The sixth of July had arrived, and little Miss New York was fidgeting nervously in her chair—draped with the Star Spangled Banner and the flaunting colors of the Dutch Republic—placed in line with the hostess and the receiving party of the day. She was a rather startling Miss New York, arrayed as a Goddess of Liberty—she had claimed she was too modern to be a vrouw—with her chair as well as her small person hung with placards of well-known places, streets, and buildings of the metropolis.

By her side stood Madame New Amsterdam—Mrs. Van Vorst—whose multitudinous skirts stood out from her figure with such amplitude that she resembled the quaint little green pincushion that dangled from her waist. Her neat white cap was tied under her chin with formal stiffness, while a large silk apron completed a make-up that transformed the slender, dignified Mrs. Van Vorst into a typical Dutch matron. She too, like her daughter, was hung with tiny white signs from bodice to skirt, which excited curiosity if not admiration.

“Oh, Mother, I do wish they would hurry and come!” cried Miss New York impatiently, craning her neck to see if some one had not yet appeared on the broad stairway leading to the main sitting-room. “Oh, somebody’s coming!” and the little lady, with the weight of a city on her shoulders, drew back as she clapped her hands with delight.

“Ah, here comes the Governor’s lady,” exclaimed Madame New Amsterdam as Madame Stuyvesant—Mrs. Morrow—announced her coming by stopping on the threshold of the low-ceiled room, and bowed with such stately formality that Miss New York’s eyes suddenly stilled, as she stiffened with similar dignity to receive the first guest.

The Governor’s lady was followed by Annetje Jans, her comely little person looking like a blooming Dutch posy, arrayed in a bright green petticoat and a blue waistcoat with yellow sleeves. The brown eyes, ready smile, and brilliant cheeks of Miss Nathalie made her a fitting representative of the little lady who formed so large a part of the history of New Amsterdam, coming over in 1630 in the ship Endracht with her husband and three children from Holland. After the death of her husband, who left her a bouwerie (farm) of sixty acres, a good part of New York, she married Dominie Bogardus, thus becoming with her wealth and influence a dominant character in the colony.

Annetje came a few steps forward, and then bobbed such a low curtsy that the wings of her lace cap flapped out like the sails of a windmill in a greeting to her hostesses. But in a second her old-time pose was forgotten, as her eyes fell on the much “be-signed” person of the lady of the house, and she flew to her aid, declaring that she was losing some of her signs.

“This will never do,” she commented as she hurriedly pinned the sign “Bouwerie” in its place. “Oh, and here’s another old place that’s gone astray!” poking “Der Halle” on a straight line with its neighbor, “De claver Waytie.”

“Will you please inform me why New Amsterdam is thus placarded?” It was the voice of the Governor’s lady, who was curiously watching this adjustment of signs.

“Why, these signs are the Dutch names of the different localities and streets as named in the days of New Amsterdam,” explained Annetje quickly. “See. Broad street means Broad way; Kloch-Hoeck was the site of the first village, as it was all covered with bits of clam and oyster shells, the word means Shell Point. De claver Waytie was a hill leading to a spring covered with grass, where the young maidens used to bleach their linen. The path they wore up the hill came to be known as Maadje-Paatje, Maiden Lane. Der Halle was the name of a tavern near a big tree on the corner of Broad and Wall Street. It took the arms of six men to go round der groot tree.

“Here is Cowfoot Hill, the old cow-path up the hill, Canoe Place, where the Indians used to tie their canoes, and Catiemuts is the hill where the Indians had built their castle. Collect means a dear little lake near-by, yes, and here’s the Boston Highway, here’s the Stadt-Huys, the town hall. Graft was a ditch crossed by a bridge; De Smits Vlye was an old blacksmith shop near the ferry to Long Island. Vlacke was the grazing ground for the cows, now the City Hall Park. De Schaape Waytie was the sheep pasture—”

“Annetje Jans,” exclaimed Madame Van Stuyvesant at this point, with a solemn face, “do you expect me to remember all those Dutch names? Verily, child, you have improved your time and twisted your tongue.” But Annetje was off, for at that moment she spied another arrival, one of the Orioles, and as the sprightly dominie’s widow was to act as mistress of ceremonies, she was soon by her side, as she stood hesitatingly in the doorway.

“How do you do, Mutter. Oh, but you do look fine!” cried Nathalie as her keen eyes noted the broad appearing figure with hair pushed straight back under a close fitting cap, short petticoat and gown displaying her wooden sabots. The mutter was knitting industriously, like a typical Dutch vrouw, as she talked to Annetje and told of the woes that attended the getting up of her make-up.

Annetje now led the new arrival to the line waiting to welcome her. “Allow me to present to you Catalina de Trice, the mutter of New York, having been the first woman to land on that famous little isle.”

“Yes,” added the mutter with a stiff little bow to the grand Dutch dames receiving her with stately courtesy, “I came over in the first ship, the Unity, sent by the West India Company to the settlement, and I have the added distinction,” another quaint bob, “of being the mother of the first white child born in New Amsterdam, Sara Rapelje.”

