A Little Florida Lady

The Journey to Florida.

New York was in the throes of a blizzard. The wind howled and shrieked, heralding the approach of March, the Wind King's month of the year. Mrs. Davenport stood at a second story window of a room of the Gilsey House, and looked down idly on the bleak thoroughfare. She was a young-looking woman for her thirty-five years, and had an extremely sweet face, denoting kindliness of heart.

The hall door opened, and Elizabeth Davenport entered, carrying in her arms a little ball of fluffy gray.

Elizabeth, or Beth, as she was more commonly called at the age of seven, might have been compared to a good fairy had she not been so plump. She almost always radiated sunshine, and her face was generally lighted with a smile, the outcome of a warm heart. Sometimes clouds slightly dimmed the sunshine, but they always proved to be summer clouds that quickly passed. Her face was now flushed, and her eyes sparkled.

Mrs. Davenport turned, and smiled in greeting, but, at the same time, brushed a tear from her eye.

"Why, mamma, dear, what's the matter?" cried Beth.

Mrs. Davenport's eyes filled, but she bravely smiled. "I'm a little unhappy over leaving all our friends, Beth. Florida seems very far away."

"I wouldn't be unhappy."

"How would you help it, dearie?"

"Why mamma," she answered triumphantly after a second's thought, "there are so many pleasant things to think about that I just never think of the unpleasant ones," and her face broke into a smile, so cheery that Mrs. Davenport's heart lightened.

"Mamma," she continued, "it's very easy for me to be happy. Every one is so good to me. The chambermaid just gave me this dear, dear kitty. Isn't it too cute for anything? I mean to take it to Florida with me."

"Why, Beth, that would never do."

Beth was about to demur, when a door into an adjoining room opened, and Mr. Davenport called:

"Mary, come here a minute, please."

Mrs. Davenport hastened to answer the call. She was hardly out of the room before Beth rushed to an open trunk. Impatiently, she began pulling things out. She burrowed almost to the very bottom. Lastly, she took out a skirt of her mother's, and wrapped something very carefully in it.

The door into the adjoining room creaked. Beth blushed scarlet, and dropped the bundle into the trunk. Then as no one came, she threw the other articles pell-mell on top of the bundle, and scampered guiltily to the other end of the room. Not an instant too soon to escape immediate detection, for Mrs. Davenport re?ntered the room, followed by a girl of thirteen. This was Marian, Beth's sister. The two girls were totally unlike both in looks and in disposition. Marian was a tall blonde, and slight for her age. She had quiet, gentle ways.

"Mother, here's my red dress on the floor," she said, picking it up near the trunk.

"Beth, what have you been doing?"

Beth kept her blushing, telltale face turned from her mother, and did not answer. Without another word, Mrs. Davenport went to the trunk, and began smoothing things out.

"I declare, there's something alive in here," and she drew out a poor, half smothered kitten.

"I think you might let her go in the trunk," cried Beth, aggrieved.

"Child, it would kill the poor kitty. Marian, you take it back to the chambermaid." Marian left the room with it, and Beth began to pout, whereupon Mrs. Davenport said:

"Beth, you are so set upon having your own way, I hardly know what to do with you."

Immediately Beth's pouting gave place to a mischievous smile. "You'd better call in a policeman, and have me taken away."

Mrs. Davenport smiled too. "So my little girl remembers the policeman, does she? I was at my wits' end to know how to manage you when I thought of him. Even as a little bit of a thing, you would laugh instead of cry, if I punished you with a whipping."

"Well, I was afraid of the policeman, anyway. I thought you really meant it when you said I was a naughty child, and not your nice Beth, and that the policeman would take the naughty child away."

"It worked like magic," said Mrs. Davenport. "You stopped crying almost immediately, and held out towards me a red dress of which you were very proud, and cried, 'I'm your Beth. Don't you know my pretty red dress? Don't you see my curls?'" She sat down, having finished straightening out the trunk, and Beth crept up into her mother's lap.

"Beth, do you remember one night when you were ready for bed in your little canton-flannel night-drawers, that you lost your temper over some trifling matter? You danced up and down, yelling, 'I won't. I won't.' I could hardly keep from laughing. My young spitfire looked very funny capering around and around, her long curls rumpled about her determined, flushed face, and her feet not still an instant in her flapping night-drawers. Many and many a time you escaped punishment, Beth, because you were so very comical even in your naughtiness."

"I remember that night well," answered Beth. "You said, 'There, that bad girl has come back. Even though it's night, she'll have to go.'"

"And," interrupted Mrs. Davenport, "you threw yourself into my arms, crying, 'Mamma, whip me, but don't send me away.' I knew better than to whip you, but I punished you by not kissing you good-night."

