University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The firelight was beginning to shine brightly through the
one small window that looked towards the street—the one
small window of a barely comfortable house that once stood in
the suburb of a busy little town—busy in a little way. The
one blacksmith was exceedingly busy: the clinking of his hammer
was heard far into the night often, and on the beaten and
baked ground before his door horses were waiting for new
shoes from year's end to year's end. The storekeeper was
busy too, for he was showman and salesman, and clerk and all;
the schoolmaster was busy with his many children in the
day, and his debating schools and spelling schools at night;
the tailor was busy of course—and one man among them, who
might be seen talking with the blacksmith or the storekeeper,
or lounging on the bench in front of the tavern some time during
every day, was busiest of all; this man lived in the house
where the light was shining at the window, and his name was
George Anderson. He was always better dressed, and could
talk more smartly than most of his neighbors—it was his boast
that he could do anything as well as anybody else, and a little

better, and he sometimes exemplified to his audience that his
boast was not without truth—he could take the blacksmith's
hammer and nail on a horseshoe as readily as the smith himself,
and, moreover, he could make the nails and beat out the
shoe, if he chose, but it was not often he chose so hard a task
—he could wrestle with the bar-keeper and get the better of
him, drink whisky with him, and in that too get the better,
for George Anderson was never seen to walk crooked or catch
at posts, as he went along. Now he would step behind the
counter, and relieve the storekeeper for an hour, and whatever
trades he assumed were sure to be to the satisfaction of everybody—he
was good-natured and welcome everywhere, for he
always brought good news. It was quite an event at the
school-house to have him come and give out the spelling lesson,
or hear the big girls parse some intricate sentence from Paradise
Lost.

The scholars were not afraid of him, and knew they could
catch flies and talk as much as they pleased if he were their
teacher, and then they felt sure he knew more than the schoolmaster
himself.

The firelight was beginning to shine so bright that you
might have seen through the naked window all that was in the
room—a bare floor, a bed, some chairs and a table were there
—a pot and a kettle steaming over the fire—a little girl sitting
in a little chair, before it, and a woman leaning on the foot of
the bed. The table-cloth was laid, but nothing to cat was on
the table.

Presently the schoolmaster was seen going that way, walking
leisurely, and with a book beneath his arm—he boards
with Mrs. Anderson, and is going home. He entered the

house, and in less than a minute was seen to come out without
the book, looking hurried and flurried, and to walk towards the
more crowded part of the town very fast, stopping once at the
door of a small house much resembling Mrs. Anderson's own.

He finds the redoubtable George telling a story in the barroom
to a group of admiring listeners, and touching his arm,
whisper something, but the story telling goes on all the same.
The schoolmaster repeats the touch, and whispers more emphatically.
“Yes, directly,” says George. “Now, this moment!”
says the schoolmaster, aloud, and he tries to pull the
talker away, but not till the story is finished does he start toward
home, and then leisurely and smoking a cigar as he goes.
The schoolmaster does not return home, but solemnly makes his
way to a common not far from it, and crossing his hands behind
him, appears lost in contemplating a flock of geese swimming
in a shallow pond and squalling when he comes near.
Meantime the mistress of the little house, at the door of which
he stopped for a moment, has thrown a shawl about her shoulders
and runs without bonnet to Mrs. Anderson's house. Another
woman, spectacles in hand, and cap border flying, follows
directly, and then another, summoned by some secret and
mysterious agent, it would seem, for no messenger has been
visible.

The window that looks into the street is temporarily curtained
now with a woman's shawl—sparks are seen to fly out of
the chimney rapidly, and there is much going out and in and
whispering of neighbors about their doors and over their garden
fences—and it is not long till one of the women comes
away from Mrs. Anderson's, leading the little girl who sat by
the fire an hour ago. Her black eyes are wide open as if she

were afraid, or in doubt what would become of her, and she
looks back towards her home wistfully and often, though the
woman seems to talk cheerfully as they go, and lifts her with a
playful jump over the rough places. Suddenly they turn aside
from the path they are in—they notice the schoolmaster pacing
up and down beside the pond, and join him, and after some embarrassed
blushes and foolish laughter on his part, they go
away together. He leads the little girl by the hand, and her
thin, white face looks up to him more confidently than to the
strange woman. They turn into a little yard, cross a dark
porch and open a side door—a glimpse is revealed of a room
full of light and children, and all is dark again.

