What to do with Ben was the next question of importance.  He was fond of books, an omnivorous reader, in fact, a very fair scholar, and, with a certain amount of push, could have graduated the year before.  He really was not longing for college.

There was only one line of horse-cars, and that conveyed the passengers of the Harlem Railroad from the station on Broome Street to the steam-cars up-town.  Only a few trains beside the baggage and freight cars were allowed through the city.  Consequently a boy’s ambition had not been roused to the height of being a “car conductor” at that period.  A good number counted on “running wid de machine” when they reached the proper age, but boys were not allowed to hang around the engine-houses.  Running with the machine was something in those days.  There were no steam-engines.  Everything was drawn by a long rope, the men ranged on either side.  The force of the stream of water was also propelled by main strength, and the “high throwing” was something to be proud of.  There was a good deal of rivalry among the companies to see who could get to a fire the first.  Sometimes, indeed, it led to quite serious affrays if two parties met at a crossing.  “Big Six” never gave up for any one.  “Forty-one” was another famous engine on the East side.  Indeed they had a rather menacing song they sometimes shouted out to their rivals, which contained these two blood-curdling lines: 

    “From his heart the blood shall run
    By the balls of Forty-one.”

Later on the fights and disturbances became so bitter that the police had to interfere, and as the city grew larger some new method of expediting matters had to be considered.  But the “fire laddies” were a brave, generous set of men, who turned out any time of day or night and dragged their heavy engines over the rough cobble-stones with a spirit and enthusiasm hard to match.  They received no pay, but were exempt from jury duty, and after a number of years of service had certain privileges granted them.  Jim counted strongly on being a fireman.  John had sometimes gone to fires but was not a “regular.”

But all differences were forgotten in the “great fire,” as it was called for a long time.  There had been one about ten years before that had devastated a large part of the city.  And in February of this year there had been quite a tragic one in the Tribune Building.  There was a fierce drifting snowstorm, so deep it was impossible to drag the engines through it, and some of the hydrants were frozen.  Men had jumped from the windows to save their lives, and there had been quite a panic.

Early in the gray dawn of July nineteenth, a watchman discovered flames issuing from an oil store on New Street.  A carpenter shop next door was soon in flames.  A large building in which quantities of saltpetre was stored caught next.  A dense smoke filled the air, and a sudden explosive sound shot out a long tongue of flame that crossed the street.  At intervals of a few moments others followed, causing everybody to fly for their lives.  And at last one grand deafening burst like a tremendous clap of thunder, and the whole vicinity was in a blaze.  Bricks and pieces of timber flew through the air, injuring many people.  Then the fire spread far and wide, one vast, roaring, crackling sheet of flame.  One brave fireman and several other people were killed, and Engine 22 was wrecked in the explosion.

It was said at first that powder had been stored in the building, but it was proved on investigation that the saltpetre alone was the dangerous agent.  Three hundred and forty-five buildings were destroyed, at a loss, it was estimated, of ten millions of dollars.  For days there was an immense throng about the place.  The ruins extended from Bowling Green to Exchange Place.

A relic of Revolutionary times perished in this fire.  The bell of the famous Provost prison, that had been used by the British during their occupancy of the city, had been removed when the building was remodelled and placed on the Bridewell at the west of the City Hall, and used for a fire-alarm bell.  When the Bridewell had been destroyed it was transferred to the cupola of the Naiad Hose Company in Beaver Street.  It rang out its last alarm that morning, for engine house and bell perished in the flames.

Stephen had been very fortunate in that he was out of the fire district.  He took Margaret and Hanny down to view the great space heaped with blackened debris, and when a fire alarm was given the little girl used to shiver with fright for months afterward.

And now schools were considering their closing exercises, and parents of big boys were puzzled to know just where to start them in life.  Ben declared his preference at last-he wanted to be some sort of a newspaper man.

They called Mr. Whitney in to council.  He was not quite sure he would recommend beginning there.  It would be better to learn the trade thoroughly at such a place as the Harpers’.  Then there would always be something to fall back upon.  Steve did not cordially approve, and Dr. Joe was quite disappointed.  He was ready to help Ben through college.

