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    A Little Girl in Old Chicago
    A Little Girl in Old Chicago
    A Little Girl in Old Chicago
    Ebook295 pages5 hours

    A Little Girl in Old Chicago

    By Amanda M. Douglas

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    A Little Girl in Old Chicago written by Amanda M. Douglas who was an American writer of adult and juvenile fiction.  This book was published in 1904. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPublisher s11838
    Release dateDec 8, 2018
    ISBN9788829569847
    A Little Girl in Old Chicago

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      A Little Girl in Old Chicago - Amanda M. Douglas

      Douglas

      Table of Contents

      CHAPTER I.  THE LITTLE GIRL

      CHAPTER II.  GETTING DINNER

      CHAPTER III.  THROUGH THE WINTER

      CHAPTER IV.  A POLITICAL DIFFERENCE

      CHAPTER V.  OF COMMON DAILY THINGS

      CHAPTER VI.  THEN THE UNCOMMON

      CHAPTER VII.  FROM THE LITTLE GIRL'S SIDE

      CHAPTER VIII.  WITHOUT NORMAN

      CHAPTER IX.  WAS EVER LETTER HALF SO DEAR?

      CHAPTER X.  A WILD RIDE

      CHAPTER XI.  A TIME FOR LOVE

      CHAPTER XII.  NOT MERRY, BUT WEDDING BELLS.

      CHAPTER XIII.  THE SHADED SIDE

      CHAPTER XIV.  A TURN IN THE LANE

      CHAPTER XV.  HOW MUCH WAS LOVE?

      CHAPTER XVI.  HER RIVALS

      CHAPTER XVII.  POLLY.

      CHAPTER XVIII.  DAN

      CHAPTER XIX.  HOW NORMAN CAME HOME

      CHAPTER XX.  THE PASSING OF OLD CHICAGO

      CHAPTER I. 

      THE LITTLE GIRL

      It is one of the compensations of Providence that after the storm and stress of active life is through, one can go back to the beautiful world of memory and live over the earlier joys with a delight not experienced in youth.

      So the time I first saw the Little Girl is one of the pictures that line the halls of remembrance, softened, and it may be rendered more beautiful, by the intervening years, and love.

      It was a late September evening, at least the day had waned. All the west still held the peculiar rich glow of a magnificent sunset that had melted now into one great sheet of softened tints, with no one distinct color predominating, and changing every instant. Over the great lake it dropped iridescent hues, and even the river, with its muddy banks, shimmered in a glorified light. And I, Norman Hayne, sat idly outside the log end of the house, that was our real living place, though the frame addition had been added, for we had long ago outgrown the other. There was a rude porch over the door, where the Michigan rose rioted in the early summer, and morning-glories later on. Beyond this was a bench with a pail, one or two basins and a dishpan piled with dishes, where my mother would presently stand, washing up. Various utensils hung from the edge of a narrow shelf, a gourd dipper and one of cocoanut. Out beyond, on the garden fence, was the churn dasher and the churn on a low pole.

      Early August had been hot and dry, then had fallen copious rains and everything had taken a new lease of life. I was looking idly over to the eastward, wondering what the States were like, though it would seem from the influx of emigrants and their tales that they held every variety of climate and productions known to the world.

      I watched a great covered wagon lumbering along, drawn by two not over large but stocky horses. In a vague fashion I said to myself—Some one from the States. It had not the air of a near-by native.

      The driver jumped down with a loud whoa, and the animals, nothing loth, stood still. We were back perhaps fifty feet from the road, though it had a name as a street.

      Mother came out just as the man walked up the path. She was rather stout, somewhat weather-beaten with our fierce winds, but fresh and wholesome looking, with a kindly smile, that had not been banished by the scoldings she had found necessary to use. Her hair was a soft dun-colored brown, her eyes brown also, with a sort of twinkle in them that sometimes flashed in the heat of anger.

      The man gave his faded wool hat a tug. He was of medium height, much seamed and wrinkled by exposure, with shrewd blue eyes, rather reddish hair and a sparse ragged beard, the sort of man who would hardly attract a second look.

