Little Girl in Old Boston — CHAPTER IX. What Winter Brought
WHAT WINTER BROUGHT
Oh, what a lovely white world it was!
The low, sedgy places were frozen over and covered with snow; the edges of the bay, Charles River, and Mystic River were assuming their winter garments as well.
And when, just a week after, another snowstorm came, there seemed a multitude of white peaks out in the harbor, and the hills were transformed into veritable snow-capped mountains.
Winter had set in with a rigor unknown to-day.
But people did not seem to mind it.
Even the children had a good time sledding and snowballing and building snow forts and fighting battles.
There were mighty struggles between the North Enders and the South Enders.
Louisburg was retaken, 1775 was re-enacted, and Paul Revere again swung his lantern and roused his party to arms, and snowballs whitened instead of darkening the air with the smoke of firearms.
Deeds of mighty prowess were done on both sides.
But the boys had the best of it surely.
The girls had too much to do.
They were soon too large for romping and playing.
There were stockings to knit and to darn.
There were long overseams in sheets; there was no end of shirt-making for the men.
They put the hems in their own frocks and aprons, they stitched gussets and bands and seams.
People were still spinning and weaving, though the mills that were to lead the revolution in industries had come in.
The Embargo was taxing the ingenuity of brains as well as hands, and as more of everything was needed for the increase of population, new methods were invented to shorten processes that were to make New England the manufacturing center of the new world.
When the children had nothing else to do there was always a bag of carpet rags handy.
There were braided rugs that were quite marvels of taste, and even the hit-or-miss ones were not bad.
Still they were allowed out after supper on moonlight nights for an hour or so, and then they had grand good times.
The father or elder brothers went along to see that no harm happened.
Fort Hill was one of the favorite coasting places, and parties of a larger growth thronged here.
But Beacon Hill had not been shorn of all its glory.
Uncle Winthrop came over one day and took the children and Betty to see the battle at Fort Hill.
The British had intrenched themselves with forts and breastworks and had their colors flying.
It really had been hard work to enlist men or boys in this army.
No one likes to go into a fight with the foregone conclusion that he is to be beaten.
But they were to do their best, and they did it.
The elders went out to see the fun.
The rebels directed all their energies to the capture of one fort instead of opening fire all along the line, and by dusk they had succeeded in demolishing that, when the troops on both sides were summoned home to supper and to comfortable beds, an innovation not laid down in the rules of warfare.
Little James had been fired with military ardor.
Cousin Sam was the leader of one detachment of the rebel forces.
Catch him anywhere but on the winning side!
Doris had been much interested as well, and that evening Uncle Leverett told them stories about Boston thirty years before.
He was a young man of three-and-twenty when Paul Revere swung his lantern to give the alarm.
He could only touch lightly upon what had been such solemn earnest to the men of that time, the women as well.
"I'm going to be a soldier," declared James, with all the fervor of his youthful years.
"But you can't ever be, Doris."
"No," answered Doris softly, squeezing Uncle Leverett's hand in both of hers.
"But there isn't any war."
"Yes there is--over in France and England, and ever so many places.
My father was reading about it.
And if there wasn't any war here, couldn't we go and fight for some other country?"
"I hope there will never be war in your time, Jimmie, boy," said his grandmother.
"And it is bedtime for little people."
"Why does it come bedtime so soon?"
in a deeply aggrieved tone.
"When I am a big man I am going to sit up clear till morning.
And I'll tell my grandchildren all night long how I fought in the wars."
"That is looking a long way ahead," returned grandfather.
Besides the lessons, Doris was writing a letter to Miss Arabella.
That lady would have warmly welcomed any little scrawl in Doris' own hand.
Uncle Winthrop had acknowledged her safe arrival in good health, and enlarged somewhat on the pleasant home she had found with her relatives.
Betty had overlooked the little girl's letter and made numerous corrections, and she had copied and thought of some new things and copied it over again.
She had added a little French verse also.
"Dear me!"
exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, "when will the child ever learn anything useful!
There doesn't seem any time.
The idea of a girl of ten years old never having knit a stocking!
And she will be full that and more!"
"But everybody doesn't knit," said Betty.
"Oh, yes, you can buy those flimsy French things that do not give you any wear.
And presently we may not be able to buy either French or English.
She is not going to be so rich either.
It's nonsense to think of that marshy land ever being valuable.
Whatever possessed anyone to buy it, I can't see!
And if Doris was to be a queen I think she ought to know something useful."
"I do not suppose I shall ever need to spin," Betty said rather archly.