Catalina had no time to continue her family history for Annetje had hurried her to Miss New York, a little lady in whom all the Pioneers were greatly interested. She was next shown a table in the rear of Nita, holding a ship encrusted with silver frosting to represent snow, and bearing the words, “Half-Moon.” On the deck of this famous craft was the miniature figure of a man, which Nathalie explained, was intended for the discoverer who had named the river Hudson after himself. Back of the ship were small sized rocks with the sign, “Great Rocks of Wiehocken,” which Annetje declared needed no explanation.

A few feet away was a large windmill guarded by a demure little serving-maid who was no other than Carol. With her flower-blue eyes and corn-colored hair hanging in two braids from under her cute little cap she was a miniature Dutch vrouw. Catalina was now invited to pull one of a number of gay-colored streamers that flew with the windmill as it buzzed rapidly around.

To the girl’s surprise, as she gave a quick pull to a ribbon, a card dropped from one of the sails. It was painted with a gaudy red tulip with an appropriate verse on Holland’s national posy. Catalina, on being told to keep it, pinned it to her bodice, and then hurried with Annetje to receive the guests standing at the door, the two girls being the oldest representatives of the Dutch colony.

The new comer proved to be Tryntje Jonas, alias Barbara Worth. She was made known to the hostess as the mother of Annetje, and as the first nurse and woman doctor in the settlement. Her skirt was of true linsey-woolsey, from which hung an immense pincushion. With her glasses and her knitting-bag on her arm she looked duly professional as she paid her respects to the Dutch vrouw with stately dignity.

A sweeping curtsy and Madame Kiersted, Annetje’s daughter, otherwise Grace Tyson, was telling with pride of the part she had played as Indian interpreter, when the officials of the town were making a treaty with the Indians. She was well-versed in the Algonquin language, she explained, as she had played with little Indian children from the time she was a wee lassie.

She told, too, how she had signed a petition and presented it to the councillors, begging that the good vrouws be permitted to hold a market day. This petition was granted, and market day was held thenceforth on Saturdays, when the dames of the colony were permitted to offer their wares for sale on the Strand near her home. Furthermore, the Madame stated she had a shed built in her back yard, so that the Indian squaws could make brooms and string wampum, which they, too, sold on market day. From a little bag she now produced a wampum belt, explaining that it was made of twisted periwinkle shells strung on hemp. A blue clam-shell was also brought forth, which had been punctured with holes and which was called sewant; these two shells at that time constituting the currency of the colony.

But the Indian’s friend had gone and in her place stood a grande dame, the famous Madame Van Cortland, generally known in the olden days as “the maker of a stone street.” Madame, when inquiry was made, said she had been born in Holland, but came to the dorp to marry her lover, Captain Oloff Van Cortland. “We lived in a very grand house for those times, for it was made of glazed brick and had a sloping roof with a gable turned towards the street, after the manner of the ‘Patria,’” she added with pompous gravity. “There were steps leading to the roof, too, so when it rained or snowed the water could run into a hogshead in the yard instead of on my neighbor’s sidewalk or head. The house was furnished in a grand style, all the furniture came from Holland, and in front of it was a little stoop with two side benches and a door with an enormous brass knocker.”

“But the stone street, Madame?” inquired Madame New Amsterdam, who seemed greatly interested in these little stories of the people and doings of the city whose name she bore.

“Cobbles,” corrected Dame Van Cortland. “You see, it was this way. My husband, the captain, resigned from the militia and went into the brewing business. He built a brewery on Brower Street near the Fort, one of the first lanes made by the settlers. But alas,” sighed Madame ruefully, “when my husband’s brewery wagons made their way over the lane they raised so much dust and dirt that I begged my better half to pave it with stones. He laughed at me, as was his wont, and the dust and dirt grew thicker on the lane. Driven desperate, I now marshaled my servants to the lane, and we laid it with small, round cobblestones. I won my way as well as fame, for the little stone street was the first of its kind in the dorp, and was regarded with much curiosity by the burghers.”

Annetje, now spying two more comers, flew to welcome them and the grande dame of Manhattan Isle was forgotten, as an ancient little lady appeared with silver curls peeping from beneath a cap of rare old lace, a rustling silk crossed with a kerchief, and a chatelaine hanging from her girdle. She bowed with quaint grace before the ladies, as Madame Killiaen Van Rensselaer, otherwise known as, “The Lady of the Thimble.”

“Yes,” spoke the little old lady, who by the way was a Bob White, and who had studied her part with due diligence, “I was the first woman to wear a gold thimble. I was seated at my work one day with an ivory thimble, big and cumbersome, on my fingers, the kind ’tis claimed the tailors use. A young friend of mine to whom I had rendered some slight service was at work in his shop just across the lane. He spied my thimble, and, being a goldsmith, then and there vowed that on my birthday I should receive a gift. ’Tis needless to say that this vow was fulfilled, for the young man presented me with a gold thimble on that day, which he had made with the wish that I would wear his finger-hat as a covering to a diligent and beautiful finger.”