      Ma'am, he began, in a respectful tone, can you tell me just how I shall find the Towner place, and can I reach it to-night?

      Well— mother looked over westward—I can't say I should advise you to attempt it. It's crost the river. An' ther' ain't much but a tumble-down log hut. Be you the man goin' to live ther'? Towner traded off the place an' was in high feather 'bout his bargain.

      The man looked rather crestfallen. I was in hopes I could. But then it's good to be so near, with a sigh of content in the voice. There's some taverns about, I suppose, though, for that matter, we could take another night in the wagon.

      What fambly is ther'? and mother peered out rather curiously.

      Only me and my little gal. There's such big stories told about Chicago.

      An' they're comin' out the little end of the horn, said mother with a short laugh. You can hardly give lots away.

      The man stood rather uncertain.

      See here, began mother, who was hospitality itself, we can put you up for the night. S'pose you unhitch and take a bite of supper. It's tough goin' to a strange place in the dark, an' a tavern ain't jest the place for a little gal. Norme, you great lazy lout, stir your stumps, and show the way to the barn. Bring your little gal in here, Mister. I declare for it, a gal is quite a treat. I've five boys an' I'm countin' on the time they get married so's I can see a petticoat around.

      Do I come up here?

      Yes. I was off with a bound and began to turn the tired beasts up the roadway. Just at the stoop I paused.

      I'm mighty obliged to you, he began, bowing to mother. 'Tisn't everybody you find willing to take in a stranger. But I'm going to stay if I can squeeze out any sort of a living. Times are hard everywhere. Seems as though the bottom's fallen out of everything.

      When the bottom falls out 'er Chicago we fill it in agen, returned mother with a heartsome laugh. You've come to a queer place, stranger. First, we're way out top of the chimbly wavin' defiance to everybody and braggin' like all possessed, then down we come kerflunk! But we rub our bruises and knock off the soot an' go at it agen.

      That's the way you have to do, was the almost cheerful response. Then he went to the side of the wagon and chirped, and lifted out the Little Girl and put her down. I looked intently at her and she was impressed upon my brain.

      A little girl of seven or eight in a faded blue cotton frock that came two or three inches from her ankles, and her dainty feet were encased in a pair of beaded moccasins. Her light hair, more flaxen than golden, hung about in short loose curls. Her skin was very fair, her mouth like an opening rosebud. But her eyes transfixed one even in the growing darkness. They seemed bathed in dewy sunshine and were of the depth of sapphire, or the blue of a winter night. The brows and lashes were much darker than the hair, the eyes large and clear, but after she had once glanced up fearlessly they drooped and seemed to shine through the lashes.

      You are just a little dear, said mother, and she stooped to kiss her, though she was not at all given to caresses. And now while they go out to look after the horses I'll fix some supper. I've just cleared it away. My, but it's dark as a pocket in here. I'll light a candle. Have you had a long journey?

      Oh, days and days! Sometimes we stayed at houses and sometimes in the wagon. There were wolves one night and father shot two, and we stayed one night in an Indian wigwam. The squaws were kind, but the babies were so funny, tied to a board and standing round. I didn't like the food though. I can cook some.

      Haven't you any mother?

      The child sighed. Mother died a long, long while ago. Why do they have to be put in the ground? I should think they'd be carried up on some high mountain, where it would be easier for the angels to get them.

      And who took care of you?

      Aunt Getty did. Then she married Silas Bowers and he had seven children. I didn't like them though. Then Gran came out of the poorhouse, and after that some of the things were sold, only what we could pack in the wagon. It was very nice at first. We stopped by the woods and made fires and broiled fish and birds that father shot. You make a little stone fireplace so— and she described the outline with her hands. And when the wood gets all burned to coals you can broil, or you can fry in a skillet.

      You're a smart little thing, declared mother in amazement. Why you're not much bigger than a minute.

      Why a minute is sixty seconds, and what do you suppose the seconds are?

      I'm sure I don't know, and mother laughed.