"And I cried myself to sleep," put in Beth, snuggling more closely to her mother. "I thought I must be very naughty not to get my usual good-night kiss. I do try to be good, but it's very hard work sometimes. But I'll get the better of the bad girl, I'll leave her here in New York, so she won't bother you in Florida."--

Just then Mr. Davenport entered the room. He was a tall, dark man with a very kindly face.

"I think the snow is not deep enough to detain the trains," he said. "It's time for us to start. The porter is here to take the trunks."

"We'll be ready in a moment," answered his wife. "I fear we'll find it very disagreeable driving to the station."

And, in truth, outside the weather proved bitterly cold. The wind swept with blinding power up the now mostly deserted thoroughfare. The Davenports were glad of the shelter of the carriage which carried them swiftly along the icy pavement. Mrs. Davenport drew her furs around her, while the children snuggled together.

"I'm glad we're going, aren't you, Marian?" asked Beth, as they descended from the carriage at the station.

"I guess so," answered Marian doubtfully, remembering the friends she was leaving behind, perhaps forever.

Mr. Davenport already had their tickets, and the family immediately boarded a sleeper bound for Jacksonville.

Beth loved to travel, and soon was on speaking terms with every one on the car. She hesitated slightly about being friends with the porter. He made her think of the first colored person she had ever seen. She remembered even now how the man's rolling black eyes had frightened her, although it was the blackness of his skin that had impressed her the most. She believed that he had become dirty, the way she sometimes did, only in a greater degree.

"Mamma," she whispered, "I never get as black as that man, do I? Do you s'pose he ever washes himself?"

Mrs. Davenport explained that cleanliness had nothing to do with the man's blackness.

"Is he black inside?" Beth questioned in great awe.

"No. All people are alike at heart. Clean thinking makes even the black man white within, dear."

Beth had not seen another colored person from that time until this. Therefore, she was a little doubtful about making up with the porter. But he proved so very genial that before night arrived, he and "little missy," as he called Beth, were so very friendly that he considered her his special charge.

That night both children slept as peacefully as if they had been in their own home.

In the morning, Beth was wakened by Marian pulling up the shade. A stream of sunshine flooded their berth, blinding Beth for a second or two. Snow and clouds had been left far behind.

"It's almost like summer," cried Beth, hastening to dress.

After breakfast, the porter, whose name Beth learned was "Bob," took her out on the back platform while the engine was taking on water. To the left of the train were five colored children clustered around a stump.

"Bob, how many children have you?" asked Beth, and her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Law, honey," and Bob's grin widened, "I ain't got any chillun. I'se a bachelor."

Beth stamped her foot. She could not bear deceit. "Bob, it's very wrong to tell stories. These children must be yours; they're just like you."

He laughed so heartily at the idea, that Beth feared his mouth never would get into shape again. "Ha, ha, ha. Dem my chillun! Ha, ha, ha. Law, honey, dem ain't mine. Thank de Lord, I don't have to feed all dem hungry, sassy, little niggahs."

"Well, Bob, if they're not yours, whose are they?"

"Dem's jes' culled chillun."

A whistle sounded, and the train was soon under way again. Beth ran to her mother.

"Mamma, there were a lot of little Bobs outside, but he says they are not his children-that they're just colored children."

Mrs. Davenport had a hard time making her understand that Bob had told the truth. Beth sat very still for a while by a window. Suddenly, she cried out:

"What are those little specks of white? They look like little balls of snow, only they can't be. It's too warm, and then I never saw snow grow on bushes."

"That is cotton."

Although the bushes were not in their full glory-only having on them a little of last year's fruitage that was not picked-Beth thought a cotton field a very pretty sight.

[Illustration: Beth thought a cotton field a very pretty sight. (Illustration missing from book)]

The pine trees of Georgia prove monotonous to most people, except that their perpetual green is restful to the eye in the midst of white sand and dazzling sunshine. Beth, however, liked even the pines, being a lover of all trees. They seemed almost human to her. She believed that trees could speak if they would. She often talked to them, and fondled their rough old bark. Children can have worse companions than trees. They were a great comfort to Beth all through life.

On the way through Georgia, the train was delayed by a hot box. While it was being fixed, Bob took Beth for a walk, and she saw a moss-laden oak for the first time.

"Oh, Bob," she cried, "I never before saw a tree with hair."

His hearty laugh broke out anew. "Ha, ha, ha. I'll jes' pull some of dat hair for you, missy," and he raised his great, black hand to grab the curling, greenish, gray moss.

"Don't, Bob," and when he gave her no heed, she added, "I'm afraid it'll hurt the tree. I know it hurts me greatly when any one pulls my hair."

He laughed more than ever at her, until Beth grew ashamed, and meekly accepted the moss that he piled up in her little arms.

