheek, the tiny hands. "He's very good now," said the nurse; "but he can cry tremendously. He has strong lungs." Stephen took them back and then went down to Father Beekman's. There was so much to do, the little girl and the big girl were both busy enough, helping mother. The boys and her father had gone out, but they had all heard the wonderful tidings. Hanny ran back and forth waiting on Martha and carrying dishes to the table, so there would be no flurry at the last. "Hello, Aunt Hanny!" laughed Jim, bouncing in with the reddest of cheeks. "You'll have to grow fast now to keep up with your dignity. Well, is he Beekman Dutch or Underhill English?" "He's just lovely. His eyes are blue as the sky." "Hurrah for Steve! Well, that was a Christmas!" Her father was coming with the two cousins, and she ran up-stairs to wish them Merry Christmas and tell her father what she thought of the baby. The baby and the Christmas sermon and the rheumatism and cold weather seemed to get jumbled all together, and for a little while everybody talked. Then John and Joe made their appearance, and Martha rang the bell, though the savory odors announced that all was ready. They had a very delightful dinner. Mrs. Underhill had a pretty new consequence about her, and was not a bit teased by being called grandmother. Dolly's advent into the family had been a source of delight, for she fraternized so cordially with every member. And of late she and Mother Underhill had been tenderly intimate, for Mrs. Beekman was kept much at home by her husband's failing health. When they had lingered over the mince pies which certainly were delicious, and finished their coffee, they went up-stairs to chat around the fire. After the dishes were dried Hanny ran into the Deans' to interchange a little Christmas talk and tell the girls about Stephen's baby. She was so excited that all other gifts seemed of little moment. Daisy Jasper had been confined to the house for a week with a severe cold. "I began to think you had forgotten me," she said, as Hanny entered the beautiful parlor. "And Doctor Joe said you had something special to tell me. Oh, what is it?" for the little girl's face was still in a glow of excitement. "I can never have any nieces or nephews because there is only one of me," said Daisy, with a sad little smile. "I almost envy you. If I could have one of your brothers out of them all I should choose Dr. Joe. He is so tender and sweet and patient. He used to take me in his arms and let me cry when crying wasn't good for me either. I was so miserable and full of pain, and he always understood." Hanny was so moved by pity for Daisy that she felt almost as if she could give him away—she had so much. Not quite, however, for he was very dear to her. And when she looked into Daisy's lovely face and remembered her beautiful name and glanced at the elegant surroundings, it seemed strange there should be anything to wish for. But health outweighed all. Daisy was delighted with the Christmas Eve anniversary, the singing of "bonnie Prince Charlie," the fair, and was wonderfully interested in the little Chinese girls. She meant to send some money toward their education. Mr. Bradbury was to give a concert in February with the best child singers of the different schools. Charles was to take part, his father had promised him that indulgence. "I hope I shall get strong enough to go," began Daisy wistfully. "It is the sitting up straight that tires my back, but last year it was so much worse. Doctor Joe says I shall get well and be almost like other girls. See how much I have gone to school. It is so splendid to learn for your own very self. You don't feel so helpless." Daisy's Christmas had been a beautiful Geneva watch. We had not gone to watchmaking then and had to depend on our neighbors over the water for many choice articles. And a watch was a rare thing for a little girl to possess. When she went home Hanny had to get out her pretty new work and show the visitors. She had nearly four yards of lovely blue edging she was making for Margaret, but she had not hinted at its destination. "Why," exclaimed Aunt Nancy, "I've seen mittens knit with a hook something like that. Not open work and fancy, but all tight and out of good stout yarn. They're very lasting." "I do believe they're like what Uncle David makes," said John. "Don't you remember, he used to give us a pair now and then?" "Well, I declare, there's nothing new under the sun!" laughed Aunt Patience. Hanny was quite sure there could not be any connection between her delicate lace and stout yarn mittens, and she meant to ask Uncle David the next time they made a visit. Both ladies praised her a good deal, especially when they heard of the shirts she had been making with Margaret. "It used to be a great thing," said Aunt Patience. "When I was six years old I had knit a pair of stockings by myself, and when I was eight I had made my father a shirt. All the gussets were stitched, just as you do a bosom. My, what a sight of fine work there was then!" "I'll tell you something I read the other day in a queer old book I picked up down at the office," began Ben. "When little Prince Edward was two years old, the Princess Elizabeth who was afterward queen made him a shirt or smock, as it was called, with drawn work and embroidery. And she was only six." "Children have more lessons to study now," said Mrs. Underhill, half in apology. "And Hanny has done some drawn work for me, and embroidered some aprons." "And Queen Elizabeth spent enough time later on with gay gallants," remarked Aunt Nancy. "So I do not know as her early industry held out." "I'd rather have had her splendid reign than to have made shirts for an army," declared Ben. "Well, we all have our duties in this world," sighed Aunt Patience. "I learned to make shirts, but I never had a husband or boys to make them for." They all laughed at that. But what would a little girl say now if she had to stitch down the middle of a shirt bosom, following a drawn thread, and taking up