      It looked cheery enough when I came in. It should have been painted as an Interior in Old Chicago. The room was large with a great fireplace at one end, the logs had been chinked in with plaster and then plastered over again, quite roughly to be sure. Every spring and fall mother whitewashed it. Now it was rather smoky. Dan and I had put up a kind of dresser on one side, shelves braced up by side brackets and a curtain hung over them. Our chairs had tough reed grass bottoms, braided in a fashion learned from the Indians. There were several gun racks, and some trophies of hunting. On one side was a roomy settle that did duty as a bed, with dried grass pillows and cured skins, some quite valuable. Mother had two candles lighted on the table, and they shed a sort of weird light around. She was warming up some chicken potpie, and there was a great plate of brown bread and white, and another of gingerbread and an appetizing sauce of wild grapes.

      Mr. Gaynor had stopped at the bench and washed face and hands with a great flourish of enjoyment. Now he sniffed at the savory fragrance with the eagerness of a hungry man.

      Jest draw up, said mother, nodding to a chair. But she placed one for the Little Girl and would have lifted her in it, only she slipped by with the litheness of a fairy.

      What is your name, Sissy?

      Ruth—Ruth Gaynor, was the gentle reply.

      And I am John Gaynor from old Massachusetts. I've wondered along the route what evil spirit enticed me to leave the State where I was born, but somehow luck turned against me, and the farm was a bed of rocks, as one may say—worn-out land. There's to be a great wheat-growing country out here, folks say, and bread is one of the things that doesn't seem to go out of fashion. Jerusalem! but there's a sight of folks growing up all the time. When the world gets full I s'pose it'll have to come to an end, for if it is full of folks, stands to reason there won't be no room for wheat growing.

      Laws a' massy, I never thought of that, said mother. But ther's wars and plagues an' what not. Sissy, you ain't eating no supper.

      I'm eating slow, tastes so good, returned Ruth gravely, looking up with shining eyes.

      There was a sudden rush and howl and she started in terror, turning pale.

      It's them dratted boys, explained mother, going to the door. Boys— one or two of them had a resounding cuff—you air worse'n a pack of wolves! Now jes' wash up in some sort o' quiet or you'll get your father's horsewhip. An' then go straight to bed. Go round 'tother way.

      Who's here? both in a breath.

      That's nothin' to you. Do as I tell you.

      There air three of the noisiest boys in all Chicago. Dan, he's quiet and grouty like when things don't go to suit, but he's smart. This here boy's slow an' easy like, an' not given to tantrums, an' I guess we'll have to make a 'pason' out of him. Then there's Homer an' Ben 'n Chris, an' they'd tear the house down if they got at the underpinnin'. Norman here should have been a gal! My! but I was disappointed when he come. I'd jes' set my heart on a gal. Then I got kinder hardened and didn't care. Boys!

      She went out again and presently there was a giggling and a scuffling off. There was an outside covered stairs leading to the attic over this end of the house and the boys slept there.

      I had been watching the Little Girl. I had no word for it then, but I knew afterward it was daintiness that enveloped her. She sat up so straight and ate so quietly, even in drinking her glass of milk she made no noise. Then she looked up at mother and smiled.

      It was such a good supper, she said, and her eyes shone with dewy softness. Then she turned a little and glanced at me, and I felt my cheek burn from some unwonted cause. Not but what girls had looked at me before, and I had romped with them.

      I'm wonderfully obliged, ma'am, and Mr. Gaynor rose from the table. The beasts, too, are thankful no doubt. Hoping presently you'll be better paid, though I take it that kindness isn't ever made quite straight with money, and I'm glad enough to be so near my journey's end. What sort of a place is Towner's?

      Mother looked at me. You can tell best, Norme, she said with a nod.

      It's just a little 'tother side of the river. The log house isn't much. There's quite a garden spot, then it runs out on the prairie, and up the lake. He cut some of it up in blocks and sold, but I heard pop say he had to take it back.

      Is it the town proper?

