Elizabeth Bess, "a little girl of the sixties,"

Preface

“After the War” was a transition period — a time when traditions were being joggled : when what we now call “ The Melting Pot ” was just beginning to simmer, to the alarm and disgust of the conservative New Englander.

This was the period when a “ reconstruction ” was going on no less surely in the North than in the South, a readjustment, rather, of views and values. While party lines were still strongly drawn, most men had ceased to look askance at the followers of different political creeds. The Abolitionist, who had sought his neighbour’s arrest as a traitor because that neighbour had dared to stand for peace amidst the clamour for war, now felt a little ashamed of his former ardour; while the other, who thought War an abomination, and Lincoln a sycophant in yielding to the demand for it, was now ready to lay a wreath upon the Liberator’s grave. But in a few instances, the old rancour persisted.

Of course, these conditions may only be touched upon in a book of this kind. It is to those who love the quaint and unconscious humour of childhood, its idyllic ideals and unthinking faith in them — and the spirit of romance that never grows old — that this chronicle of a little “ after-the-war ” New Englander is confidently commended.

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I “Missing!” i

II “ No Wee One, No Party! ” . . . . io

CHAPTER I “ missing! ”

G rown folks are funny! They are always doing queer, interesting things, if given half a chance. All you have to do is to let them think they are alone, and you can almost always count on a new experience !

This was especially true of Cousin Winnie, who lived in New York and had come to spend the holidays with the Bradfords. In the first place, she was so delightfully pretty and young ladyish ! And if you sat under the high bed with the valance, and applied your eye to the little cut-out place where the valance rounded the post (of course, this happened only on the rare occasions when there was no other way out of being caught “ snoopin’ ’round,” as William called it) , it was better than Godey^s Lady^s Book pictures when she came in and began to fix her hair and primp before the glass.

Cousin Winnie’s toilet articles were an endless source of interest, too, second only to her jewel case, with its rings and pins and bracelets and chains. And to see her twisting one of the long, brown curls around her finger or, with plump arms gracefully upraised, pinning them all in a bunch at the back of her head!

And when she would plait up a ribbon with twinkling fingers — holding it up to her face, to match it with her roseleaf skin — and then pin it among the curls where it would do the most execution (provided there was anything to execute, in this deadly dull little place) the artist’s heart in little Elizabeth Bradford — nicknamed “Elizabeth Bess” from an old rhyme — thrilled with ecstasy !

Christmas was three days past, and therefore ancient history. Its sweets had begun to cloy, and its toys to pall; so the little one hunted up her inherited dolls which had been cast into the limbo of the hall closet, and took them into the parlour, where a cosy fire was burning in the big, urn-topped stove. Tiptoeing to the mantel then, she took down a framed picture of a soldier in uniform and, standing it against the table leg, began talking to it and weaving romance about it, as was her custom. She had been forbidden to take down the picture since one unfortunate day when she had dropped it and broken the glass; and now, hearing Mother and Cousin Winnie approaching, and the latter’s bedroom door being more easily accessible than the high mantel, the little girl caught up dolls and picture and disappeared with them under the valanced bed.

The two women had their sewing with them, and Mother’s needle began to fly industriously. Cousin Winnie’s sewing was never a momentous matter; she could drop it without a qualm 1

“MISSING I

So now, after a few busy minutes, she yawned, laid her sewing on the table and, with her slender hands clasped behind her, began making the round of the room, examining the pictures and ornaments, and humming “Jane, My Pretty Jane I” as she progressed.

Stopping at the little corner stand whereon stood the Bible, Cousin Winnie opened it and began turning the leaves.

“ Elizabeth Bradford.”

Her name, impressively spoken, caused the child to start so violently that she bumped her head against the bed slats. Then, “ It doesn’t seem possible that she’s five years old!” Cousin Winnie added, and the little eavesdropper breathed again.

“ Howell Harlan Bradford . . . Missing after Gettysburg, July 3d, 1863,” the voice trailed off into silence — a queer silence.