Mrs. Leverett had insisted that all her girls should learn to spin both wool and flax.
Betty had rebelled a little two years ago, but she had learned nevertheless.
"And there was a time when a premium was paid to the most skillful spinner.
Your grandmother, Betty, was among those who spun on the Common.
The women used to go out there with their wheels.
And there were spinning schools.
The better class had to pay, but a certain number of poor women were taught on condition that they would teach their children at home.
And it is not a hundred years ago either.
There was no cloth to be had, and Manufactory House was established."
Betty had heard the story of spinning on the Commons, for her own grandmother had told it.
But she had an idea that the world would go on rather than retrograde.
For now they were turning out cotton cloth and printing calico and making canvas and duck, and it was the boast of the famous _Constitution_ that everything besides her armament was made in Massachusetts.
Uncle Winthrop thought Doris' letter was quite a masterpiece for a little girl.
At least, that was what he said.
I think he was a good deal more interested in that than in the sampler she had begun.
And he agreed privately with Betty that "useless" sometimes was misspelled into "useful."
Another letter created quite a consternation.
This was from Hartford.
Mrs. King wrote that a friend, a Mr. Eastman, was going from Springfield to Boston on some business, and on his return he would bring Betty home with him.
His wife was going on to Hartford a few days later and would be very pleased to have Betty's company.
She did not know when another chance would offer, for not many people were journeying about in the winter.
Betty was to bring her nicest gowns, and she needed a good thick pelisse and heavy woolen frock for outside wear.
The new hats were very large, and young girls were wearing white or cream beaver.
Some very handsome ones had come from New York recently.
There was a big bow on the top, and two feathers if you could afford it, and ribbon of the same width tied under the chin.
She was to bring her slippers and clocked stockings, her newest white frock, and if she had to buy a new one of any kind it need not be made until she came to Hartford.
"I never heard of such a thing!"
declared Mrs. Leverett, aghast.
"She must think your father is made of money.
And when 'Lecty and Matthias were married they went to housekeeping in three rooms in old Mrs. Morton's house, and 'Lecty was happy as a queen, and had to save at every turn.
She wasn't talking then about white hats and wide ribbons and feathers and gewgaws.
The idea!"
"Of course I can't have the hat," returned Betty resignedly.
"But my brown one will do.
And, oh, isn't it lucky my silk is made and trimmed with that beautiful lace!
If I only had my white skirt worked!
And that India muslin might do with a little fixing up.
If I had a lace ruffle to put around the bottom!"
"I don't know how I can spare you, Betty.
I can't put Doris to doing anything.
When any of my girls were ten years old they could do quite a bit of housekeeping.
If she wasn't so behind in her studies!"
Betty had twenty plans in a moment, but she knew her mother would object to every one.
She would be very discreet until she could talk the matter over with her father.
"Everything about the journey is so nicely arranged," she began; "and, you see, Electa says it will not cost anything to Springfield.
There may not be a chance again this whole winter."
"The summer will be a good deal pleasanter."
"But the Capital won't be nearly so"--"gay," she was about to say, but changed it to "interesting."
"Betty, I do wish you were more serious-minded.
To think you're sixteen, almost a woman, and in some things you're just a companion for Doris!"
Betty thought it was rather hard to be between everything.
She was not old enough for society, she was not a young lady, but she was too old to indulge in the frolics of girlhood.
She couldn't be wise and sedate--at least, she did not want to be.
And were the fun and the good times really wicked?
She was on the lookout for her father that evening.
Warren was going to the house of a friend to supper, as the debating society met there, and it saved him a long walk.
"Father, Electa's letter has come," in a hurried whisper.
"She's planned out my visit, but mother thinks--oh, do try and persuade her, and make it possible!
I want to go so much."
But Betty began to think the subject never would be mentioned.
Supper was cleared away, Doris and James studied, and she sat and worked diligently on her white gown.
Then she knew her mother did not mean to say a word before her and presently she went to bed.
Mrs. Leverett handed the letter over to her husband.
"From 'Lecty," she said briefly.
He read it and re-read it, while she knit on her stocking.
"Yes"--slowly.
"Well--Betty might as well go.
She has been promised the visit so long."
"I can't spare her.
Even if I sent James home, there's Doris.
And I am not as spry as I was ten years ago.
The work is heavy."
"Oh, you must have someone.
John Grant was in from Roxbury to-day.
He has two girls quite anxious to go out this winter.
I think the oldest means to marry next spring or summer, and wants to earn a little money."
"We can't take in everyone who wants to earn a little money."
"No," humorously.
