F. IRENE BURGE SMITH.

NEW YORK: MASON BROTHERS. 1856. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by MASON BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern District of New York STEREOTYPED BY Thomas B. Smith, 82 & 84 Beekman Street PRINTED BY John A. Gray, 97 Cliff St.

PREFACE.

"There is a wisdom in calling a thing fitly. Names should note particulars."—Proverbial Philosophy.

To make the title of this book significant to you, I must transport you to a sylvan nook, far from the city's boundaries, where an old stone cottage peeps forth from the thick foliage. Down through the maple avenue you will take your pleasant route, past the willow and alder clumps, and the ancient mill, that hangs its idle arms listlessly by its sides—on and on, over the little style, and the rustic bridge, which spans the rivulet, until you reach the giant elm that spreads its broad branches far and wide. Books and work are scattered about on the verdant turf, bright flowers peep forth from amid the green, and many a fair face greets you with its frank and cordial welcome. The sky is very blue and clear, and the summer's breath comes refreshingly to you through the leafy screen, as you seat yourself upon a mossy stone and join in the merriments of the happy circle gathered there. But you are quite too late for the manuscript volume which a guest from the city has been reading aloud for the amusement of the group.

Perhaps you have lost nothing, however. I have obtained permission to give it you for a more leisurely perusal. I hope it will please you.

When a stranger goes to your door seeking your regard and patronage, you naturally look for some note of introduction, which generally reads somewhat after this fashion:

"Any attentions you may bestow upon my friend ——, will confer an especial favor upon

"Yours truly,

"—— ——."

Brooklyn, October 27, 1855.

THE ELM-TREE TALES.

JENNIE GRIG:

THE

STREET-SWEEPER.

NANNIE BATES:

THE

HUCKSTER'S DAUGHTER.

ARCHIBALD MACKIE:

THE

LITTLE CRIPPLE.

[Pg 10]

JENNIE GRIG,

THE STREET SWEEPER;

OR THE

VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.

[Pg 11]

CHAPTER I.

Poor little girl! How sadly came her wailing tones on the frosty air, while the multitudes that hurried past were hidden from the chilling blasts by warm and furry garments!

There were some humane ones who lifted her softly from the ground, and bore her carefully to the nearest apothecary's, to examine the extent of her injuries—and a slight figure clad in the deepest weeds, followed after and held the child's hand, and bathed her forehead, while the surgeon bound up the broken limb.

"She was such a pinched wee thing to be sweeping those dangerous crossings," said the lady; "no wonder the heedless crowd jostled her down, and nearly crushed her tiny body."

"Is not her consciousness returning, doctor?" continued she, addressing the surgeon, as a slight flush was beginning to be perceptible upon the little girl's cheek.

The child had lain in a kind of stupor from the time of the accident, and now, as her dark eyes slowly opened, she gazed faintly upon the curious faces that were gathered[Pg 12] around her, until she met the sweet yet sorrowful glance of the strange lady—then, bursting forth into a wild and bitter sobbing, she cried, "Who now will help my poor weak mother, and my sick and dying father!—nine pennies only have I earned to-day, and all is lost in the muddy street—oh! who will get them bread and coals, now their Jennie can not work!"

"God will provide, only trust Him, poor child," said the kind lady, as she wiped the tears that had moistened her own eyes at sight of the child's grief.

"Where do your parents live, my little girl," asked the benevolent surgeon—"we must be getting you home, or they will be anxious about you now that the night is coming on."

The child started as she heard the word "home," and blushing the deepest crimson, replied, "If you please, sir, I am able to walk now, and will go alone, for dear mamma would be angry if I had strangers with me—she never sees any one but father, now."

"'Twould be madness to send her forth into this wintery air with a newly broken arm," said the lady—"if you will come with me, little Jennie, we will soon satisfy your parents that you are in comfortable quarters, my carriage is at the door, and John shall go alone to your home with a message"—and, calling her servant, she bade him bring one of the soft robes from the carriage, and wrapping it closely about the shivering child, she had her conveyed to her own noble home.[Pg 13]

CHAPTER II.

Up, up, up till you reached the very topmost room in a rickety building in —— street, and there they were—a woman in neat but coarse raiment, seated by a flickering candle, stitching for the life, and with every effort for the life, stitching out the life. Near her, on a lowly bed, lay her suffering husband, watching the wan fingers as they busily plied for him who would fain have spent his last strength for their rest.

The frosty breath of a December night came through the chinks in the roof, and around the windows, and left its bitter impress upon the sick and weary. A few coals partially ignited, seemed to mock at the visions of warmth and comfort they inspired, and the simmering of the kettle that hung low over the coals, made the absence of a cheery board, and a happy group around it only the more painfully apparent.

The sick man closed his eyes, as if to shut out the memory of those wasted fingers that were ever so zealously moving, and then looking wistfully at the murmuring kettle, he said, "Has not the child come yet, Mary?—perhaps she has enough for our scanty meal to-night, and yet[Pg 14] my heart misgives me on her account—is it not very late for her to stay away? She is such a timid little thing, and always flies to us before the darkness begins to come! Her's is a cruel age, and a loathsome employment. Would God I had died, Mary, ere it had come to this!"—and the poor man hid his face in the bedclothes, and moaned like a stricken child. The patient wife laid aside her work, and taking the well-worn Bible from its sacred resting-place, read to him the thirty-seventh Psalm—then rising and going to the window, she pressed her ear against the pane, and listened for her Jennie's coming. Hark! a step is on the stairs! The husband and wife both started—it was a heavy, lumbering tread—not the soft foot-falls of their gentle little one, that brought music even to their dismal abode:

"Some one is knocking, Mary," said the husband, and, as he spoke, the door opened, and a man appeared with a note and a basket.

"Is Mrs. Grig here," asked the man.

"That is my name," replied the frightened woman whose maternal heart immediately suggested that something had happened to her child.

"Tell me of my darling. Is she hurt? Is she dead?"—then seizing the note which the servant held out to her she read as follows:

"Mr. and Mrs. Grig must not be alarmed about their little Jennie. She has met with a slight accident; but her[Pg 15] life is not endangered, and she is where every attention will be bestowed upon her. If they will spare her to me until she is wholly restored, they will confer the greatest of favors upon their friend,

"Helena Dunmore.

"I send a few delicacies, which I hope her sick father will relish. Jennie wishes to see her mother before she sleeps, will she come to her an hour this evening?"

The servant left the name of the street, and the number of the house where his mistress lived, and departed, with an humble reverence, for there was an innate aristocracy in Mrs. Grig that commanded the respect of all who saw her, even though the vicissitudes of life had robbed her of the external marks of rank and elegance. "God be praised!" said she, as she pressed her lips to the pale brow of her now hopeful husband, "Our house is not left unto us desolate, neither has our Father forsaken us in our time of necessity. Surely He giveth bread to the hungry, and filleth the fainting soul with gladness!" Then spreading the tempting viands before the famished invalid, she smiled with the cheerfulness of her earlier days, as she saw with what relish he ate and drank.

When they had finished their unexpected, but welcome meal, she placed the fragments carefully away, and blowing out the light, which she must save for her midnight toils, she left the house in order to seek her child.[Pg 16]