Chapter 1

IT was drawing towards the close of the last day of the year. A few
hours more, and 1836 would be no more.

It was a cold day. There was no snow on the ground, but it was frozen
into stiff ridges, making it uncomfortable to walk upon. The sun had
been out all day, but there was little heat or comfort in its bright,
but frosty beams.

The winter is a hard season for the poor. It multiplies their
necessities, while, in general, it limits their means and opportunities
of earning. The winter of 1836-37 was far from being an exception to
this rule. It was worse than usual, on account of the general stagnation
of business.

In an humble tenement, located on what was then the outskirts of New
York, though to-day a granite warehouse stands on the spot, lived
Timothy Crump, an industrious cooper. His family consisted of a wife
and one child, a boy of twelve, whose baptismal name was John, though
invariably addressed, by his companions, as Jack.

There was another member of the household who would be highly offended
if she were not introduced, in due form, to the reader. This was Miss
Rachel Crump, maiden sister of Uncle Tim, as he was usually designated.

Miss Rachel was not much like her brother, for while the latter was a
good-hearted, cheerful easy man, who was inclined to view the world in
its sunniest aspect, Rachel was cynical, and given to misanthropy. Poor
Rachel, let us not be too hard upon thy infirmities. Could we lift
the veil that hides the secrets of that virgin heart, it might be,
perchance, that we should find a hidden cause, far back in the days when
thy cheeks were rounder and thine eyes brighter, and thine aspect not
quite so frosty. Ah, faithless Harry Fletcher! thou hadst some hand in
that peevishness and repining which make Rachel Crump, and all about
her, uncomfortable. Lured away by a prettier face, you left her to pass
through life, unblessed by that love which every female heart craves,
and for which no kindred love will compensate. It was your faithlessness
that left her to walk, with repining spirit, the flinty path of the old
maid.

Yes; it must be said--Rachel Crump was an old maid; not from choice,
but hard necessity. And so, one by one, she closed up the avenues of her
heart, and clothed herself with complaining, as with a garment. Being
unblessed with earthly means, she had accepted the hearty invitation
of her brother, and become an inmate of his family, where she paid
her board by little services about the house, and obtained sufficient
needle-work to replenish her wardrobe as often as there was occasion.
Forty-five years had now rolled over her head, leaving clearer traces of
their presence, doubtless, than if her spirit had been more cheerful;
so that Rachel, whose strongly marked features never could have been
handsome, was now undeniably homely.

Mrs. Crump, fortunately for her husband's peace, did not in the least
resemble her sister-in-law. Her disposition was cheerful, and she had
frequent occasion to remonstrate with her upon the dark view she took
of life. Had her temper been different, it is very easy to see that she
would have been continually quarrelling with Rachel; but, happily, she
was one of those women with whom it is impossible to quarrel. With
her broad mantle of charity, she was always seeking to cover up and
extenuate the defects of her sister-in-law, though she could not help
acknowledging their existence.

It had been a hard winter for the cooper. For a month he had been unable
to obtain work of any kind, and for the two months previous he had
worked scarcely more than half the time. Unfortunately for him, his
expenses for a few years back had kept such even pace with his income,
that he had no reserved fund to fall back upon in such a time as this.
That was no fault of his. Both he and his wife had been economical
enough, but there are a great many things included in family
expenses--rent, fuel, provisions, food, clothing, and a long list of
sundries, besides; and all these had cost money, of which desirable
article Uncle Tim's trade furnished not a very large supply.

So it happened that, as tradesmen were slow to trust, they had been
obliged to part with a sofa to defray the expenses of the month of
December. This article was selected because it was best convertible into
cash,--being wanted by a neighbor,--besides being about the only article
of luxury, if it could be called such, in possession of the family. As
such it had been hardly used, being reserved for state occasions; yet
hardly had it left (sic) the the house, when Aunt Rachel began to
show signs of extreme lowness of spirits, and bewailed its loss as a
privation of a personal comfort.

“Life's full of disappointments,” she groaned. “Our paths is continually
beset by 'em. There's that sofa! It's so pleasant to have one in the
house when a body's sick. But there, it's gone, and if I happen to get
down, as most likely I shall, for I've got a bad feeling in my stummick
this very minute, I shall have to go up-stairs, and most likely catch my
death of cold, and that will be the end of me.”

“Not so bad as that, I hope,” said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. “You know,
when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa--you said it
didn't lay comfortable. Besides, I hope, before you are sick again we
may be able to buy it back again.”

Aunt Rachel shook her head despondingly.

“There ain't any use in hoping that,” said she. “Timothy's got so much
behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; I know he won't.”

“But if he manages to get steady work soon, he will.”

“No, he won't. I'm sure he won't. There won't be any work before spring,
and most likely not then.”

“You are too desponding, Aunt Rachel.”

“Enough to make me so. If you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't
have come to this.”

“I don't know what advice you refer to, Rachel.”

“No, I don't expect you do. You didn't pay no attention to it. That's
the reason.”

“But if you'll repeat it, perhaps we can profit by it yet,” said Mrs.
Crump, with imperturbable good humor.

“I told you you ought to be layin' up something ag'in a rainy day. But
that's always the way. Folks think when times is good it's always a
goin' to be so, but I knew better.”

“I don't see how we could have been more economical,” said Mrs. Crump,
mildly.

“There's a hundred ways. Poor folks like us ought not to expect to have
meat so often. It's frightful to think what the butcher's bill must have
been the last six months.”

Inconsistent Rachel! Only the day before she had made herself very
uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she
couldn't live without it. Mrs. Crump might have reminded her of this,
but the good woman was too kind to make the retort. She contented
herself with saying that they must try to do better in future.

“That's always the way,” muttered Rachel. “Shut the stable door when the
horse is stolen. Folks never learn from experience till it's too late
to be of any use. I don't see what the world was made for, for my part.
Everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except the right way.
I sometimes think 'taint much use livin'.”

“Oh, you'll feel better by and by, Rachel. Hark, there's Jack, isn't
it?”

“Anybody might know by the noise who it is,” pursued Rachel, in the same
general tone that had marked her conversation hitherto. “He always comes
_stomping_ along as if he was paid for makin' a noise. Anybody ought to
have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere in his hearing.”

Her cheerful remarks were here broken in upon by the sudden entrance of
Jack, who, in his eagerness, slammed the door behind him, unheeding his
mother's quiet admonition not to make a noise.

“Look there!” said he, displaying a quarter of a dollar.

“How did you get it?” asked his mother.

“Holding horses,” answered Jack.

“Here, take it, mother. I warrant you'll find a use for it.”

“It comes in good time,” said Mrs. Crump. “We're out of flour, and I had
no money to buy any. Before you take off your boots, Jack, why can't you
run over to the store, and get half a dozen pounds?”

“You see the Lord hasn't quite forgotten us,” remarked his mother, as
Jack started on his errand.

“What's a quarter of a dollar?” said Rachel, gloomily. “Will it carry us
through the winter?”

“It will carry us through to-night, and perhaps Timothy will have work
to-morrow. Hark, that's his step.”