"It would bankrupt us these hard times.
The keep would be the same as for Betty, and a few dollars wages wouldn't signify."
"But Betty'll want no end of things.
It does seem as if 'Lecty had turned into a fine lady.
Whether it would be a good influence on Betty!
She's never been serious yet."
"And Electa joined the church at fourteen.
I think you can trust Betty with her.
To be sure, Mat's prospered beyond everything."
Prosperity and every good gift came from the Lord, Mrs. Leverett fully believed.
And yet David had seen the "ungodly in great prosperity."
She had a mother's pride in Mr. and Mrs. King, but they were rather gay with dinner parties and everything.
"She will have to take Betty just as she is.
Her clothes are good enough."
Mr. Leverett re-read the letter.
He wasn't much judge of white hats and wide ribbons, and, since the time was short, perhaps Electa could help her to spend the money to better advantage, and there would be no worry.
He would just slip a bill or two in Betty's hand toward the last.
"Betty's a nice-looking girl," said her father.
"I should be sorry to have her niceness all come out in looks," said Betty's mother.
There was no reply to this.
"I really do not think she ought to go.
There will be other winters."
"Well--we will sleep on the matter.
We can't tell about next winter."
Warren thought she ought to go.
Aunt Priscilla came over a day or two after in Jonas Field's sleigh.
He was out collecting, and would call for her at half-past five, though she still insisted she was pretty sure-footed in walking.
Mr. Perkins in a moment of annoyance had once said to his wife: "Priscilla, you have one virtue, at least.
One can always tell just where to find you.
You are sure to be on the opposition side."
She had a faculty of always seeing how the other side looked.
She had a curious sympathy with it as well.
And though she was not an irresolute woman, she did sometimes have a longing to go over to the enemy when it was very attractive.
She listened now--and nodded at Mrs. Leverett's reasoning, adding the pungency of her sniff.
Betty's heart dropped like lead.
True, she had not really counted on Aunt Priscilla's influence.
"I just do suppose if 'Lecty was ill and alone, and wanted Betty, there'd be no difficulty.
It's the question between work and play.
There wan't much time to play when I was young, and now I wish I had some of the work, since I'm too old to play.
I do believe the thing ought to be evened up."
This was rather non-committal, but the girl's heart rose a little.
"Oh, if 'Lecty was ill--but you know, Aunt Priscilla, they keep a man beside the girl, and it seems to me she is always having a nurse when the children are ailing, or a woman in to sew, or some extra help.
She doesn't _need_ Betty, and it seems as if I did."
"Now, if that little young one was good for anything!"
"She's at her lessons all the time, and she must learn to sew.
I should have been ashamed of my girls if they had not known how to make one single garment by the time they were ten year old."
"But Doris isn't ten," interposed Betty.
"And here is Electa's letter, Aunt Priscilla."
"No, I don't see how I can spare Betty," said Mrs. Leverett decisively.
Aunt Priscilla took out her glasses and polished them and then adjusted them to her rather high nose.
"Well, 'Lecty's got to be quite quality, hasn't she?
And Matthias, too.
I suppose it's proper to give folks their whole name when they're getting up in the world and going to legislatures.
But land!
I remember Mat King when he was a patched-up, barefooted little boy.
He was always hanging after 'Lecty, and your uncle thought she might have done better.
'Lecty was real good-looking.
And now they're top of the heap with menservants and maidservants, and goodness knows what all."
"Yes, they have prospered remarkably."
"The Kings were a nice family.
My, how Mis' King did keep them children, five of them, when their father died, and not a black sheep among them!
Theron's a big sea captain, and Zenas in Washington building up the Capitol, and I dare say Mat is thinking of being sent to Congress.
Joe is in the Army, and the young one keeps his mother a lady in New York, I've heard say.
Mis' King deserves some reward."
Betty glanced up in surprise.
It was seldom Aunt Priscilla praised in this wholesale fashion.
"And this about the hat is just queer, Betty.
You should have seen old Madam Clarissa Bowdoin, who came to call yesterday, with a fine sleigh and driver and footman.
She just holds on to this world's good things, I tell you, and she's past seventy.
My, how she was trigged out in a black satin pelisse lined with fur!
And she had a black beaver bonnet or hat, whatever you call it, with a big bow on top, and two black feathers flying.
I should hate to have my feathers whip all out in such a windy day."
"Oh, yes, that is the first style," said Betty.
"Hartford can't keep it all."
"Hartford can't hold a candle to Boston, even if Mat King is there.
Stands to reason we can get fashions just as soon here, if theirs do come from New York.