Elizabeth Bess caught up the soldier’s picture, and holding it to the little cut-out place in the valance, where the light fell, examined it critically.

“ Missing,” she whispered to herself. “ Missing.” Now, what in the world did that mean?

“Yes,” Mother answered after a pause. “It’s been nearly four years! ”

Ah ! That was what it meant, then ! Mother’s voice told the story. It meant that Howell was dead. But, if they meant dead, why didn’t they say so? Such quibbling! Just as if it would make him any less dead to call it by another name ! Her poor Howell ! She took up the picture, and kissed it with unction.

The stress of her feelings, coupled with a slight cold, caused the child to sniff, whereat the game was up.

“Elizabeth Bradford, where are you?” called Mother sternly. And the little thing crawled abjectly from under the bed.

“ Go out into the kitchen, and stay there till I come. I’m ashamed of you, you little eavesdropper! ”

The eavesdropper, with drooping head, carrying the picture behind her back, slipped out into the hall. There her head went up, and she skipped triumphantly. For had she not hoodwinked the elders? Of course they could not see the picture, when it was behind her back 1

Her brother, William, was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a lot of illustrated newspapers that Cousin Winnie had brought from New York. These were the first the children had seen, and were a source of great pleasure to them. Slipping the picture into the table drawer, until she could return it to its place, Elizabeth Bess also took up a paper; but it lacked its usual appeal.

“ Wee-um, what is * Missing^? she asked presently.

“ Why? What do you want to know for? ” he countered curiously.

“ ’Cause Howell is. Is it another name for dead? Cousin Winnie just read it out of the Bible. It said, ‘ Howell Flarlan Bradford missing after breakfast, July 30, 1863.’ ” She said this all in a breath, expecting an appreciation of her smartness.

MISSING!

But William only wrinkled up his brows, and stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“ Stop looking at me like that, Wee-um Bradford! You go look in the Bible and you’ll see it for yourself! ” she said truculently.

“ Oh, no 1 I won’t see any such stuff as that in the Bible,” William contradicted. Suddenly light dawned on him, and he started to laugh; but he changed his mind in view of his sister’s seriousness — the seriousness of the whole thing, in fact.

“ I know what it said,” he told her, as man to man. “ It said ‘ Missing after Gettysburg * not after ‘ breakfast.’ That was a big battle that Howell was in.”

“Oh, was it? . . . But, Wee-um, what is ‘missing ’? ” she persisted. “ What does it mean? ”

“ Why, it means — it means when anything can’t be found. Remember that time when you couldn’t find your kitten for two or three days? Well, that was missing! ”

“But it came back!” she cried. “It wasn’t dead. 0-oh! Why didn’t somebody tell me that Howell is coming back? I thought he was dead, and he’s only missing! ”

“ Why! ” William began, and stopped, at a loss. Looking up, he saw Mother standing in the doorway where she had been listening. “ You tell her. Mother,” said he, relieved.

“ We didn’t tell you. Child, because we are not sure that he is coming back. We think, dear, that your brother Howell is in Heaven,” said Mother gently.

“But he isn’t, Mother! If he was dead the Bible’d say he was dead! The Bible doesn’t tell stories — does it? ” she demanded.

“ But, dear, the Bible itself doesn’t say so. Father wrote it in the Bible. It means — ” But no further explanation was needed.

“ Well, I guess if my father wrote it, it’s so! I guess my father doesn’t tell stories, either ! ” and the child looked from one to the other of her auditors, challenging contradiction.

It seemed to Mother that there was nothing more to be said. William did not think so. He stood looking oddly at Mother; but she evaded his glance, and left the room, whereupon he returned to his papers. And his sister, after another triumphant declaration that Howell was coming back, returned to hers.

“. . . Wee-um, what’s a eavesdropper?” was the question that recalled William from Norway, just as the champion of the world was finishing a race on skates.