      'Twould be hard to tell what's town and what isn't, said mother, though they're talkin' 'bout organizin' something, an' it's high time there was some sort of head to things. They've been surveying and surveying and laying out streets that cut up gardens and farms. Some people think it'll be a great place, an' others say it can't be anything but a mud hole. You see, the river rises in a freshet, and the wind drives the lake in. It's a mighty good place for ducks. They can sit on the stoop of Tremont tavern and shoot them.

      John Gaynor laughed heartily at that.

      Mother meanwhile had been putting away the food and gathering up dishes. Now she said:

      Light the lantern, Norman, it's grown so dark. Then bring out the towels. You see, with a light laugh, I have to train my boys to do some gal's work. I don't see when they have to eat why they shouldn't help clear it away. They'll make all the better husbands.

      Would you mind if I came out and smoked my pipe?

      Oh, dear no, returned mother cheerfully.

      The lantern shed a light down on the bench, I brought out the teakettle and filled the pan, and she began to wash and put the dishes in another pan to drain. Mr. Gaynor seated himself on the round of a tree at a little distance. There was a slight touch on my elbow.

      Couldn't I help dry them? inquired a soft voice. If you would find me a towel—

      Oh, you dear little housemaid! cried mother admiringly. But you ought to play lady to-night.

      I used to do it for Gran. And there's so many here. Isn't it fun to have a good many dishes! Oh, please do! in a coaxing tone.

      Get her a fresh towel, said mother, amused. So Ruth Gaynor and I dried the dishes the first time we saw each other, and with that began a great friendship.

      You'll do for a housekeeper, commented mother. What a sweet little thing you are! Why I think I shall have to buy you of your father.

      Oh, he couldn't spare me, could you, father?

      She ran and slipped on his knee and put her arms about his neck.

      No, little one, he made answer.

      I sat on the end of the bench looking at them, and envying him. I wondered how the soft arms would feel about my neck, the rose-leaf cheek pressed against mine. I was past fifteen and not over fond of browsing about and noisy games, though I was well grown and strong. I liked to read and dream, and I was fond of hearing the men talk when they did not swear too much, or call each other fools too often. I did enjoy their aspirations about Chicago and the boundless west. Chicago was even then an entrepôt for St. Louis, and also the Mississippi, from upper Michigan with its endless stack of furs to Canada, and from thence to Europe. When all these great reaches were waving cornfields and wheat fields, and there should be a port extensive enough to accommodate them all, a gate through which the treasures of the earth and rain and sun should pass, and the gold and silver of the world return!

      Well, it was a splendid dream to be laughed at then. But had not voyagers a hundred years before had dreams akin to it?

      The Little Girl had fallen fast asleep when her father carried her in. It was very foolish, but I wished I could have kissed the soft, slightly parted smiling lips as mother had.

      Mother lighted them into the new part, where there was a small sleeping chamber off the best room which, no doubt, would have been called a parlor if Dan and I had been girls.

      What a sweet little thing! mother said with a sigh. Too nice to come to a wild town like this.

      Dan and father were down to the Tremont playing cards and talking politics. Andrew Jackson was still President, a man who had warm partisans and bitter enemies. Then, too, Chicago was beginning to feel the birth throes of a city.

      We were up early the next morning. Dan was employed in one of the trading companies, father at the mill, and they were off by six in summer. It was true that I partly did a girl's work helping mother, being deft and light-handed for a boy. I ran out to the stable to see if I had dreamed this wonderful event of the night before. No, there were the horses, who greeted me with a cheerful whinny, and there was the wagon with its patched cover.

      Ruth Gaynor was as sweet and charming in the morning as she had been at night. Soon after breakfast they prepared to leave. My mother would accept nothing for her hospitality except a promise that Ruth should come over and visit us. The three younger ones stared at her with boyish bashfulness, and she did not seem to be inclined to make friends with them. I was selfishly glad of it.

      I was to pilot them over. Everything has changed so now that it is difficult to find an old landmark. There had been great changes even in my remembrance. Gurdon Hubbard had moved his business to Chicago and erected a brick building on the corner of South Water and LaSalle streets, the first in the town. Then he had built a warehouse on Kinzie Street and was doing a flourishing commission and forwarding business with vessels plying between Buffalo and the upper lakes, the Eagle line. Back of this a little was the space a block square that Towner had traded for the Massachusetts farm near a thriving city. Then, still farther away, was the tract of prairie.