Newspaper people did not rank as high then as now.  There was a good deal of what came to be called Bohemianism among them, and it was not of the artistic type.  For the one really good position there were a dozen precarious ones.

Aunt Nancy Archer rather amused them with another objection.  She wasn’t at all sure the publishing of so many novels was conducive to the advancement of morals and religion.  She never could quite understand how so good a man as Brother Harper could lend it countenance.  When she was young the girls of her time were reading Hannah More.  And there was Mrs. Chapone’s letters, and now Charlotte Elizabeth and Mrs. Sigourney.

“Did you know Hannah More wrote a novel?” inquired John, with a half smile of his father’s humor.  “And Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Edgeworth and Charlotte Elizabeth’s stories are in the novel form.”

“But they have a high moral.  And there are so many histories for young people to read.  They ought to have the real truth instead of silly make-believes and trashy love stories.”

“There are some histories that would be rather terrible reading for young minds,” said John.  “I think I’ll bring you two or three, Aunt Nancy.”

“But histories are true.”

“There are a great many sad and bitter truths in the world.  And the stories must have a certain amount of truth in them or they would never gain a hearing.  Do we not find some of the most beautiful stories in the Bible itself?”

“Well, I can’t help thinking all this novel reading is going to do harm to our young people.  Their minds will get flighty, and they will lose all taste and desire for solid things.  They are beginning to despise work already.”

“Aunt Nancy,” said Ben, with a deprecating smile, “the smartest girl I know lives just below here.  She does most all the housekeeping, she can wash and iron and sweep and sew, and she reads novels by the score.  She just races through them.  I do believe she knows as much about Europe as any of our teachers.  And I never dreamed there had been such tremendous conquests in Asia, and such wonderful things in Egypt until I heard her talk about them; and she knows about the great men and generals and rulers who lived before the Christian era, and at the time Christ was born-

Aunt Nancy gasped.

“Of course there were Old Testament times,” she returned hesitatingly.

“And I am not sure but Mayor Harper is doing a good work in disseminating knowledge of all kinds.  I believe we are to try all things and hold fast to that which is good,” said John.

He brought Aunt Nancy the history of Peter the Great and the famous Catharine of Russia, but she admitted that they were too cruel and too terrible for any one to take pleasure in.

Mrs. Underhill and Margaret went to the closing exercises of Houston Street school.  Jim as usual had a splendid oration, one of Patrick Henry’s.  Ben acquitted himself finely.  There was a large class of boys who had finished their course, and the principal made them an admirable address, in which there was much good counsel and not a little judicious praise as well as beneficial advice concerning their future.

But at Mrs. Craven’s there was something more than the ordinary exercises.  The front parlor was turned into an audience-room, and a platform was raised a little in the back parlor almost like a stage.  There was a dialogue that was a little play in itself, and displayed the knowledge as well as the training of the pupils.  Some compositions were read, and part of a little operetta was sung quite charmingly by the girls.  Then there was a large table spread out with specimens of needlework that were really fine; drawing, painting, and penmanship that elicited much praise from the visitors.

The crowning pleasure was the little party given in the evening, to which any one was at liberty to invite a brother or cousin, or indeed a neighbor of whom their mother approved.  And strange to relate, there were a good many boys who were really pleased to be asked to the “girls’ party.”  Charles Reed came and had a delightful time.  Josie had waylaid Mr. Reed again and told him all about it, and hoped he would let Charles come, and he said he would be very happy to.  Mrs. Reed did not approve of parties for children, and Charles had been but to very few.

Mr. Underhill and Dr. Joe went down to the Harpers’, having decided to place Ben there to learn a trade.  Thinking it all over, he resolved to acquiesce, though he told Hanny privately that some day he meant to have a newspaper of his own and be the head of everything.  But he supposed he would have to learn first.

Margaret and Hanny went with them, and found many changes since their first visit.  The making of a book seemed a still more wonderful thing to the child, but how one could ever be written puzzled her beyond all.  A composition on something she had seen or read was within the scope of her thought, but to tell about people and make them talk, and have pleasant and curious and sad and joyous happenings, did puzzle her greatly.

