A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg. Douglas Amanda M.
on the doorstep, and tried to keep awake, so she could hear the little shoemaker.
"I'll clear them swallows out of the chimney, they disturb me so," declared the father, and he got a long pole and scraped down several nests. But the next night the sound came again, and the mother began to feel afeared. But when Eily went downstairs there was a pair of little red shoes standing in the corner, and Eily caught them up and kissed them, she was so full of joy. Then her mother said, "The Leprecawn has been here. And, Eily, you must never wear them out of doors at the full of the moon, or you'll be carried off."
"Was she ever, do you think, Norry?"
"Oh, her mother'd be very careful. For if you go to fairyland, you'll have to stay seven years."
"I shouldn't like that," subjoined Dilly. "But I would like the red shoes. And if I could find some four-leaf clovers – "
"You can't in winter."
"Well – next summer."
"Maybe grandad can find you some red leather, and lame Pete can make them."
"But I rather have the fairy shoemaker, with his 'tip tap, rip rap';" laughing.
"Don't minch about him. Here's a nice chunk of cake."
Dilly had cake enough to spoil a modern child's digestion. But no one understood hygiene in those days, and kept well.
There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method.
Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man. Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist; knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles.
Dilly learned to sew a little as well. But early industry was not held in as high esteem as in the Eastern Colonies. There was plenty of spinning and knitting. Fashions did not change much in the way of dress, so you could go on with your clothes until they were worn out. The nicest goods were imported, but there was a kind of flannelly cloth for winter wear, that was dyed various colors, mostly blue and copperas, which made a kind of yellow.
So the winter went on, and in February there came a great thaw. Oh, how the river swelled, and rushed on to the Ohio. It was very warm. And one day Daffodil sat on the great stone doorstep, holding the cat, and munching a piece of cake. Judy ate a few crumbs, but she did not care much for it.
"There's a peddler," said Dilly to Judy. "He has a big pack on his back, and he walks with a cane, as if he was tired. And there's something hanging to his waist, and a queer cap. He seems looking – why, he's coming here. Gran'mere wants some thread, but he isn't our – Mother," she called.
He was thin, and pale, and travel-stained, and had not the brisk, jaunty air of the peddlar.
But he came up the little path, and looked at her so sharply she jumped up, hugging Judy tightly. "Some one, mother," she said, half frightened.
Mrs. Carrick stepped to the door, and glanced. Then, with a cry, she went to her husband's arms.
They both almost fell on the doorstep.
"Oh," she cried, "you are tired to death! And – "
"Never mind; I'm home. And I have all my limbs, and have never been ill. It has been a desperate struggle, but it's ending grandly. And everybody – "
"They are all alive and well. Oh, we've been watching, and hoping – it doesn't matter now, you are here;" and she leaned down on his shoulder and cried.
"Three years and four months. I couldn't get word very well, and thought I'd rather come on. You see, my horse gave out, and I've had a ten-mile walk. And – the baby?"
"Oh, she's a big girl. She was sitting here – "
"Not that child!" in surprise.
"Daffodil," called her mother.
The child came shyly, hesitatingly.
"Dilly, it's father. We've talked of him so much, you know. And you have watched out for him many a time."
Somehow he didn't seem the father of her imagination. He took her in his arms, and dragged her over in his lap.
"Oh, I forgot you could grow," in a tone broken with emotion. "But her blue eyes, and her yellow hair. Oh, my little darling! We shall have to get acquainted over again;" and he kissed the reluctant lips. "Oh, it is all like a dream! Many and many a time I thought I should never see you again;" and he wiped the tears from his eyes.
"If you are glad, what makes you cry?" asked the child, in a curious sort of way.
Barbe put her arms around Dilly. Of course, no child could understand.
"And the others," began Bernard Carrick.
"Oh, let us go in." There was a tremble of joy in her voice. "Mother, grandfather, he has come!"
Mrs. Bradin greeted her son-in-law with fond affection, and a great thanksgiving that he had been spared to return to them. They talked and cried, and Daffodil looked on wonderingly. Great-grandfather Duvernay, who had been taking his afternoon rest, came out of his room, and laid his hand tremblingly in the younger one, that had not lost its strength. Yes, he was here again, in the old home, amid them all, after many hardships.
"Oh, sit down," said Mother Bradin. "You look fit to drop. And you must have something to eat, and a cup of tea. Or, will it be a man's tipple? There's some good home-brewed beer – or a sup of whiskey."
"I'll take the tea. It's long since I've had any. And if I could wash some of the dust off – it must be an inch thick."
Ah, that was something like the old smile, only there was a hollow in the cheek, that used to be so round and so pink. She took him into her room, and, filling a basin with warm water, set it on the cedar chest, spreading a cloth over it, that he might splash in comfort.
"It's been a long journey," he said. "But the poor horse gave out first. Boyle, and Truart, and Lowy were with me, but not to come quite so far. Some of the young fellows remained, though the feeling is that there won't be much more fighting. The impression is that England's about as tired of the war as we."
"But you wouldn't have to go back again?" Barbe protested, in a sort of terror.
"Well – no;" yet the tone was not altogether reassuring.
She took his coat out by the door and brushed it, but it was very shabby. Still, he looked much improved when he re-entered the room, where Mrs. Bradin had set a tempting lunch at the corner of the table. But he could hardly eat for talking. Barbe sat beside him – she could scarce believe he was there in the flesh.
Daffodil went out in the sunshine again. She started to run over to grandad's. Norry would be so glad. Well, grandad too, she supposed. Had he really believed father would never come home? Somehow, it was different. In Norry's stories the soldiers were strong, and handsome, and glittering with gold lace, and full of laughter. She couldn't recall whether they had any little girls or not. And there was her mother hanging over the strange man – yes, he was strange to her. And her mother would care for him, and stay beside him, and she somehow would be left out. Her little heart swelled. She did not understand about jealousy, she had had all the attention, and it was not pleasant to be pushed one side. Oh, how long he was eating, and drinking, and talking, and – yes, they laughed. Grandad was coming up to the house with a great two-handled basket – she knew it was full of ears of corn, and she did so like to see him shell it, and hear the rattle as it fell down in the tub. He sat on a board across the tub, and had a queer sort of affair, made by two blades, and as he drew the ears of corn through it, scraped off both sides.
No, she wouldn't even go and see grandad, for he would say, "Well, yellow-top, your father hasna come home yet;" and, she – well, she could not tell a wrong story, and she would not tell the true one. Grandad wouldn't go back on her, but he could wait.
"Oh, Dilly, here you are!" said her mother, coming out of the door, with her husband's arm around her.