The hot box so delayed the train that Jacksonville was not reached until the middle of the night.

Bob took a sleeping child in his arms, and carried her out to the bus.

"Good-bye, little missy," he murmured, before handing her to her father.

Her arms tightened around his neck while her eyes opened for a second.

"Don't leave me, Bob. I love you."

Then she did not remember anything more until she wakened in a strange room the next morning.

At first, she could not think where she was. Then it came to her that she was in a hotel in Jacksonville. She sprang out of bed, and ran to a window. The room faced a park, and afforded Beth her first glimpse of tropical beauty. Strange trees glistened in the glorious sunshine. From pictures she had seen, Beth recognized the palms, and the orange trees. Below, on the piazza, the band was playing "Dixie." Delighted as Beth was, she did not linger long by the window, but dressed as fast as she could.

Mr. Davenport entered the room.

"Do you know what time it is? It's fully eleven, and I was up at six this morning."

"At six, papa? What have you been doing?"

"I went down town, and then I drove far out into the country."

"Oh, why didn't you waken me and let me go?"

"I had business on hand. Come along down to the dining-room. Your mother had some breakfast saved for you. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise, papa? What is it?"

"It wouldn't be as great a surprise if I told you." This was all the satisfaction she received until after she had breakfasted.

"We're going for a drive," said Mr. Davenport as she came out of the dining-room.

"Is the drive the surprise, papa?"

"You'll know all in good time, Beth. You must have patience," he answered as he led the way out to the piazza.

"Get your hats, and bring Beth's with you," he said to Mrs. Davenport and Marian who were listening to the music.

"What do you think of that man and the rig?" asked Mr. Davenport of Beth, indicating a middle-aged negro who stood holding a bay mare hitched to a surrey.

Beth noted that the man looked good-natured. There were funny little curves on his face suggestive of laughter even when in repose. Jolly wrinkles lurked around his eyes. Beth saw two rows of pearly teeth though his mouth was partly hidden by a mustache and beard. His nose was large and flat. It looked like a dirty piece of putty thrown at haphazard on a black background. Beth, however, did not mind his homeliness.

"He's nice, and the horse is beautiful," she said.

"Then let's go down and talk to the man."

As Mr. Davenport and Beth walked to the side of the darky, he lifted his stovepipe hat that had been brushed until the silk was wearing away. He revealed thereby a shock of iron-gray wool. He made a sweeping bow.

"Massa, am dis de little missy dat yo' wuz tellin' 'bout? I'se powerful glad to meet yo', missy."

He was so very polite that even irrepressible Beth was a little awed. She hid halfway behind her father.

"This is January, Beth."

"What a very queer name," she whispered.

"It is queer, but you are in a strange land. For awhile you'll think you are in fairy-land. Everything will be so different. Do you want to stay with January while I go in to bring your mother?"

She nodded that she did. Mr. Davenport re?ntered the hotel. Beth seated herself upon the curbstone, and looked at the bay horse behind which she was soon to have the bliss of driving. She thought it about as nice a horse as she had ever seen. Her curiosity overcame her momentary shyness. "Is it your horse, January?"

He smiled. "No, 'deed, missy, but I raised her from a colt, and she loves me like I wuz her massa. Why, she runs to me from de pasture when I jes' calls, while she's dat ornary wid odders, dey jes' can't cotch her. It takes old January to cotch dis horse, don't it, Dolly?"

The horse whinnied.

"Is Dolly her name?"

"Dat's what I calls her, honey. It ain't her real name. Her real name--"

"Oh, has she a nickname, too? She's like me then. My name isn't really Beth."

"'Deed?" he asked with polite interest.

"It's Elizabeth, but I'm called that only when I have tantrums."

"What am dem, missy?"

"Well," she blushingly stammered, "I sometimes forget to be good, and then I can't help having them-tantrums, you know. Just like the little girl with the curl who, when she was bad, was horrid. January, are you ever horrid?"

He looked self-conscious. "Law, missy, I nebber tinks I am, but Titus 'lows I am, but he don't know much nohow."

Dolly whinnied again, which recalled Beth's thoughts to the horse. "Who owns Dolly, January?"

"Law, missy, didn't I tole yo' dat she 'longs to yer paw now?"

Beth was so excited that she jumped to her feet, and began to clap her hands.

Her antics made her parents and Marian smile as they came from the hotel.

"Mamma, she's our horse. January said so. Dolly, do you like me?"

Dolly pricked up her ears as if she understood, and whinnied.

"She wants some sugar," declared Beth, believing that she understood horse language. She took a stale piece of candy out of her pocket, and gave it to Dolly. This attention sealed a never-ending friendship between the two.

"Dolly's the surprise, isn't she?" asked Beth, running up to her father. He smiled enigmatically, and that was all the answer she received.