A very good supper the strange woman prepared, of which
the little girl and the schoolmaster partook, and afterward he
lifts her on his knee, and with the other children gathered
about him, tells stories of bears and pirates and Indians till
she at last falls asleep, and then the strange woman opens a
little bed and softly covers her, and the schoolmaster is shown
to a bed in another part of the house. The morning comes,
and she goes to school with the master without having gone
home, and the day goes by as other days have gone at school
—lessons are badly recited and spelling badly spelled; and
the schoolmaster takes her hand and helps her down stairs, and
walks on the rough ground, leaving the smooth path for her,
and they pass the pond where the geese are swimming, and the
strange woman's house, and go in at home, the child still holding
the master's hand.

“Well, Lidy,” says the woman, who is there preparing the
supper, “what do you think happened when you were asleep
last night?” Lidy can't guess, and the master says he can't

guess, though older eyes than Lidy's would have seen that he
suspected shrewdly. “Why,” says the strange woman, “the
prettiest little brother you ever saw in your life was brought
here, for you!” Lidy's black eyes open wide with wonder, and
she holds fast the master's hand, and looks at him inquiringly
as if she wished he would tell her whether to be glad or sorry.
He puts his arm around her and draws her close to his side,
and says something about how happy she will be, but he says
it in a misgiving tone, and smooths her hair as if it were a
piteous case. The strange woman leaves her bustling for a
moment, and whispers at the bedside there is no tea. A pale
hand puts by the curtain, and a low voice says something
about having told George, three hours past, to go to the tailor
who owes her for sewing, get the money and bring home tea
and sugar, and some other things, and she wonders he does not
come. The strange woman says she wonders too, but she
whispers to the schoolmaster that it is enough like somebody to
stay away at such a time, and she lifts the tea-kettle from the
coals, and lights the candle.

Lidy is told to sit down in her little chair, and make a good,
nice lap, which she does as well as she knows how—and the
dear little brother, about whom she is still half incredulous, is
brought, and in long flannel wrappings laid across her knees.
“Now ain't he a pretty baby though!” exclaims the strange
woman, “with his itty bitty boo eyes, and his hair des as nice
as any of 'em and ebrysing.” The latter part of the speech
was made to the wonderful baby, whom Lidy was told she
must kiss, and which she did kiss as in duty bound. The wonderful
baby scowled his forehead, clenched his fists and began to
cry. “Jolt your chair a little, sissy,” says the strange woman,

and then to the wonderful brother, “Do they booze itty boy!
Well, 'em sant do no such a sing! no, 'en sant!” Then to the
schoolmaster, who is bending over his Latin grammar, she exhibits
one of the feet of the remarkable boy, and says she
believes in her heart, he could hardly wear the moccasin of her
little Mary who is nine months old—then she falls to kissing
one of the hands of the wonderful baby, and calls him in her
loving fondness, “a great big, good-for-nossen sugar-plum.”
Then she exhibits one of the wonderful hands, that clenches and
claws most unamiably as she does so, and informs the schoolmaster
that she believes in her heart, the hands of the wonderful
boy are as large, that very minute, as her Tommy's, and he
will be two years old the seventeenth day of next month—
then she addresses herself to the baby again, and calls his
feet “ittle footens,” and makes a feint of eating both at once.

And all this while the remarkable boy has been fretting and
frowning on the lap of his little sister, who is told she is very
much blest in having a little brother, and who supposes she is
blest, and trots him, and kisses him, and holds him up and lays
him down again, but in spite of all her little efforts he frowns
and fidgets as if she did not, and could not do half enough for
him.

By and by a slow footstep is heard, and a whistle, and directly
afterward Mr. Anderson comes in and gives the strange
woman a little parcel—briskly she measures the tea, and
briskly she fills up the teapot and rattles the cups into the
saucers; the baby is smothered in his long flannels and tucked
under the coverlet.

“Come, Casper,” says Mr. Anderson, “if you had been at
work as hard as I have, you would not want to be called twice.”

The schoolmaster lays down his grammar and asks Mr.
Anderson what he has been doing—the pale hand puts by the
curtain again, and a pale face turns eagerly to hear.

“Why, I could not begin to tell,” he says, helping himself
freely to everything that is on the table, and he proceeds to
mention some of the work. He has broken a colt, he says,
which nobody else could manage, and made him kindly, both
under the saddle and in harness—he has drawn a tooth which
the dentist could not draw, he has turned off two flour barrels
for the cooper, and driven the stage-coach seven miles and
back, besides a dozen other things, none of which was the least
profit to his family. The light goes out of the pale face that
turned so eagerly towards him, and a low voice says, “Did you
see the tailor, George?”