Ben was not to go until the first of September.  So he would help Steve, go to the country for a visit, and have a good time generally before he began his life-work.  Stephen’s house was approaching completion, and it was wonderful to see how the rows of buildings were stretching out, as if presently the city would be depleted of its residents.  One wondered where all the people came from.

John Robert Charles had grown quite confidential with his father and began to think him as nice as Mr. Underhill-not as funny, for Mr. Underhill had a way of joking and telling amusing stories and teasing a little, that was very entertaining, and never sharp or ill-natured.

He had carried off the honors of his class and was proud of it.  Mr. Reed showed his satisfaction as well.  Mrs. Reed was rather doubtful and severe, and thought it her duty to keep Charles from undue vanity.  She was in a fret because she had to go away and leave the house and waste a whole month.

“I don’t want to go,” said Charles to his father.  “It’s awful lonesome up there in the mountains, and there’s no one to talk to.  Aunt Rhoda’s deaf, and Aunt Persis hushes you up if you say a word.  And the old gardener is stupid.  There are no books to read, and I do get so tired.”

“Well, we’ll see,” replied his father.

To his wife Mr. Reed said:  “Why do you go off if you don’t want to?”

“I won’t have Charles running the streets and getting into bad company, and wearing out his clothes faster than I can mend them,” she replied shortly.

It would not be entertaining for Charles in his office, and he didn’t just see what the boy could do.  But he met a friend who kept a sort of fancy toy store, musical instruments and some curios, down Broadway, and learned that they were very much in want of a trusty, reliable lad who was correct in figures and well-mannered.  A woman came in the morning to sweep the store and sidewalk, to wash up the floor and windows, and do the chores.  So there was no rough work.

“I’ll send my boy down and see how you like him.  I think he would fancy the place, and during the month you might find some one to take it permanently.  There seems to be no lack of boys.”

“You can’t always find the right sort,” said Mr. Gerard.  “Yes, I shall be glad to try him.”

Mr. Reed did not set forth the matter too attractively to his wife, not even to Charles, who had learned to restrain his enthusiasm before his mother.  And though she made numerous objections, and the thought of bad company seemed to haunt her, she reluctantly decided to let him try it for a week.  He would go down in the morning with his father, so he could not possibly begin his day in mischief.

Charles was delighted.  The city was not over-crowded then.  The Park gave “down-town” quite a breathing space.

Now a boy would think it very hard not to have any vacation after eleven months of study.  He would be so tired and worn and nervous that ten weeks would be none too much.  The children then studied hard and played hard and were eager to have a good time, and generally did have it.  And now Charles was delighted with the newness of the affair.  He walked up at night fresh and full of interest, and was quite a hero to the girls over on Mrs. Dean’s stoop.

“I hope you will bring them down even if you shouldn’t want to buy anything.  Mr. Gerard said the stock was low now, as it is the dullest season of the year.  But there are such beautiful articles for gifts, china cups and saucers and dainty pitchers and vases, and sets like yours, Josie, some ever so much smaller, and a silver knife and fork and spoon in a velvet case, and lovely little fruit-knives and nut-picks and ever so many things I have never heard of.  And musical instruments, flutes and flageolets and violins, and oh, the accordéons!  There are German and French.  Oh, I wish I could own one.  I know I could soon learn to play on it!” declared Charles eagerly.

In that far-back time an accordéon really was considered worth one’s while.  A piano was quite an extravagance.  A good player could evoke real music out of it, and at that period it had not been handed over to the saloons.  In fact, saloons were not in fashion.

The children listened enchanted.  It was a great thing to know any one in such a store.  Mrs. Dean promised to take them all down.