“ For pity’s sake, get a dictionary! ” cried William in disgust. Then, seeing how hurt the little one looked, he relented. Suspecting a guilty conscience at the bottom of the inquiry, a twinkle crept into his eye as he answered, “ You’re an eavesdropper, Lizabeth Bess! It’s somebody who goes snoopin’ round, a-peeking and a-listening to what’s none of their business. Now, do you know? ”

The child wilted before this sweeping arraignment. It seemed so much worse than Mother’s reproof that she bent her head over the paper and the

“MISSING I”

red crept up Into her cheeks. Then she put her elbow on the table and shaded her eyes with her hand.

William, who could interpret his little sister’s actions down to the play of a muscle, felt that he had gone too far. “ Cracky! ” he cried, snatching up a paper, and burying his nose in it. “ See here, Lizabeth Bess, d’you see this? Here’s about a lot of dolls dressed up like Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth and the Empress Eugenie that’s to be sold for poor orphant children I Come on, and I’ll read it to you.”

Lizabeth Bess hated to “ come on ” after her snubbing, but the doll queens, especially Elizabeth, were not to be resisted. . . . “ What’s orphant children, Wee-um? Are we? ’Cause- I’d love to have this one,” pointing to a be-ruffed Mary, Queen of Scots. “ And which is Queen Lizabeth? ”

“ Well, I guess we’re not! Orphants have no father or mother. These are soldiers’ orphants, and they all live in a big house called a ‘ Home.’ ”

“ Well, so do I live in a big house called a home. And so am I a sholdier’s orph — Oh, no ! But I’m a sholdier’s little sister. They ought to give me one, Wee-um ! ”

William felt that life was too short to argue the matter; and just then Elizabeth Bess found something else to interest her :

“ See here, Wee-um, see this man in a big sholdier’s coat, with a little baby in his arms. Do you s’pose he’s a truly sholdier, or only a tramper, like the one Mother gave dinner to the other day.”

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“ Let’s see,” said William, taking the paper. “ Why, yes, he’s a soldier. And what d’you think he did? He went into a house that was all afire, and brought out that baby. Every one else was afraid to go in, and the baby’d have burned up only for him. Wasn’t he brave? ”

“ I sh’d think he was ! What was his name, Wee-um? ”

“ Let’s see : Why, isn’t this funny ! He didn’t know his own name — or where he lived, or anything. The paper thinks he got hit on the head in the war, and that’s why he can’t remember. They call him ‘ Lestrange,’ just so’s he’ll have some name. Isn’t it funny! ”

‘‘ Huh! ” scoffed the little sister. “ I been hit on the head lots o’ times, and I can remember! ”

“ Maybe you couldn’t if a cannon-ball had hit you on the head ! ”

“ He doesn’t look as if a cannon-ball had hit him,” observed the critic, wiser than she knew. She studied the picture carefully.

“ . . . Wee-um Bradford, do you know what I think? Well, I think that’s Howell!” William checked an exclamation. “Yes, sir! That coat’s just ’zactly like his coat in his picture. ’N’ his hair’s curly, ’n’ he’s thin, ’n’ — ”

“ This isn’t a truly likeness, like the one we have of Howell,” William explained patiently. “ Somebody drew this, just as you draw pictures on your slate. Howell is — well, it isn’t he added

with ungrammatical finality, “ and that’s all there is about it ! ”

“ MISSING!

“ Well, anyway,” she was insisting, but William pushed away the papers, and went hastily into the buttery, where Mother was skimming the milk, and shut the door after him.

“ I don’t know what’s got into Lizabeth Bess to-day,” he complained, and told her the story of the pictured “ sholdier.” “ Why didn’t you tell her the truth right out, Mother? We won’t have any peace now, till you do 1 ”

“ Oh, I guess she’ll forget about it in a few days,” Mother said, dismissing the matter.

“No she won’t! She never forgets anything!”

“ She seemed so happy over her ‘ discovery,’ that I couldn’t bear to throw cold water over it,” said Mother tremulously.

That night, when everybody else was in bed. Mother hunted up the paper containing the article, and although the incident had occurred weeks before, she wrote a letter to the mayor of the place mentioned, asking if he could give her any information of the soldier-hero.