      The house we found in a poor condition. But as if Mr. Gaynor's luck was to begin at once, some parties wished to buy half of this plot and a bargain was struck. That would leave him the house and a garden. There was such a little money that trade and barter was often resorted to, and through a third party he could have lumber enough to build two new rooms on the house and repair the other. There was a tolerable barn and stable.

      We cleared up the best room. It was astonishing to see the useful articles and bedding that were stored in the great wagon. We found some second-hand furniture, and by night they were fairly comfortable. It was still pleasant, but we built a roaring fire in the old fireplace to drive away the dampness.

      What a day it was to me! How fascinating the Little Girl was in every movement, in her shrewd sayings, her wisdom that seemed much too old for her years, yet she was such a frank, eager child.

      Must you go home? she asked pleadingly. Your mother has other boys. Can't some of them help her?

      I suppose they could be trained to. They have always kept together and are so full of play.

      And do you work all the time?

      Oh, no, I have been to school. But I am old enough to go to work regularly and mean to soon. I felt as if I would like to be a man at once, though I could give no reason for it.

      I hate to have you go. She caught hold of my hand and swung herself gently to and fro. I like you very much.

      She glanced up out of such clear, shining eyes that she seemed to fill my whole being with their light. My mother had a right to me—had any one ever really wanted me before?

      Will you come to-morrow? There is so much work to do, sighing with a fascinating air.

      I will come to-morrow, I was glad to promise.

      Let me walk down to the end of the street, and then I will turn and run back, and instead of saying good-by say 'to-morrow, to-morrow,' and just watch for the sunrise.

      She kept my hand until we reached the corner, then like a fleet little fawn skimmed over the ground, never once glancing back, and I had known her only twenty-four hours.

      I hope you were well paid for your day's work, said my mother laughingly.

      CHAPTER II. 

      GETTING DINNER

      The man certainly was a fool, said my father that evening as he sat smoking his pipe. He had taken part in a political quarrel the evening before, and so did not go down to the Tremont to play cards, but read the Democrat and made promiscuous comments as he went along.

      What man? asked mother.

      Why that Gaynor! The idea of selling out a good home in a prosperous State and coming out here! If I could get out of this mud hole to-morrow I just would.

      Oh, no you wouldn't. You have said many a time that Chicago would lead all the Western cities when she was fairly on the march.

      Well—he will never see any of his money or values back again!

      He disposed of half his plot to Farlie this morning, I interposed.

      What! The tone was sharp enough to take one's head off.

      I repeated my assertion.

      And swapped for another mud hole?

      No, he wanted lumber and various materials. The rest is in notes.

      Yes, yes, well Farlie'll shave him. Yankees think they are very smart and shrewd, but he will find! and father nodded vindictively.

      I think that an excellent thing. They want a comfortable home and they must have some one to help out that child. She ought to go to school. She's too little to keep house. I must go over and see her.

      Oh, do, I entreated. It's hard to have her there alone.

      Yes, men as a general thing haven't much sense about rearing gals.

      Norman, began my father rather abruptly, you go over to Hubbard's. I heard he wanted some help—a boy good at figuring. When I was twelve years old I turned out to work. You've had a pretty good chance at schooling.

      My heart beat with a quick throb. Why, if I could get a situation there I could see the Little Girl every day!

      I'll go the first thing, I replied cheerfully.

      And you needn't stick out about wages. Boys nowadays think they are worth a heap of gold, but they're not. Be content to begin down to the bottom of the line, and thankful that you have the chance.

      I was amused. I think I was a rather meek boy and not given to exalting myself.

      The three younger ones went to school, and then it was from eight to five, seven months of the year, from nine until four through the winter months. It might have been hard on the teachers, but no one complained.

      The next morning when I started out my mother said, Go and see if that little Gaynor girl is well, and how they managed last night.

      I went to the warehouse first. It looked big and business-y in those days. Vessels were lading, men were running to and fro, a few negroes among

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