University of Virginia Library

LETTER II.

Dear Aunt:—In my last letter, I told you something
about house-hunting in New-York, and the
terrible bother landlords and tenants get into every
spring; but the story was so long I had to break
off before I said half what I wanted to. And now

I am going to try to tell you something about moving
day. Oh, of all the days in this 'ere world, and I've
seen a good many kinds of days in my life-time—
I've seen trainin' days, and muster days, and independent
days, and when I lived in Washington
along with General Jackson, bless the dear old
man! we used to have Christmas and New-Year's
days; but of all the days that ever I did see in this
'ere world, moving-day in New-York is the cap-sheaf.
It is no more like the May-days we used to
have in Downingville, than a toad under a harrow
is like a man on horseback. You know what good,
pleasant times we used to have when the first day
of May come round in Downingville, how everything
in the house was all slicked up a day or two
beforehand as neat as a pin, and the things in every
room all sot to rights, and the children's faces all
washed, and their heads combed, and their clean
clothes all ready for 'em to put on. And then,
about sunrise May morning, what a scampering
there was among the children! They'd come darting
out of all the houses like flocks of new butterflies,
all dressed up as neat as pinks, and their eyes
glistening and shining like glass buttons. And away
they'd fly in whole swarms across the fields, and up
on the hills, and away in the woods; and when they
come back to breakfast you couldn't tell which was
the reddest, their cheeks or the bunches of flowers
they had in their hands. And every part of Downingville
all day would smell as sweet as a rose.

But 'taint so in New-York, aunt Keziah, not by a
jug-full. Everything here on a May-day looks
amazin' different, and smells amazin' different, I can
tell you. But I'll try and see if I can give you some
little notion of it. To begin where I left off in my
last letter: When I got through making a bargain
with old Mr. Johnson, that's the name of the man I
hired the house of—when I got through, and the old

man took the bill down off the house, and I felt sure
at last that we'd got a house to go into next day,
and shouldn't have to be turned out of doors, Polly
and I turned about to go home, a good deal lighter-hearted
than we had been before for a fortnight. It
was jest beginning to grow dark a little, and we
had a considerable ways to go, round ever so many
corners, and through a good many streets; but
don't you think there were so many lights it was
jest as easy going as it would be in the day time.
In all the streets there was long rows of lamps lit
on both sides of the streets as fur as you could see;
and you might go round miles and miles, and turn
which way you would, you couldn't see no end to
lamps. I'll say that for New-York, it's a good
deal easier getting about here in the night time than
it is in Downingville.

Well, Polly and I jogged along towards home,
but we hadn't gone a great ways before we begun
to see other great lights in the streets than lamps;
and they begun to grow thicker and thicker in all
the streets—great blazing fires, as big as we used
to have in the fields when we were burning off
brush in the spring. What under the sun can all
these fires mean? says I. I begun to be afraid the
tenants had come off so bad in the battle with the
landlords this time, that they might be layin' a plan
to burn up the whole city at once. But Polly said
she didn't believe but what they'd begun to turn
them folks that hadn't got no houses into the streets
already, and they was building up fires to stay by
in the night. Poor critters! says she, how I do
pity 'em! for I know that's what it is. I told her
no, she might depend upon't, 'twasn't the rule to
turn 'em out till next day at twelve o'clock precisely.

By this time we got along into a shabby looking
street, chock full of hogs and boys, and you couldn't
hardly tell which looked the cleanest, or behaved

the best, the hogs or the boys—nor hardly which
was the thickest. Here we come along to one of
these ere great fires, and stopt a few minutes to
look at it. There was fifty boys round it, poking
it with sticks, and hollering and screaming like bedlam.
At last, says I to a little boy that stood near
me—

“My lad, what's the meaning of all these ere
great fires about the streets to-night?”

“Nothing,” says he, “only jest burning up the
old straw.”

“What old straw?” says I.

“Why, the old beds,” says he; “every body
burns up the old straw to night.”

“But,” says I, “If every body burns up their
beds to-night, what 'll they do to sleep on to-morrow
night?”

“Oh,” says he, “they can get enough more to
the flour and feed stores to-morrow.”

At that all the other boys, that had been a looking
and listening to hear what we said, sot up such a
giggling and a hurraying, it fairly made some of the
four-legged pigs snort and run. And then one little
sassy rascal come up within about ten foot of
me, and stood and put his thumb up agin the side
of his nose, and looked up with an awful sassy look
at me, and hollered out, “ain't ye green?” And
then he pulled foot and run for fear I should be arter
him. But I didn't mind nothin' about him, though
the boys all laffed again as if they'd split. Bimeby
out came a couple of dirty looking gals from a
dirty looking house, lugging along a straw bed,
and emptied it on to the fire.