“ ‘ Out of the mouths of babes,’ ” she said softly to herself.

So do mothers, as well as drowning men, grasp at a straw !

Chapter II No Wee One, No Party I ’’

IFE, to Elizabeth Bess Bradford, had taken on a livelier aspect since yesterday. All day

^ vague hints of something unusual had been floating about, — tantalisingly, delightfully indefinite !

Could it be that Howell was coming home to-day? Had the “ little bird,” Mother’s faithful informant, told her so? Was that why she was putting new lace in her black silk dress, and looking unusually animated?

And Cousin Winnie had brought out her lovely, lovely pink silk with the beaded trimming, and asked Mother if she should wear it. “ Oh, no ! ” Mother had answered. “ That’s too fine for Green Hills. Wear the crimson merino that you wore Christmas Day.”

Catching Mother alone, her small daughter ventured to ask her a question.

“ Howell coming home to-day? ” repeated Mother, startled out of her calm. “ Child, he isn’t coming home at all ! ” But seeing the little one’s disappointment, she amended: “ At least, I don’t think he is. Now, don’t think about it any more — if he comes, he’ll be here, and you’ll know it.”

“NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I” ii

If he came he’d be here, and she’d know it ! Now wasn’t that a smart thing to say I Elizabeth Bess wondered at Mother. She would go and find William, who did not treat her like a little child.

As she stood in the back entry, watching the chickadees eating the fat pork placed for them on the apple-tree branch, she heard Cousin Winnie come into the kitchen and say to Mother, “ Aunt Anne, is the child going to-night? ” And Mother replied, “ Oh, no; she’s going to stay at home with the other children.”

Just then William came in, and made a diversion, — William, who was twelve — a little more than twice his sister’s age, and her pride and joy. Even her parents were no dearer to her than this “ big ” brother. So, when he got out the “ Walking Zouave ” that Cousin Winnie had brought her for Christmas, and told her to sit at the other end of the table and turn him around when he got there, she took her place like a stoic, although she hated and feared the Zouave. What with the fierce stare of his bold eyes as he came striding down the table toward her (this was after William had inserted a key in his baggy blouse and wound him up) — and the black blackness of his moustache and imperial, it was all she could do to keep from jumping up and running from the room.

Now, so intent was she upon what Mother had said about her “ staying at home with the other children,” that she forgot to turn the warrior around at the table end and so he fell off onto the floor, his insides still horribly rumbling and purring, and his mailed feet impotently kicking as he glared up at her.

“Pick him up, Lizabeth Bess I” cried William, seeing her shrink back.

“ No, Wee-um, I won’t pick him up — and don’t you I ” she protested.

“ Aw, come on. Watch out for him this time! ” So she watched out, and turned the monster when he approached, but her thoughts were not on him. So she was to stay at home with the other children, was she? And what was it that she was going to stay away from? Well, that didn’t make any difference, since she was going to stay away. And she wasn’t going to ask. Mother was always telling her to deny herself, and she guessed she could.

All the same, it was pretty hard to bear, and Mother not even to tell her about it. She was preparing to take refuge in the “ spare chamber ” — her retreat in time of stress — when a familiar step sounded on the porch, and with a brisk “ Happy New Year! ” in came “ Chinney.”

“ Happy New Year, Mr. Cheney! ” replied everybody but the little girl who, at that moment, was afraid to trust her treacherous under lip.

Now Mr. Cheney, a near neighbour of the Bradfords, was the child’s particular friend and champion, as she was his especial pet. It was he who had christened her “ The Wee One,” when she “ wasn’t as big as a pint of cider,” and as she was still small and slight, the title survived.

And she had given him a nickname — oh, long ago, when she was little! “ P-o-o-r Chinney! ” she

NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY!

would say, stroking his red curls. She said it now, perched on his shoulder. Rather, she breathed it into his ear, lest William, or her big sister Sara, hearing, should laugh and call her a baby.

“ Well, Mrs. Bradford,” began the visitor, “ I was charged to tell you all to come early. And that doesn’t mean six o’clock. The supper is to be at 6.30, and you’ll want time to get warmed up beforehand. It’s going to be a cold night.”