only two threads at every stitch? There certainly was great need of Elias Howe. The visitors declared they must get home by dark. There was the poor cat, and the fires must need looking after. Mrs. Underhill was fain to keep them to tea, but instead packed them up a basket of cold turkey and some delicious boiled ham, a dozen or two crullers, and a nice mince pie. John was to see the old ladies home. When they were gone Hanny went up to the "spare" room, for in one drawer of the best bureau she had kept her beautiful doll, which had never been permanently named. She opened it and kneeling down raised the napkin that covered her, as one tucks in a little child. Yes, she was lovely, really prettier than Stephen's baby, she felt, though she would not say it. But when you came to kiss on the cold wax—ah, that was the test. And Stephen's baby would grow and walk and talk, and have cunning little teeth and curly hair, maybe. She did so love curly hair. "Dolly," she began gravely, "I am going to put you away. I shall be eleven next May, and though I shall always be father's little girl, I shall be growing up and too old to play with dolls. Then I shall have so much to do. And I should love the real live baby best. That would hurt your feelings. Sometime there may be another little girl who will be as glad to have you come on Christmas Day as I was. I shall love you just the same, but you have a different kind of love for something that is human and can put truly arms around your neck and kiss you. When girls are little they don't mind the difference so much. You won't feel real lonesome, for dolls don't. We only make believe they do. And now I shall not make believe any more, because I am getting to know all about real things. There are so many real and strange things in the world that are lovely to think about, and I seem to have learned so much to-day. I can't feel quite as I did yesterday." She put on the wadded satin cloak and the dainty hood and laid it back in the box. There was room for the muff and the travelling shawl. She put the cover on softly. She folded the pretty garments and packed them in the corner, and spread the towel over them all. There was no morbid feeling of sacrifice or sense of loss. A great change had come over her, a new human affection had entered her soul. She had a consciousness that could not be put into words. She had outgrown her doll. Margaret was going to an oratorio with Dr. Hoffman. The boys were to attend the Christmas celebration at Allen Street church with the Deans. Hanny had not cared to go. Her mother kept watching her with a curious feeling as if she saw or suspected some change in her. The room settled to quiet. The fire burned drowsily. Mrs. Underhill took the big rocking-chair at one side, and Hanny came and settled herself on a footstool, leaning her arms on her mother's knee. "I shall not hang up my stocking next Christmas," she said, in a soft, slow tone. "It is very nice when you believe in it, and real fun afterward when you don't believe in it but like it; when you seem little to yourself." "You do grow out of it," replied her mother; but at heart she was half-sorry. "You get just the same things. At least you get suitable things." Was she glad to have them all growing up? "Dear me, there's no little children," she continued, with a sigh. "You'll be eleven next May, Hanny." "But there's Stephen's lovely little baby. Doesn't it seem just as if God had sent him at the right time, when we were all growing big?" She took the little girl's hands in hers and said dreamily, "You were sent that way, at the right time. I was so glad to have you. I can recall it so plainly. Old Mother Tappan was there. I was so afraid you'd be a boy, and we had boys enough. And she said, 'Oh, what a nice little girl. You'll be glad enough, Mrs. Underhill.' And so I was." "As glad as Stephen?" said Hanny, with shining eyes. "Yes, dear. Even if it wasn't Christmas. You were a welcome little May flower." In Bethlehem of Judea the other child had been born with the mighty significance of a great gift to the world, a gift that had made Christmas possible for all time to come. Just how the world was redeemed no little girl of ten or so could understand. But it was redeemed because the little child of Bethlehem bore the sins of the whole world in His manhood. Ah, no wonder they wrote under the picture of His mother, when He was gone, "Mater Dolorosa." But the years of His childhood must have been sweet to remember. "The young child and His mother." The wise men coming with their gifts. The sweet song going around the world, the great love. Her mother's hands relaxed from their clasp. She was very tired and had fallen asleep. Her father folded his paper and looked over at her wistfully. Hanny came and dropped softly on his knee and his strong, tender arms enclosed her. Was there any child quite like the little girl? They had been so proud and happy over Stephen, so delighted with Margaret. He had loved them all, and they were a nice household of children. But they were growing up and going their ways. They would be making new homes. Ah, it would be many a long year before the little girl would think of such a thing. They would keep her snug and safe, "to have and to hold," and he smiled to himself at the literal rendering. The chime of the clock roused Mrs. Underhill. It was Hanny's bedtime, and she had been so busy all day, so full of excitement, too, that her checks had bloomed with roses. She glanced across. The fair flaxen head was on the shoulder half hidden by the protecting arm. The other head, showing many silver threads now, drooped over a little. The picture brought a mist to her eyes, and there was a half sob in her throat. The same thought came into her mind. She would be their "little girl" when the other one had gone to her new home. She could not disturb them. It was "good will and peace" everywhere. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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