Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 19

The new cook, "Betsey," whom these two little sisters were talking about, was a widow. Her husband was an industrious, temperate man, a carpenter by trade. He loved Betsey very much, and they lived in a snug, comfortable little house, which they hoped to be able to buy some day, when Tom had earned money enough at his trade.

Betsey made Tom a good wife. If _he_ worked hard in the shop, _she_ worked hard in the house. Everything was just as neat as a new pin. You might have eaten off her floors, they were scrubbed so white and clean.

There were no finger marks on her doors or windows, no broken panes of gla.s.s, with paper or rags stuffed in, to keep out the air, and her closets and cupboards would bear looking at, in the brightest sunlight that ever found its way into a kitchen. Her dishes and tumblers never stuck to your fingers; her table never had on soiled table-cloths; her walls were never festooned with cobwebs; her hearth never was littered with ashes. Well might Tom work cheerfully for _such_ a wife; for he knew that every penny he saved, and gave her, was put to the best possible use. It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair of pants, as nicely as a tailor.

Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh.

The truth was Tom was one of Nature's gentlemen; he always did and said just the right thing, and made everybody about him feel perfectly satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.

Well, they lived together as contented as two oysters. Tom didn't grit his teeth when a carriage rolled by with a rich man in it, or when another man pa.s.sed him in a finer suit of broadcloth than his own. Not he. He stepped off to his shop, on the strength of Betsey's nice coffee and biscuit, as grand as the President. Why not? He owed n.o.body a cent, and that's more than many a man can say, who would knock you down as quick as a flash, if you should intimate he wasn't a _gentleman_.

One fine day, Tom proposed to Betsey to go a fis.h.i.+ng, he said she needed something of that sort, by way of change, for she was quite worn out. Betsey said, "No, Tom, I am well enough; besides, the water will make me sick; but I want _you_ to go; you and Phil Dolan; you need it more than I, a great deal."

Tom didn't like to go without Betsey; he didn't believe in husband's frolicking about, and leaving their poor tired wives to mend their old duds, at home. No; he knew that there is no woman, be she ever so kind and good, who does not _sometimes_ want to see something beside a mop, a gridiron, and a darning needle; so Tom said, "No, I'll think of some pleasure you can share with me."

But Betsey persuaded him to go without her. She fancied, (good kind soul,) that Tom was looking less well than usual, and the thought of _his_ getting sick, made her quite miserable; so Tom said he'd go. Then Betsey got Tom his fis.h.i.+ng tackle, and put him up some biscuit, for he and Phil intended to get out on a little island to make some chowder; and then Tom----kissed her; (as true as you are alive, though she was his _wife_!) and then he went for Phil, and they got into a little boat, and floated off down the river.

Betsey worked away, thinking all the time how much good the fresh air on the water was doing Tom. She got along very well through the forenoon; cleaning up the house, and putting things in place, till dinner-time; then how lonesome it was not to have Tom's handsome face opposite her! and n.o.body to say, "Betsey, dear, here's your favorite bit;" or, "Betsey, dear, where's your appet.i.te to-day?" It made her so dull, that she couldn't eat her dinner.

I am sorry to say that Betsey had no darling little girl or boy, to climb up in her lap, and talk to her about papa. Betsey was sorry too, and so was Tom.

Well, the afternoon wore away. It was five o'clock;--time Betsey had begun to get tea, for Tom would soon be home. Let's see!--she would make some flap-jacks. Tom was fond of flap-jacks. She'd make him a _real_ strong cup of coffee: he liked that better than tea. She would cook him a bit of beef steak too, for she knew that fis.h.i.+ng always gave people a good appet.i.te. So she stepped around briskly, and spread her snow-white table-cloth, and put on her cups and saucers, and plates, and the castor--(yes, the _castor_ on the _tea_ table! for they didn't care a pin for fas.h.i.+on); and when she had cooked her supper, she looked at the clock. Yes, it was quite time he was there; and then she looked out the front door, just as if she could _look_ him home.