Elizabeth Bess was instantly alert. “ Come where, Chinney? And who’s coming?” she asked.

“You are, for one. What? Didn’t they tell you you were coming up to Chinney’s house to-night, to eat the New Year’s turkey? ”

“ Oh, no, no, Mr. Cheney,” Mother hastily interposed. “ She’s going to stay at home with the other children to-night. They’re going to pop corn, and make molasses candy. This isn’t to be a children’s party, dear. Mrs. Cheney has asked only grown folks.”

“ It’s going to be one child’s party,” Chinney answered with finality. “ The Wee One has got to be there. No Wee One, no party! ”

The elders laughed, and no more was said. But the child was satisfied. Chinney was a great joker, but when he said a thing like that — “ No Wee One, no party! ” that settled it — she was going.

Noon came, and the small hours of afternoon, but no more was said about her going. Mother and Cousin Winnie put on their pretty dresses, and Mother told “ Gran ” to put on her black, lilac-sprigged silk. But her, Elizabeth Bess, they changed into a clean little faded delaine. When she protested, Mother said (with the usual quantities of gentleness and firmness nicely mixed) : “ But you’re not going, dear. Mr. Cheney was only joking. You and Sara and William are going to have a nice party at home.”

Still the child did not cry. Indeed, she was surprised at her own bravery. She went into Gran’s room, where the old lady was preparing to don the lavender-sprigged silk, and in a voice pitched high to penetrate her partial deafness, remarked:

“ You needn’t dress up. Gran — there isn’t going to be any party at Chinney’s house to-night.”

“ Wh-what do you mean, child? ” Gran asked in alarm. “ Why, we’re all invited — your father and mother, and Cousin Winnie and me ! ”

“ And amended Elizabeth Bess with calm

dignity. “ But it doesn’t make any difference — Chinney said if I wasn’t there, there wouldn’t be any party — and I ain’t a-going!” she ended quickly, and made a hasty retreat to the window, where she jammed her ridiculous chin against the glass, to keep it still.

Gran sat down weakly, the lilac-sprigged dress across her lap. Parties, even little parties, didn’t come every day, and this invitation had meant a good deal to her. “ I guess he was only fooling, child,” she said hopefully, but her listener fancied that she saw Gran’s chin quiver now.

“ He wasn’t; he said ‘ No Wee One, no party! ’ just like that. And I guess you’ll all feel pretty funny when you get up there.”

But her Elizabeth Bess they changed into a clean little faded delaine

“NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I” 15

“ What did Mother say about your going? ” Gran moistened her lips to ask.

“ She just said it wasn’t a child’s party, and that I couldn’t go. I thought — I thought when Chinney said that that she’d let me, but — everybody’s getting dressed up but me, and I ain’t a-going I ” Again she darted to the window, and there was a long silence in the room. It was broken at length by a little laugh from Gran, at which Lizabeth Bess turned, fiercely questioning.

“ I wasn’t laughing at you, dear,” said the old lady placatingly. “ I was just thinking of something that happened to me when I was a little girl about your size. You reminded me of it.”

“ I don’t see how I reminded you of anything funny. I don’t feel funny.”

“ Well, you did. Come here, and I’ll tell you about it, if you like.” There was a certain craftiness in the look the old lady bent upon the child, say, rather, upon the other child. She pushed the silk dress off her lap, and took up her youngest descendant, who was rather pessimistic regarding the line of entertainment offered.

“ Yes, I was about your size,” she ruminated, “ and my mother had promised me a new bonnet the next time she went to town. She said if I was a good little girl she would take me along, and let me choose it for myself.

“ Well, I was a good girl, just like you. I helped my mother with the dishes, and I minded the baby, and I did — oh! dozens of things. But when the time came, she wouldn’t let me go.”

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The child hitched around where she could look into Gran’s eyes, and note every expression. This was getting interesting.