“Why, to be sure,” he answers, “I sewed a seam for him as
long as from here to the gate and back again.” He has not
answered her question as she expected, the hand that holds the
curtain shakes nervously, and the low voice says,

“Did he—did—did you get the tea, George?”

“Why, to be sure, and most excellent tea it is,” and as the
strange woman drains the last drop into his sixth cup, he adds,
“won't you have a cup, mother?”

He turns partly towards her as he confers upon her the honor
of this inquiry, and the low voice trembles as it says, “No,”
and the pale hand lets the curtain drop. Poor woman! perhaps
she saw the bright new waistcoat that George wore, with
its double rows of shining buttons, perhaps she saw this and
knew the way her hard earnings had gone. The schoolmaster
thinks he hears a stifled groan behind the curtain, sets his cup
of tea aside, and will not eat any more, and directly returns to

his grammar. Mr. Anderson sits in the corner and smokes for
half an hour, and then recollecting that some business requires
his attention up town, pulls on his gloves, and goes out. The
schoolmaster follows shortly, and in a few minutes returns, and
gives the strange woman two small parcels, one containing
crackers and the other raisins—poor Mrs. Anderson thinks it
was George brought them, reproaches herself for having
wronged him, smiles and is blest again.

The remarkable baby cries and cries, and while the strange
woman washes the dishes and makes the house tidy, little Lidy
carries him up and down the room, and across and across the
room till her arms ache, and she sits down

“Bless me! you are not tired of your dear little brother
already?” exclaims the strange woman, and Lidy says she is
not tired—she is very glad to carry him—only her arms won't
hold him any longer.

When the house was set in order, the strange woman took
the remarkable boy, and with some talk to his “ittle boo, seepy
eyes,” managed to quiet him, and tucking him away as before,
she went home to attend her own house and little ones.

At ten o'clock Lidy had crossed the floor with her blessed
brother in her arms hundreds of times, and in a temporary lull
was fallen asleep in her chair. A rough pull at her hair caused
her to open her eyes suddenly—the baby was crying again, and
her father was come and scolding her angrily. “She had not
a bit of feeling,” he said, “and did not deserve to have such a
beautiful brother—somebody would come and take him away
if she did not take better care of him.” Directly Lidy was
pacing the floor again, and the baby crying with all his might.

“Seems to me you don't try to keep your poor little brother

still,” says the father, for a moment taking the cigar from his
mouth, and then puffing away again. He never thought of
relieving the little girl, or even of speaking any words of pity
and comfort to her—she was not born to pity or comfort from
her father—she had committed the offence of inheriting the
light of life some years prior to her brother, and from the
moment of his birth she had no consideration except with
reference to him. Even her mother, though she loved her,
gave the baby the preference—Lidy's petticoats were appropriated
for his use, and Lidy could not go to school because
her shawl must be turned into a baby blanket. Everybody
came to see the baby, and everybody said how much prettier
than his sister he was, but that she seemed to be a good little
girl, and of course she was very much delighted with her new
brother—he would be big enough one of these days to play
with her, and then she would have fine times.

Mr. Anderson was congratulated, and proud to be congratulated—he
could afford to do almost anything since a fine son
was born to him, and in higher good-humor than usual he made
barrels for the cooper and nails for the blacksmith—treated all
the town to brandy instead of whisky, and to the storekeeper
traded a very good new hat for a very bad old one!

And patiently Lidy gave up her petticoats, and patiently she
stayed away from school and worked all the day—and while her
mother sat up in bed to sew for the tailor again, she climbed
into her little chair and washed the dishes—it was all for her
pretty little brother, her mother said, and by and by he would
be big enough to work for them, and then he would buy a new
cap for mother, and new slippers for Lidy, and oh, ever so
many things.

Lidy quite forgot the sweeping and the dish washing, in the
pictures of the new things her little brother was going to buy
for her some time.

Now and then of evenings, when the baby was asleep, the
schoolmaster would take Lidy on his knee and teach her to
read, and she scarcely fell behind the children that were in
school every day, he said. Once when he was praising her,
her father said her little brother George would soon get before
her when he was big enough to go to school. “George will
never have her eyes, though,” said the schoolmaster, proudly
looking into their black, lustrous depths.

Mr. Anderson said the girl's eyes were well enough, he supposed,
for a girl's eyes, but George would never suffer in comparison
with her, and from that time the schoolmaster, whose
name was Casper Rodwick, was designated as “Old Casper,”
by the father of the remarkable boy.