Hanny had a new source of interest.  Dr. Joe had told her a very moving story when he was up to tea on Sunday evening, about a little girl who had been two months in the hospital and who had just come home for good now, who lived only a little way below them.  It was Daisy Jasper, whom they had seen a little while last summer in a wheeling chair, and who had disappeared before any one’s curiosity could be satisfied.  She was an only child, and her parents were very comfortably well off.  When Daisy was about six years old, a fine, healthy, and beautiful little girl, she had trodden on a spool dropped by a careless hand and fallen down a long flight of stairs.  Beside a broken arm and some bruises she did not seem seriously injured.  But after a while she began to complain of her back and her hip, and presently the sad knowledge dawned upon them that their lovely child was likely to be a cripple.  Various experiments were tried until she became so delicate her life appeared endangered.  Mr. Jasper had been attracted to this pretty row of houses standing back from the street with the flower gardens in front.  It seemed secluded yet not lonely.  She grew so feeble, however, that the doctors had recommended Sulphur Springs in Virginia, and thither they had taken her.  When the cool weather came on they had gone farther south and spent the winter in Florida.  She had improved and gained sufficient strength, the doctors thought, to endure an operation.  It had been painful and tedious, but she had borne it all so patiently.  Dr. Mott and Dr. Francis had done their best, but she would always be a little deformed.  The prospect was that some day she might walk without a crutch.  Joe had seen a good deal of her, and at one visit he had told her of his little sister who was just her age, as their birthdays were in May.

Hanny had cried over the sorrowful tale.  She thought of her early story heroine, “Little Blind Lucy,” whose sight had been so marvellously restored.  But Daisy could never be quite restored to straightness.

After supper Joe had taken her down to call on Daisy.  Oh, how pretty the gardens were, a beautiful spot of greenery and bloom, such a change from the pavements!  A narrow brick walk ran up to the house, edged with rows of dahlias just coming into bloom.  On the other side there were circles and triangles and diamond-shaped beds with borders of small flowers, or an entire bed of heliotrope or verbena.  The very air was fragrant.  Up near the house was a kind of pavilion with a tent covering to shield one from the sun.

Daisy, with her mother and aunt, were sitting out here when Dr. Joe brought his little sister.  Daisy’s chair was so arranged that the back could be adjusted to any angle.  It was of bamboo and cane with a soft blanket thrown over it, a pretty rose color that lighted up the pale little girl whose languor was still perceptible.

After a little Mrs. Jasper took Dr. Joe into the house, as she wanted to question him.  Then Hanny and Daisy grew more confidential.  Daisy asked about the children in the neighborhood and thought she would like to see Nora and Pussy Gray.  She was very fond of cats, but theirs, a very good mouser, was bad-tempered and wanted no petting.  And then the Dean girls and Flossy and Elsie Hay, and last but not least of all, Charles Reed with his beautiful voice.

“I do so dearly love music,” said Daisy longingly.  “Auntie plays but she doesn’t sing.  Mamma knows a good many old-fashioned songs that are lovely.  When I am tired and nervous she sings to me.  I don’t suppose I can ever learn to play for myself,” she ended sadly.

Hanny told her she was learning and could play “Mary to the Saviour’s Tomb” for her father.  And there were the boys and Stephen and her lovely married sister Dolly and her own sister Margaret.

“Oh, how happy you must be!” cried Daisy.  “I should like such a lot of people.  I never had any brothers or sisters, and I do get so lonesome.  And the doctor is so pleasant and sweet; you must love him a great deal.”

“I can’t tell which one is best.  Steve teases and says funny things, and is-oh, just as nice as any one can be!  And John is splendid, too.  And Ben is going to learn to make books, and I can have all the books I want.”

Daisy sighed.  She was very fond of reading, but it soon tired her.

“I should so like to see you all.  You know I’ve never been much with children.  And I like live people.  I want to hear them talk and sing and see them play.  One gets tired of dolls.”

“If you would like I will bring Nora and Pussy Gray.  And I know Josie’s mother will let them come.  If you could be wheeled up on our sidewalk.”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” and the soft eyes glowed.

Hanny had taken Nora the very next afternoon, and Pussy Gray had been just too good for anything.  Daisy had to laugh at the conversations between him and Nora.  It really did sound as if he said actual words.  And they told Daisy about the time they went to the Museum and had a double share for their money.  Daisy laughed heartily, and her pale cheeks took on a pretty pink tint.

“You are so good to come,” said Mrs. Jasper.  “My little girl has had so much suffering in her short life that I want her to have all the pleasure possible now.”