Madam was mighty fine.
You see, I do have some grand friends, Betty.
Your uncle was a man well thought of."
"Madam Bowdoin holds her age wonderfully," said Mrs. Leverett.
"Yes.
But she's never done a day's work in her life, and I don't remember when I didn't work.
Let me see--I've most forgot the thread of my discourse.
Oh, you never would believe, Betty, that twenty year ago there was just such a fashion.
I had a white beaver--what possessed me to get it I don't know.
Everything was awful high.
I had an idea that white would be rather plain, but when it had that great bow on top, and strings a full finger wide--well, I didn't even dare show it to your uncle!
So I packed it away with white wax and in a linen towel, and when she'd gone yesterday I went and looked at it.
'Taint white now, but it's just the color of rich cream when it's stood twenty-four hours or so.
Fursisee, they were just as much alike as two peas except as to color and the feathers.
I declare I _was_ beat!
Now, if you were going to be married, Betty, it might do for a wedding hat."
"But I'm not going to be married," with a sigh.
"I should hope not," said her mother--"at sixteen."
"My sister Patty was married when she was sixteen, and Submit when she was seventeen.
The oldest girls went off in a hurry, so the others had to fill their places.
Well--it just amazes me reading about this bonnet.
And whatever I'll do with mine except to give it away, I don't know.
I
did think once of having it dyed.
But the bow on top was so handsome, and I've kept paper wadded up inside, and it hasn't flatted down a mite.
Now, Elizabeth, she has that silk we all thought so foolish, and her brown frock and pelisse will be just the thing to travel in.
And maybe I could find something else.
The things will be scattered when I am dead and gone, and I might as well have the good of giving them away.
Most of the girls are married off and have husbands to provide for them.
I
used to think I'd take some orphan body to train and sort of fill Polly's place, for she grows more unreliable every day.
Yet I do suppose it's Christian charity to keep her.
And young folks are so trifling."
"Go make a cup of tea, Betty," said Mrs. Leverett.
"Now, Elizabeth," when Betty had shut the door, "I don't see why you mightn't as well let Betty go as not.
'Tisn't as if it was among strangers.
And there's really no telling what may happen next year.
We haven't any promise of that."
Mrs. Leverett looked up in surprise.
"Tisn't every day such a chance comes to hand.
She couldn't go alone on a journey like that.
And 'Lecty seems quite lotting on it."
"But Betty's just started in at housekeeping, and she would forget so much."
"Betty started in full six months ago.
And the world swings round so fast I dare say what she learns will be as old-fashioned as the hills in a few years.
I didn't do the way my mother taught me--husband used to laugh me out of it.
She'll have time enough to learn."
The tea, a biscuit, and a piece of pie came in in tempting array.
Aunt Priscilla was at her second cup when Jonas Field arrived, good ten minutes before the time.
"You come over to-morrow, Betty," said Aunt Priscilla.
"You and Dorothy just take a run; it'll do you good.
That child will turn into a book next.
She's got some of the Adams streaks in her.
And girls don't need so much book learning.
Solomon's wise, and he don't even know his letters."
That made Doris laugh.
She was getting quite used to Aunt Priscilla.
She rose and made a pretty courtesy, and said she would like to come.
Polly had forgotten to light the lamp.
She had been nursing Solomon, and the fire had burned low.
Aunt Priscilla scolded, to be sure.
Polly was getting rather deaf as well.
"It's warm out in the kitchen," said Polly.
"I want it warm here.
I aint going to begin to save on firing at my time of life!
I have enough to last me out, and I don't suppose anybody will thank me for the rest.
Bring in some logs."
Aunt Priscilla sat with a shawl around her until the cheerful warmth began to diffuse itself and the blaze lightened up the room.
Polly out in the kitchen was rehearsing her woes to Solomon.
"It's my 'pinion if missus lives much longer she'll be queerer'n Dick's hatband.
That just wouldn't lay anyhow, I've heerd tell, though I don't know who Dick was and what he'd been doing, but he was mighty queer.
'Pears to me he must a-lived before the war when General Washington licked the English.
And there's no suitin' missus.
First it's too hot and you're 'stravagant, then it's too cold and she wants to burn up all the wood in creation!"
Aunt Priscilla watched the flame of the dancing scarlet, blue, and leaping white-capped arrows that shot up, and out of the side of one eye she saw a picture on the end of the braided rug--a little girl with a cloud of light curls sitting there with a great gray cat in her lap.
The room was so much less lonely then.
Perhaps she was getting old, real old, with a weakness for human kind.
