"Remember!" said Tom, with a warning gesture to Nan, for he heard footsteps coming.

The next morning after breakfast Tom walked into the kitchen, where Aunt Sukey was putting the finishing touches to a dozen or more pies, for it was baking-day.

"Look here, Aunt Susan," exclaimed the youngster, "I've heard you say how much you would like to see 'Ma.r.s.e Link.u.m,' haven't I? Well, you've never had a sleigh-ride since you come North, have you? And I was just thinking last night that I'd take you for one when Nan and I go to school this morning. There! it won't take more'n a few minutes. Get your hood and shawl, and come along; it's only beyond Deacon Johnson's. Ma.r.s.e Lincoln would like to see you first-rate."

"Oh, bress de Lor', honey, who tole you dat? Has ole aunty libbed to lay her eyes on de savior ob her people? Yous two dun wait for ole Aunt Susan, and she'll be wid you in a jiffy."

"Hurry up! Jocko's waiting," screamed Tom, as the old lady bustled off to get her "fixin's."

"But, Tom, what'll ma say? and she's got company, too," asked Nan, uneasily.

"Why, it's all the better for our fun. She'll have some one to help her.

Miss Almira can turn to and do up the pies and things, and make herself useful as well as ornamental."

The war of the great rebellion was nearly over, and the old woman, like many of her people, had made her way North, and this was her first winter; so Tom and Nan expected great sport over her new experience--a sleigh-ride. With considerable trouble, for aunty was stout and unwieldy, and the little cutter was narrow and high, she was at last bundled in, Nan and Tom following, to the infinite satisfaction of Jocko, the pony, which was pawing the snow and jingling his bells impatiently.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AWAY THEY RUSHED DOWN THE LANE."]

When the robes were all tucked in, Tom gave the word, and away they rushed down the lane into the road. Speeding on, they turned a curve so sharply that Aunt Sukey was wild with alarm; her eyes rolled, and her teeth glistened from ear to ear, as, with mouth distended, she screamed, "Oh, Ma.r.s.e Tommy, fo' de Lor's sake, hole in dat beast! I's done gone an' bin a fool to trust my mutton to a hoss like dat! Oh, Ma.r.s.e Tommy, Ma.s.sa Tommy, yous'll be de deff of ole Aunt Susan! Oh, fo' de Lor's sake, stop 'im!"

"Hooray, Jocko! go it, old boy!" was Tommy's laughing response.

"Oh, bress us an' save us! Missy Nanny, be a good chile, an' make Ma.r.s.e Tom stop dat yere beast, or we'll be upsot, an' break ebbery bone in our bodies!"

"Don't mind, aunty. Jocko knows every step of the way, and _we_ won't let you get hurt," cried Nan, with a patronizing air.

"O Lor' hab mussy on a poor ole niggur, an' bring her safely to her journey's end, for mussy dese chillun hab none!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Susan, as another sharp curve was so rapidly turned that the very trees and fences seemed rushing madly away in an opposite direction.

In less than twenty minutes, and the minutes seemed ages to affrighted Susan, Jocko, with a snort and an extra jingle of his bells, stood stock-still in front of the school-house.

A score of eyes peeped from the windows as Tom, alighting, with mock ceremony handed out Nan and Aunt Susan, exclaiming, "Ladies, we shall soon be in the presence of 'Ma.r.s.e Link.u.m.'"

"Oh, tank de Lor', dar's no bones broken! and we's really gwine to see de blessed Ma.r.s.e Link.u.m, arter all!"

"There, now, Nan, take Aunt Susan up on the stoop, till I blanket Jocko and put him in the shed."

"Now, Missy Nan," whispered Aunt Susan, when they found themselves alone on the piazza, "does I look 'spectable nuff to see de President?"

"You look awful nice, aunty," replied Nanny, turning away her head to conceal her laughter. "Ah! here comes Tom."

"Now, Aunt Susan," exclaimed that youngster, "when I introduce you, say this: 'I hope I find your Excellency well, and all the people of color in the South send you greeting.'"

"Wa'al, now, what a genius dat chile is, to be shuah!" muttered Susan, walking behind Tom and Nanny.

"Mr. Lincoln," exclaimed Tom, advancing toward that gentleman, with a merry twinkle in his roguish eyes, "allow me to present to you a new pupil, Aunt Susan Whittingham; she has come all the way from Louisiana to see you."

"Oh, bress de Lor' dat hab given dis ole woman de privilege ob laying her eyes on de gloriousness ob de man who hab saved all her people, an'

has strucken off de chains what held dem fast, an' made dem free forebber and forebber! Hallelujah! hallelujah! amen! Oh, bress me, I's done gone an' make a mistake arter all. Oh, your Presidency--no, your Elegancy, I hopes I find you well. All de people ob color in de Souf send you--send you--greetin'!"

"Aunt Susan, I am very sorry; but that little rascal, Tom, has been deceiving you all the time. I'm not the 'Ma.r.s.e Link.u.m' you take me for, I'm sorry to tell you, for I am only plain James Lincoln, school-master of the district. Tom, I say, how did you dare to treat Aunt Susan and myself in this way? I have a mind to punish you."