An hour went by--an hour after the time he said he'd come; and Tom always punctual to the minute, too. Betsey grew nervous. Somebody rang the bell. She flew to the door. (Tom never rang the bell.) It was only a boy inquiring for the next neighbor. Betsey pulled a little wrinkle out of the table-cloth, set Tom's chair up to the table, and peeped into the coffee-pot. It was all right. He would soon be there. But somehow she couldn't keep still a minute. She had a great mind (if she were not afraid of being laughed at) to run down to Phil Dolan's brother's, to see if Phil had got back.

There's the bell again! Betsey trembled so she could hardly get to the door, though she couldn't tell why.

It is Phil's brother.

Why don't Betsey speak to him? Why don't _he_ speak to Betsey? Why are his lips so ashen white?

Poor Betsey! she knew it all; though he has not spoken a word.

Tom is drowned.

Phil lifts Betsey from the floor, chafes her hands, and speaks to her pitifully. Betsey does not answer: she does not even hear him.

By and by she comes to herself and opens her eyes. She sees the little supper table. She looks at Phil, and then she puts her hand over his mouth, and says, "Not yet, not yet."

Phil's kind heart is wrung with pity. He knows they will soon bring in Tom's dead body. He loved Tom. Everybody loved him. It was only that very morning that he left home so bright, so full of life. Poor Tom!

Dear children, you can imagine how poor Betsey hung, weeping, over her husband's dead body; how dreadful it was to see the earth close over it, and to leave her dear little happy home, and go out among strangers, with such a sorrowful heart, to earn her bread.

She heard that Minnie's mother wanted a cook; she called and Minnie's mother engaged her; and now, perhaps, you'd like to hear the end of the trick the two little girls were planning to play on poor, heart-broken Betsey. You know now _why_ she started whenever a bell rang, and _why_ her nerves were in such a state.

"Now is the time," said Minnie; "Betsey has just gone in after the tea-waiter. Quick! get behind the coat, Louise."

Betsey soon came out with the tea-tray of dishes, and Minnie and Louise jumped at her, from behind the coats, seizing rudely hold of her arm.

Betsey uttered a loud scream, and fell to the bottom of the stairs, with the tray of dishes; while Minnie and Louise, terrified at the broken dishes, ran off up chamber, to hide under the bed.

Minnie's mother had not gone out, as she supposed, and was the first to find Betsey, whose face was badly cut with the broken dishes, and who was taken up quite senseless.

The doctor came and bandaged Betsey's head, and said she might die.

Their mother nursed her through a brain fever, and in her delirium, Betsey raved about her husband, and told, in fragments, all that her poor heart had suffered.

Minnie's mother, without saying a word to her little girls about their naughtiness, led them into the room and let them hear poor Betsey call for "Tom--dear Tom," to come and "pity and love her, and take the dull, weary pain out of her heart." And then they wept, and wanted to do something for Betsey, if it were only to bring her a gla.s.s of water to moisten her lips. After a long time, when their kind mother got nearly worn out with watching and nursing, Betsey got better. When she had quite recovered, their mother took her for a sempstress, and gave her a nice little comfortable room up stairs, with a fire in it, all to herself; and Minnie and Louise used to sit and read to her, and tell her over and over again, with their arms around her neck, how sorry they were they had been so wicked, and gave her nice books to read evenings, and tried to make poor Betsey's lonely life as happy as ever they could.

LETTY.

Did you ever hear of an Intelligence Office? Well, it's a place where servant girls go, to hear of families who wish to hire help. They pay the man who keeps the office something, and then he finds a place where they can work and earn money.

In one of these offices, one pleasant summer morning, twenty or more servant girls were seated,--some of them modest looking and tidily dressed, others bold and slatternly.