“Whorah,” said the boys, as they run with their
sticks and poked the straw into the fire—“Whorah;
now for roast bed-bugs and fleas. Hark,
only hear the flees roar; and them bed-bugs crack
and snap like burning hemlock.”

“Hold your tongues, you sassy brutes,” said the
gals.

At that the boys took arter 'em full chisel with
handfulls of burning straw, and the gals run as if a
catamount had been arter 'em till they got into the
house.

Polly give my arm a jerk, and begged of me to
make haste out of the street. We jogged along
again towards home, and we didn't get into any
other street quite so bad as that, though we went
through a number that didn't smell any too sweet,
I can tell you. At last we got home and found
cousin Nabby most out of patience waiting for us;
she'd had supper ready an hour, and the youngest
children was very tired and fretty. So we sot
down to supper, and before we 'd got half through,
somebody knocked at the door.

“Come in,” says I. And the door opened, and
in came an Irishman with a basket full of dishes, as
much as he could lug. And says he, “Plase yer
honor.”

You know, aunt Keziah, how queer these ere
Irishmen talk; it's enough to make a body laff till
his sides aches to hear em talk so broad and ungrammatical.

“Plase yer honor,” says he, “mistress Pinkham
wants to know if ye'll be so kind as to be after
obleeging her so much as to do her a little kindness
jest to let her reposite a few things in one of your
rooms to-night. It 'ill be very convaniant for her
indade.”

“Who is Miss Pinkham?” says I.

“It's the lady that's rinted this tinement, yer
honor,” says he, “and it 'll be very convaniant for
her, if you'll allow her.”

“Oh, yes,” says I, “I'm always glad to do a lady
a favor if I can; you may set 'em into the fore
room there an' welcome.”

Before he'd got 'em half took out of the basket,
in come another chap, luggin four chairs. And then
followed a boy with a dish kettle in one hand, filled
up with a mess of little things, and the shovel and
tongs in 'tother. Then in comes a little gal with a
looking glass, and brought it along to Polly, and
says she,

“Ma wants you to set this away very careful, for
she wouldn't have it broke for anything in the
world, 'twould be sich a bad sign.”

So Polly got up and took the glass and hung it on
a nail by the side of ourn. By the time we'd done
supper, all hands had been back, and came lugging
in another load, and piled it up in the fore-room.
And the little girl said, “Ma would come round
bime by and see about stoin it away.” And back
they all went for another load. I see that Polly
and cousin Nabby begun to feel a little nettled;
but I told them 'twasn't best to mind it: we should
be off to-morrow, and we could put up with a little
trouble for one night, jest for the sake of doin a
kindness.

Presently in they come again with as much as
they could lug, of all sorts of housen-stuff that you
could think on. And at last Miss Pinkham herself
come puffin and blowin up three pair of stairs, and
come boltin into the kitchen where we was all setting;
and who should it be but that same great fat
lady that I told about in my last letter, come to examine
the rooms the first day the bill was up in
February. I didn't feel over and above good natured
when I come to see who she was. Polly
looked as though she felt a little wiry, and cousin
Nabby looked as red as a flash. I'm commonly
pretty plain-spoken, you know, ant; so says I,

“Miss Pinkham, have you hired these ere
rooms?”

“Yes,” says she, “I've rented 'em for a year.”

“Well,” says I, “what did 'Squire Sharp give
you to take 'em?”

“Do you mean,” says she, “what rent I pay for
em?”

“No,” says I, “what does 'Squire Sharp give
you to take 'em?”

“Well,” says she, “I don't understand sich a
question as that; so you may as well leave off your
jokes.”

“But when you was here lookin at these ere
rooms, last February,” says I, “you said you
wouldn't live in 'em if any body'd give 'em to you.”

“Well,” says she, “I thought I shouldn't like 'em
very well at first; but on the whole I think it's
quite a nice place—the rooms are so snug and genteel.”

“Why, yes,” says I, “I think it quite a good place
for eighty dollars.”

“Eighty dollars!” says she, “I hope you don't
think I give eighty dollars for it. I know how to
work Squire Sharp better than that. I run it down
to him to the lowest notch; told him there wasn't
a single convenience about it; only one little stived
up closet, and 'twas all up and down stairs, and
I didn't believe he could hardly hire a decent family
to live there. I offered him fifty dollars, and stuck
to it about two months, and he stuck to eighty, and
said he wouldn't take a penny less. But at last this
morning, I asked him if he was going to let me
have the rooms for fifty dollars; if not I was going
right off to take another house that I had had the
offer of a great deal cheaper. At that he looked as
if he'd bite a board nail off, and says he, if you're a
mind to give me sixty dollars you may have it, and
that's the lowest. Nobody shall have it for less
than that if I have to shut it up for a whole year.
Well I told him I'd take it; so I got it for sixty dollars,
and glad enough was I, for I'd made up my

mind to give eighty if I couldn't get it for no less.
And now if you'll jest let me stow away a few
things here to-night, it'll be a great convenience to
me. It's sich an awful job to move May-day, I
want to get clear of as much of it as I can.”