"Oh, de Lor' forgib Ma.r.s.e Tommy dat he fool a 'spectable ole body like me; an' de Lor' save me! all my pies an' tings goin' to construction, an' de missus all alone to hum wid comp'ny! It's too much--it's too much fo' shuah!"

"Come, aunty," cried Tom, soothingly, for he was beginning to be afraid himself, "we'll drive home ever so slow. Come, now, forgive us, and don't get us a whipping."

"I's mos' ready to forgib yous now; but jes you disremember how de chillun in de Bible war eaten up along o' de bars for sayin', 'Go up, ole bal'-head!' an' don't you nebber, nebber agin fool ole Aunt Susan."

Almira had "turned to," as Tom predicted, and was helping his mother with the dinner, when that lady exclaimed: "This is another of that boy's tricks; but boys are boys, and there's no help for it. I hope Aunt Susan's enjoying the ride."

Everything was in "apple-pie order" when the party returned, apparently in fine spirits. Tom thought it mighty queer that nothing was said about his escapade, and dying to tell it, he felt his way cautiously for an opportunity, and it came. In the evening, when the family were discussing nuts and cider around the glowing fire, he related the morning's adventure with such gay good humor that Pa and Ma Chandler and Augustus and Almira made the walls ring again with their laughter, bringing old Aunt Susan to the sitting-room door, where, poking her head in, she had courage to say, "'Pears to me yous folks is havin' great sport over Aunt Susan's fust sleigh-ride."

[Ill.u.s.tration: RUINS OF TRINITY CHURCH, 1776.]

NEW YORK'S FIRST GREAT FIRE.

The first great fire in New York happened in September, 1776, just after Washington had been driven from the city. New York was then a small but beautiful town; it reached only to the lower end of the Park, but Broadway was lined with shade trees, and its fine houses stretched away on both sides to the Battery. Trinity Church stood, as now, at the head of Wall Street. St. Paul's--a building of great cost and beauty for the times--almost bounded the upper end of Broadway. The British soldiers marched into the pleasant but terrified city, the leading patriots fled with Washington's army, and in the hot days of the autumn of 1776 New York seemed to offer a pleasant home for the officers and men of the invading forces. They took possession of the deserted country-seats of the patriots at Bloomingdale or Murray Hill, and occupied the finest houses on the best streets of the town. Here they hoped to pa.s.s a winter of ease, and in the spring complete without difficulty the rout of the disheartened Americans.

But one night in September the cry of fire was heard, and the flames began to spread from some low wooden buildings near Whitehall, where now are the Produce Exchange and Staten Island ferries. In those days there were no steam-engines nor hydrants, no Croton water nor well-organized fire-companies. But as the flames continued to advance, the British soldiers sprang from their beds and began to labor to check the fire with all the means in their power. They used, no doubt, buckets of water brought from the cisterns and the river. They found, it was said, several persons setting houses on fire, and in their rage threw them into the flames. But their labor was all in vain. All night the fire spread over the finest quarter of New York. From Whitehall it pa.s.sed up Broadway on the eastern side, devouring everything, until it was stopped by a large new brick house near Wall Street. It crossed to the western side, and laid nearly the whole street in ruins. It fastened on the roof and tower of Trinity Church, and soon, of all its graceful proportions, only a few shattered fragments remained. Then the flames pa.s.sed rapidly up to the west of Broadway from Trinity as far as St. Paul's; houses and shops crumbled before them; a long array of buildings seem to have fed the raging fires, until at last they reached the walls of the great church itself, and were about to envelop it in ruins. But here, it is said, the zeal of the people checked their progress. They mounted the roof of the church, covered it with streams of water, put out the sparks that fell on it, until at last the building was saved, the flames died out, and St. Paul's stands to-day almost as it stood in 1776, the monument of the close of the great fire.

It is not difficult to imagine the melancholy change wrought in the appearance of the city. Broadway, once so beautiful, remained until the end of the war in great part a street of ruins. From Wall Street to the Battery, from St. Paul's Church to the Bowling Green, the miserable waste was never repaired. Up its desolate track paraded each morning the British officers and their followers, shining in red and gold, to the sound of martial music; but they had no leisure nor wish to repair the ravages of war. On the wasted district arose a collection of tents and hovels, called "Canvas Town." Here lived the miserable poor, the wretched, the vile; robbers who at night made the ruins unsafe, and incendiaries who never ceased to terrify the unlucky city. The British garrison was never suffered to remain long at ease.

It was said that the great fire of 1776 was the work of the patriots, who had resolved to burn New York, and drive the invaders from their safe resting-place. The question of its origin has never been decided.

It may have been altogether accidental, or possibly the work of design.

But it was followed by a singular succession of other fires, during the period of the British ascendency, that seem to show some settled plan to annoy and discourage the invaders. The newspapers of the time are filled with accounts of the misfortunes of the garrison and the royalists.

TO MY VALENTINE.

BY M. M.

In love and hope These blossoms fair I lay at your dear feet!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Deep-folded In the rose's heart You'll find my secret, sweet!

[Ill.u.s.tration]