Meantime, January, hat in hand, was bowing with Chesterfieldian politeness to Mrs. Davenport and Marian.

"All aboard," cried Mr. Davenport.

"Let me sit with January," begged Beth.

Marian, also, expressed a like wish. The two children, therefore, scrambled up in front beside the driver, while Mr. and Mrs. Davenport took the back seat.

January sat bolt upright. His dignity fitted the occasion. His driving, however, worried Beth.

She loved to go fast. She knew no fear of horses. She would have undertaken to drive the car of Phaeton, himself, had she been given the chance. She had little patience to poke along, and that was exactly what Dolly did when January drove.

"Can't she go faster?" she asked.

"She don't 'pear to go very fast, does she?" said January mildly. "Missy Beth, yo' jes' wait until her racing blood am up, and den she'll go so fast, yo'll wish she didn't go so fast."

Beth had her doubts of this, and even of Dolly's racing blood. Its truth, however, was to be proven by a later experience which will be told in due course.

"Has Dolly really racing blood?" asked Marian. Although January was sitting so straight that it seemed impossible for him to sit any straighter, he stiffened up at least an inch.

"Racing blood? Well, I jes' 'lows she has. Onct she wuz de fastest horse in dis State or any odder, I reckon. She could clean beat ebbery horse far and near. Many's de race I'se ridden her in, an' nebber onct lost. My ole massa wuz powerful proud of us. Now he's gone, an' Dolly an' me's gettin' old."

"How old are you, January?"

"Powerful ole, massa. I reckon I'm nigh on a hundred."

"That's impossible," interrupted Mrs. Davenport. "When were you born?"

He scratched his head to help his memory. "Well, de truf is, Miss Mary"-he had heard Mr. Davenport call her Mary, and so from the start he addressed her in Southern style-"I can't say 'xactly, but I know I'se powerful old. I wuz an ole man when de wah broke out. I must have been 'bout-well 'bout twenty then."

"The war was only about forty years ago, January," broke in Marian, "and that would make you sixty now."

"I reckon, I'm 'bout dat." He had no idea of his age. The longer the Davenports knew him, the more they realized the truth of this. Sometimes he would make himself out a centenarian, and then, by his own reckoning, he was not out of his teens.

"Get up, Dolly," he cried. She paid no more attention to this mild command than she would have to the buzzing of a fly-probably not so much.

"Papa, may I drive?" asked Marian in her quiet way. Receiving consent, she took the reins. Dolly soon noticed a difference in drivers. Presently she went so fast, that she satisfied even Beth as to speed.

"Look at the river," cried Beth. They were driving under great, over-arching trees. To the right of them, between the openings of the trees, the glorious St. Johns was to be seen gleaming under the brilliant tropical sun.

"That's a beautiful hammock yonder," said Mr. Davenport.

Beth could see no hammock. There was a wonderful, intricate growth of shrubs, trees, and vines which formed an almost impenetrable mass of green, but no hammock.

"Where is it?" she asked. "It seems a very queer place for a hammock."

Mr. Davenport laughed at her, and explained that such a mass of green is called a hammock in Florida, not hummock as in the North.

Very soon they were past the swamps. The banks of the river grew higher and nice houses were to be seen on either side of the road.

Dolly, of her own accord, turned in at the gate of an unusually beautiful place. There are no fine lawns in Florida. In this case, the lack of such green was made up by a waving mass of blooming cardinal phlox, behind which was an orange grove in full bearing. In the well-cultivated grounds there were many inviting drives through avenues of trees.

"What are we going in here for?" asked Beth.

"Do you think it a pretty place?" returned Mr. Davenport.

"I never saw a prettier place. It's grand."

"Guess who owns it."

"How should I know? I don't know any people in Florida."

"You know the Davenports. They are to live here. I bought the place this morning."

Beth could hardly believe her father. He had, indeed, greatly surprised her. That she was to be a little Florida lady henceforth, hardly seemed possible. She thought she must be a fairy-story princess, and that the fairies were vying with one another in showering upon her the good things of life.

"I'm so happy, I don't know what to say or do. Why, if a good fairy offered to grant me three wishes, I shouldn't know what to ask. I have everything," declared Beth.

"There aren't any fairies, and you know it. So what's the use of talking about them," interrupted practical Marian.

"Mamma says our thoughts are the real fairies," returned Beth, nothing daunted, and added, "papa has given me plenty of good ones to-day."

"I was in great luck to secure this place," said Mr. Davenport. "It had just been put on the market as Mr. Marlowe, the former owner, was called North by the death of his wife. The agent brought me out this morning, and I was so delighted with it that I would look no farther. I found the title all right, and so I signed the papers at once."