You know, I'm one of those sort of folks, if any
body asks a favor of me, I can't never refuse, so I
told her yes, she might stow in what she'd a mind
to. But I didn't s'pose she was going to bring in
much more, for they'd got our fore room piled up
so full then that we couldn't hardly get across it to
go to bed. You know Polly and I had our bed in
the fore-room, because we hadn't ony two sleepin
rooms, and cousin Nabby and the two youngest
children slept in one, and Jacky and Ichabod in
'tother. So I thought of course she wouldn't bring
in nothin more that night, ony put to rights a little
what was already there, bein it was getting pretty
late in the evening. But I was mistaken, for we
hadn't hardly done talking, when her regiment of
Irishmen and boys and gals come clattering up the
stairs again with loads of barrels and bedsteads,
and pots and kettles, and washstands, and chairs,
and baskets of tin dishes, and I don't know what
all. Poor Polly began to look a little streaked, and
I thought myself it was crowdin a little too hard.
So I told Miss Pinkham I thought she better let the
rest be till mornin, for if they brought in much more
we should all get mixed up so bime by, 'twould be
difficult to pick our things out when we came to
move. But she said, O no, she'd help to do all
that; and 'twould be so very convenient for her to
bring in a few more things to-night; and 'twouldn't
be any trouble to us at all. And then she turns
round to her company, and says she, `Come, boys
and gals, make haste back and bring in some more
as fast as you can.”

Then she went along to our bed and felt of it,

and says she, “Oh, marcy, you havn't carried out
your straw yet; I hope you aint a goin to leave
that till to-morrow; 'twill clutter the house all up
when we shall want to be a setting up our things.
Do pray carry it out to-night; there's fires enough
in the street now.”

At that Polly said she guessed I better carry it
out, as she sposed 't was the custom for every body
to do it. So at it I went and carried down the
straw beds, and lugged them off a few rods to one
of the fires, and emptied 'em out. As I turned
round the corner by tother end of our block, there
was a couple of men walked before me, talking together,
and I knew in a minute one of em was
'Squire Sharp's voice. T'other one was a short fat
gentleman, that seemed to be in a good deal of a
pet because he couldn't let his houses.

“What, havn't you let yourn yet,” says the
Squire.

“No,” says the fat gentleman, “I've got six good
houses now that aint let, besides several parts.—
Hang the housen, and tenants too. I wish I didn't
own one. If all my property was in bank stock, or
something else, that would bring me four per cent.
I should be glad.”

“Well,” says 'Squire Sharp, “I always make it
a pint to let all my tenements before the first of
May, whether or no. If I can't get one price I take
another; and I makes all my houses net me eight
per cent, good.”

Thinks I, Mr. Fat gentleman, if you was as lean
as 'Squire Sharp is, and looked after your houses
as close, you'd get eight per cent, too.

“I always think it's the best way,” says 'Squire
Sharp, “to let 'em at all events before the first of
May, and get what you can. And then be sure and
look arter the rents and not loose 'em. I didn't let
my last tenement till this morning. I always asked

eighty dollars for it; but I let it go for sixty. And
if the woman had sot out to a gone away without
taking of it, I should a let her had it for fifty. But
the main thing is to collect your rent, after all, I
don't think I've lost fifty dollars of my rent these five
years.”

“Zounds,” said the fat gentleman, “I've lost more
than three thousand during that time. But I'm determined
to look after em more close in future.
Now I think on't there's Miss Pinkham owes me
more than two quarters rent now; and I'll nab
her furniture the first thing to-morrow morning
arter breakfast; for I've been told she's a little
slippery about rents.”

“She's the very woman,” says the Squire, “that
took my tenement this morning. But I'm safe, for
I make her pay weekly in advance. That's the
way I serve all my tenants that I aint sure about.”

“Well,” said the fat gentleman, “I guess you'll
have to let your rooms to somebody else arter all;
for I'm determined to stop Miss Pinkham's furniture
to-morrow morning, the first thing arter breakfast.”

At that I couldn't help laffin in my sleeve a
little, for I thought I could begin to see how the cat
was jumpin'. And thinks I, Mr. fat gentleman, I
guess you aint in the habit of getting up any too
early in the morning; and I shouldn't be afraid to
wage a large potato you wont be up in time to nab
that are housen-stuff of Miss Pinkham's arter all.
By this time I'd got out of their hearing, and they
went along, and I went home. When I went up
stairs, I found they'd got the floor of the fore room
all covered with housen-stuff, from one to two feet
deep, and had begun to pile it up round the kitchen:
and Miss Pinkham was hurrying her boys and gals
and her stout Irishman to make haste and bring in
as fast as they could. And they kept it agoin right
and tight till about midnight, and then I could see

by the tag ends of all sorts of matters and things
that begun to come along, that they was about
winding up the business.