“ You see, she had to go on some errand sooner than she expected, so she wasn’t prepared to take me. But I tell you I was disappointed I I had counted so much on it, and worked so hard for it, that I felt I was being cheated. So I just made up my mind that I would go — and I did! ”

“ Oh, Gran! How did you do it? ”

“ Well,” answered Gran, with another guileful side glance at her auditor, “ when Mother went to get ready, I went and put on my best dress. Father was going too, to sell some apples and potatoes. He put them in bags in the back of the sleigh, and covered them over with blankets to keep them from freezing. Then, when he came in to get Mother, I slipped out, and got under the blankets with the apples and potatoes.”

Gran Bradford! ”

“ I did, so ! I wasn’t going to be cheated out of my rights! But I was in a terribly cramped position, there among the sacks, and it was mighty stuffy ! One of my feet went to sleep, and it seemed as if I must wiggle it, or die.”

“ Did you wiggle it? ”

“ I did. And that came near being the end of my trip. The movement raised a dust, and I had to cough, and — but Gran had to laugh again at the recollection.

“Go on. Gran!”

NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I

“ Mother was for sending me straight back home. I don’t remember just what she said, but anyway, it hurt my feelings, and I began to cry. Then . Father came to my relief — said that I had been promised my bonnet, and that I should have it. And I guess Mother herself hadn’t the heart to make me walk back home in the cold and snow ; so they took me to town, and I got my bonnet.”

Elizabeth Bess breathed a deep sigh, expressive of many emotions. Presently she slipped down off Gran’s lap. “ I guess I’ll go now, and let you change your dress,” she said. “ Maybe you’d better change it, for there might be a party, after all. Mother’s put on her pretty new dress, so you might as well. Good-bye, Gran.” She opened the door a little way again, and peered solemnly around it to say, “ You never can tell! ”

Left alone, the grandmother began to array herself, albeit with hands that trembled. . . . Supposing? . . . And then again, supposing? But when her daughter-in-law came in to hurry her up, she dropped her misgivings like a garment. Father came in a little later to escort her out to the sleigh, where he tucked her into the back seat beside Cousin Winnie. He and Mother took the front seat, and they were off.

As they started. Mother craned her neck to wave good-bye to the little group standing in the open doorway, from which the early lamp-light was streaming. But only Sara and William were there — the youngest one was not in sight. Mother

1 8 looked at the window of the spare chamber, expecting to see a doleful small face peering out, but there was none.

“ Poor little thing! ” she said wistfully. “ I expect she’s up in the old cradle in the garret, crying. I suppose we might have taken her 1 She’s always good, at home or abroad.”

“ Well, why didn’t you take her? ” Father asked with some warmth. “ It’s too late now, but next time the child is invited, she’s going! ”

Their hospitable hosts met them at the door, and the first question was for little Bess.

“Well, if that isn’t too bad!” exclaimed Mrs. Cheney, in answer to her neighbours’ somewhat lame excuses. “ Of course we expected her ! ”

“ It’s so bad that it’ll have to be made good! ” said Chinney, reaching for his overcoat. “ Now you needn’t say a word, any of you — I’m going after the Wee One ! ”

But even as he shouldered into his coat the threat was discounted. The hall door opened softly, and a little figure with a long shawl trailing after it, and some oat straws in its hair, slipped in.

Everybody shouted a welcome, except Gran. That old conspirator, pale and guilty, hastily sought a chair. But she need not have feared — the child was no tattle-tale. Ignoring the rest, she put her little hands in Chinney’s, and looked up at him with radiant eyes.

“You can have your party now, Chinney: I’ve come ! ” said she.

CHAPTER III “and all is vanity I”

T he Bradfords’ nearest neighbours were the Hortons: a family a round dozen strong, when you counted in Grandsir and Grandma Hart who lived with them; and one that loomed large on Lizabeth Bess’s horizon, in more ways than one: “ Burfa,” the youngest, was her own age, and her devoted friend. Then came a number of small fry with whom she had little to do. Charlie and Sallie, the fifteen-year-old twins, were the objects of a qualified regard.