Josie and Tudie Dean had been out spending the day, and really, there was so much to tell that it was nine o’clock before it was all discussed.  Charles was very much interested in Daisy Jasper.

“You know I can tell just how she feels about not having any brothers and sisters,” he exclaimed.  “I’ve wished for them so many times.  And I do think Hanny is the luckiest of the lot; she has so many.  It is like a little town to yourself.”

“I’m so glad it is vacation,” declared Josie.  “If we were going to school we wouldn’t have half time for anything.”

Mr. Underhill came for his little girl.  While he was exchanging a few words with Mr. Dean Hanny caught one hand in both of hers and hopped around on one foot.  She was so glad she could do it.  Poor Daisy, with her beautiful name, who could never know the delight of exuberant spirits.

Hanny’s thoughts did not take in the long word, but that was what she felt in every fibre of her being.

Charles wondered how she dared.  He was frightened when he caught his father’s hand with an impulse of gratitude.  But in pure fun!

There was quite a stir with the little clique in the upper end of the block.  Mrs. Underhill, Mrs. Dean, and Margaret called on their neighbor, and the wheeled chair came up the street a day or two after.  It had to go to the corner and cross on the flagging, as the jar would have been too great on cobble stones.  They had a young colored lad now who kept the garden in order, did chores, and waited upon “Missy” as he called her.

The sidewalk was generally sunny in the afternoon, but this day it was soft and gray without being very cloudy.  The chariot halted at the Underhills’.  The little girls brought their dolls to show Daisy, their very best ones, and Nora dressed up Pussy Gray in the long white baby dress, and pussy was very obliging and lay in Daisy’s arms just like a real baby.  The child felt as if she wanted to kiss him.

What a pretty group of gossips they were!  If Kate Greenaway had been making pictures then, she would have wanted them, though their attire was not quite as quaint as hers.  They went up and down the steps, they told Daisy so many bright, entertaining things, and the fun they had with their plays.  Josie’s party was described, the closing exercises at school, and the many incidents so important in child life.  Sometimes two or three talked together, or some one said, “It’s my turn, now let me.”  They referred to Charles so much it really piqued Daisy’s curiosity.

“Jim calls him a ‘girl-boy,’ because he plays with us,” said Hanny, “and in some ways I like girl-boys best.  Ben is a sort of girl-boy.  I’m going to bring him over to see you.  Jim’s real splendid and none of the boys dare fight him any more,” she added loyally.

“And first, you know,” began Tudie in a mysteriously confidential manner, “we thought it so queer and funny.  His mother called him John Robert Charles.  And she used to look out of the window and ask him if he had his books and his handkerchief, and tell him to come straight home from school, and lots of things.  Oh, we thought we wouldn’t have her for our mother, not for a world!”

“How did he come by so many names?” Daisy smiled.

“Well, grandfather and all,” replied Tudie rather ambiguously.  “His father calls him Charles.  It sounds quite grand, doesn’t it?  We all wanted to call him Robert.  And Hanny’s big sister sings such a lovely song-“Robin Adair.”  I’d like to call him that.”

“I should so like to hear him sing.  I’m so fond of singing,” said Daisy plaintively.

“Now if we were in the back yard we could all sing,” rejoined Josie.  “But of course we couldn’t in the street with everybody going by.”

“Oh, no!” Yet there was a wistful longing in Daisy’s face, that was beginning to look very tired.

There were not many people going through this street.  Houston Street was quite a thoroughfare.  But the few who did pass looked at the merry group of girls and at the pale invalid whose chair told the story, and gave them all a tender, sympathetic thought.

All except Lily Ludlow.  She was rather curious about the girl in the chair and made an errand out to the Bowery.  When Hanny saw who was coming she turned around and talked very eagerly to Elsie Hay, and pretended not to know it.  Lily had her President, and Jim admired her, that was enough.

“You’re very tired, Missy,” Sam said presently.

“Yes,” replied Daisy.  “I think I’ll go home now.  And will you all come to see me to-morrow?  Oh, it is so nice to know you all!  And Pussy Gray is just angelic.  Please bring him, too.”

They said good-by.  For some moments the little girls looked at each other with wordless sorrow in their eyes.  I think there were tears as well.