Polly is naterally very kind, you know, and hates
to hurt any body's feelings, or disappoint 'em if she
can help it; so she tried to put up with it the best
way she could. But she begun to grow most heart-sick
about it; for you know how neat Polly always
keeps everything about her house, and a good deal
of Miss Pinkham's truck that they'd piled about our
fore-room and kitchen was dirty enough to turn a
dog's stomach. And there we'd got to sleep right
among it till next morning. But still Polly didn't
make no complaints, though I see she felt bad
enough. Cousin Nabby had got tired and gone to
bed with the two youngest children about ten
o'clock. Jacky and Ichabod had kept their eyes
wide open till eleven, and then they begun to nod
about and fall over the housen-stuff, so we sent
them off to bed in 'tother bed-room. And now
the clock had struck midnight, and Polly and I
grew very tired and sleepy, and hoped Miss Pinkham
and her boys and gals would clear out and let
us have a little chace to rest afore morning. But
when they got through bringing up their truck, the
Irishman stepped up to her and asked for his
pay. She told him to call the next day. But he
said no, he was to have his pay as soon as his work
was done. She told him he seemed to be dreadful
fraid of losing two shillings; but she shouldn't pay
him till next day at any rate. He said it wasn't
two shillings; he was to have half a dollar, and he
was to have his pay that night, and he would have
it, and he wouldn't go away without it, at all, at all.

At that she ketched up a chair and told him “if
he didn't get down stairs in a minit she'd beat his
brains out, a good-for-nothin' imperdent brute.”

And down the feller run as if he'd break his neck,

and whether he's got his half dollar yet I don't
know. Polly looked as if she'd faint away, but I
told her I'd seen worse squalls than that, when I
used to live to Washington, with Gineral Jackson.

“Now we've got all our things here,” says Miss
Pinkham, “I guess we'll spread down the carpet,
and some rugs and bedclothes, and sleep here in
the kitchen to-night, for I wouldn't disturb you in
'tother room where you sleep, on no account. I'm
one of them sort of folks that always hates to
trouble a body.” At that she began to haul the
dusty things about, to make up a bed on the kitchen
floor. I told her, any way she'd a mind to fix it,
if she'd only get quiet pretty soon, so we might get
a little rest afore daylight.

“But where be I goin to sleep, mother?” says her
great lubberly boy, that had been fetchin' up housen-stuff
all the evening. “I aint agoin' to sleep here
on the floor long with you and the gals I guess.”

“Well, Jimmy,” says Miss Pinkham, “I guess
Miss Downing will let you sleep in the bed-room
long with her two little boys. But you must mind
and not wake 'em up so as to be a trouble; I hate
to be a trouble to any body.”

Polly looked as if she'd die; but she began to
be so afraid of Miss Pinkham after she took up the
chair to the Irishman, that if she'd asked for our
bed, I don't think but what she would agin it right
up to her, and slept on the floor ourselves. I thought
I wouldn't interfere about it, for I knew there would
be a fuss if I did, and I thought it was high time
we all of us had a little rest.

So Jimmy went off to bed, in the bed-room, and
Miss Pinkham and her two gals camped down on
the kitchen floor, and Polly and I clambered along
as well as we could over the heaps of housen-stuff
to our bed in the fore-room. Arter we'd laid about
an hour, and I begun to feel kind of drowsy, and

thought I should get a nap, I heard a rumpus in
the kitchen. And bimeby I heard Miss Pinkham
thumping away at the bed-room door, and calling
Jimmy. He didn't answer till she went clear in
and give him a shake, and says she,

“Jimmy, you didn't bring that grid-iron and
poker, that stood in the cellar-way, now.”

“Yes, I did,” says he, “I brought it myself.”

“No you didn't,” says she, “for I haint seen nothin
of it.”

“I did bring it,” says he, “and put it into a barrel
behind the door in the fore-room.”

“You sure?” says she.

“Yes I am sure; I remember.”

“I don't believe a word on't,” says she, “but I'll
know.”

So, in she come, bolting into our room, and fumbled
and clambered along in the dark, till she got
to the barrel behind the door, and felt in it, and
says she,

“Well, I declare, 'tis here arter all. Jimmy has
an excellent memory.”

In climbing back again, over the housen-stuff,
somehow or other she stumbled, headlong among
the bedsteads and barrels, and screamed out,

“Oh dear, I've half broke my head; Miss Downing,
have you got any camfire?”

There, ant Keziah, I've got to break right off
short again before I get through the story about
the movin, for the printer says he can't stand no
longer yarn to-day. But I'll sartinly give you the
upshot on't about movin day in my next.