Wedged among them, in a dark corner, was a little girl about thirteen years old. Her face was pale, and her features, which were small and delicate, were half hidden by her thick, black hair. Her little hands were small and white, and from under her dress (which had evidently been made for some one else, as it was much too long and too wide for her) peeped as cunning a little pair of feet as you ever saw.

Little Letty--for that was her name--looked frightened and distressed.

She had never been in such a place before, and it made her cheeks very hot to have those rude girls stare at her so. Then, the air of the room was very close, and that made her head ache badly; and she felt afraid that n.o.body would hire her, because she was so little. Her mother had died only a week before, and Letty had a drunken father,--so, you see, that, young as she was, she had to earn her own bread and b.u.t.ter.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LETTY.]

By and by, a woman came in. Some people, I suppose, would have called her a lady, as she had on a silk dress, and a great many s.h.i.+ny chains and pins. Letty's mother was a lady, although she was poor. She had sweet, gentle manners, and a soft, low voice. Letty did not like Mrs.

Finley's looks; she wore too many bows and flounces; and then her voice was loud and harsh, and her forehead had an ugly frown on it, that didn't go away even when she smiled and tried to look gracious. No, Letty didn't like her, and she almost hoped she wouldn't take a fancy to her, much as she needed a place to live in.

But Mrs. Finley liked Letty's looks; so she sailed across the room, with her six flounces, and asked her so many questions, in such a loud voice, that Letty was quite bewildered; then she heard her say to Mr.

Silas Skinflint, who kept the office, that she would take her, and that it was a very nice thing that her mother was dead, for mothers were always bothering.

"Very nice that her mother was dead!"

Poor, little, desolate Letty couldn't bear _that_. She hid her little face in her hands, and began to sob pitifully; but Mr. Skinflint tapped her on the shoulder with his cane, and told her that n.o.body would hire a cry-baby; so Letty sat up straight, and choked her tears down, and at a signal from Mr. Skinflint took up her little bundle and followed Mrs.

Finley.

On she went, past a great many fine shops and fine houses, Letty keeping close behind her. Letty's head felt quite giddy, and she was very faint, for her naughty father had gone off, and poor Letty had had no breakfast that morning.

After turning a great many squares, Mrs. Finley went down a very narrow street, where a great many noisy, dirty children were playing on the sidewalks,--where a great many women were leaning (on their red elbows) out of the windows, and a great many coa.r.s.e, rough men were sitting on the steps, smoking pipes, in their s.h.i.+rt sleeves.

At one of these houses Mrs. Finley stopped, and Letty followed her up the steps, through the entry, and into the parlor. A table stood in the middle of the floor, covered with dirty breakfast dishes, where myriads of flies were making a meal. A little baby with a pink nose and bald head, was playing on the floor with a head-brush and a skillet; while a boy, about Letty's age, was mopping out a sugar bowl with his fingers, and two little girls, in yellow pantalettes and pink dresses, were trying to hide away a dress cap of their mother's, which they had been cutting up for their dollies. On a side table were Mr. Finley's "shaving things," a dirty d.i.c.key, and sundry little bits of paper with floating islands of soap-suds, left there by his razor.

"Well--here we are at last," said Mrs. Finley, fanning herself with a great newspaper. "You see, Letty, there's plenty to do here. Now I'm going up stairs, to put on a calico long-short, and take a nap; and you are to wash these dishes, and put them in the closet; clear away the table; sweep the room and dust it; wash these children's faces, and keep them quiet; put some water in the tea-kettle and set it boiling; tend the door, and keep a look out for the milk-man.

"Ma'am?" said Letty, looking bewildered.

"M-a-'a-m"--mocked Mrs. Finley, "where's your ears, child? let's see if I can find 'em," and she gave Letty's little ear a smart pull.

"Please, ma'am, it is all so new to me," said Letty, trying to keep from crying; "will you please tell me where to find the broom to sweep with, or the water to wash the dishes, and which closet I am to put them in, and where's the towel to wipe the children's faces?"