A comely Dutch matron with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks was now bowing in sprightly manner before the hostess. By her pose she was immediately recognized as Lillie Bell, who indeed was just the one to personate the fair and bewitching “Lady of Petticoat Lane,” alias Polly Spratt, Polly Prevoorst, and Polly Alexander. The fair Polly was the recognized social leader of New York in the days when coasting down Flattenbarack Hill, or skating on the Collect with a party of lads and lassies as merry as herself gained her the name of a hoyden. Always the bonniest, the merriest lass at a wedding or dance, the acknowledged leader of her set, counting her suitors by the score, it was not to be wondered when she became a matron at seventeen. As a widow of twenty-six she assumed control of her husband’s business, building a row of offices in front of her house. She, too, built a stone street, Marketfield Lane, thus inciting her neighbors to do the same. Hence, the brick walks that now came into fashion called Strookes.

The keeper of a shop, the maker of a stone lane, the owner of a wonderful coach, Madame’s fame as a beauty and a social leader, added to her shrewdness, her ingenuity, and sprightly intelligence, won her an influence in the more weighty matters of the town, gaining her the title of “My Lady of Petticoat Lane.” Undoubtedly it also won her another husband, as when the pinter flower was in bloom, pretty Polly married Mr. James Alexander, one of the most distinguished gentlemen of the times.

But on they came, the Pioneer Girls, as Dutch matrons or maidens, impersonating those famous pioneer women, who not only were the bone and sinew of old New York, but who were the progenitors of some of its most distinguished men in the days that followed. Katrina de Brough, who lived in a fine stone house on Hanover Square, was a most suitable example of the housewife of the day. Her days were spent in planting her garden, culling her simples, distilling her medicines, and many other well-known crafts of the times.

Judith Varleth had gained the name of the “witch maiden,” having been arrested and imprisoned in Hartford, Connecticut, when quite a young girl. Whether her beauty or her Dutch tongue brought this dire calamity upon her is not known, but the witch maiden was duly released and returned to her home by her brother, and in a few years disposed of her unfortunate name by marrying a gallant gentleman by the name of Col. Nicholas Bayard.

Margaret Hardenbroeck not only won a husband, Captain Patrus de Vries, a wealthy ship-owner, but won fame as well. On the death of her husband she continued his business, and established a line of ships, the first packet line that crossed the Atlantic. Her ability as a business woman evidently won her not only fame, but a husband, for she soon married again, a Mr. Frederick Phillipse, and in later days became the owner of the Phillipse Manor, so well known during the days of the Revolution.

Cornelia Lubbetse became Mrs. Johannes de Beyster, while her daughter Marie, the wife of three husbands, became known as the wealthiest woman in the settlement. She was also noted for her industry, filling a great kos (chest) with beautiful linen tied in packages with colored tape and marked by herself at the time of her first marriage. She also carried on a thrifty business trading with ships between New Amsterdam, Connecticut, and Virginia, as well as being the mother of “The Lady of Petticoat Lane,” who married a younger brother of her third husband.

Anna Stuyvesant, Rachel Hartjers, and Madame Van Corlear were all in due turn presented to the hostess, as well as Grietje Janssen, who was known in the old days as a double-tongued woman, having won fame as being the gossip of the burgh.

But the merry chatter and low-pitched laughter of these would-be historic maidens was suddenly stilled, as a strange, grotesque figure was seen in the doorway gazing at the assembled company with an odd little smile on its bedaubed face.

A murmur of surprise and astonishment caused eyes and mouths to open in curious wonder, as Annetje, although as bewildered as her neighbors, made her way to the door to welcome the unknown intruder.

As Nathalie approached the uncouth, blanketed savage it emitted a strange sound; some claimed it was a grunt, while others said it was a groan. The girl stared a moment in startled inquiry and then a smile parted her lips, which was quickly repressed as in a quick glance she noted the eyes heavily underlined with black paint, the brown dyed skin, the red patched cheeks much besmeared with grease, and the black snake-like strings of hair that straggled from beneath a derby hat, several sizes too small for the head.

As the redskin strode with measured gait to the ladies, the painted lips opened, and an excellent imitation of an Indian warwhoop broke forth with startling intensity. Little Miss New York jumped nervously, Madame New Amsterdam started back in surprise, but Mrs. Morrow and Nathalie burst into laughter as they both cried, “Why—it’s Edith!”

Yes, it was the Sport, who seeing she was the sensation of the moment took off her derby hat and with a low bow to hostesses, in guttural tone exclaimed, “No, me no Edith, me Indian squaw from Mana-ha-ta!”

This unexpected announcement created no little astonishment, and the girls flocked around her with exclamations of wonder and surprise. As they began to ply her with questions she cried triumphantly, “Ah, girls, I fooled you that time, for I guess you had all forgotten about the Indian women of Manhattan, who always wore their husband’s hats.”

“Oh, girls,” cried Nathalie quickly, “the joke is on me, for I had forgotten, as Edith says, all about these Indian squaws.”

“Edith, it was clever of you to remember,” now interposed the Governor’s lady, “and your get-up too, is very good.” She gazed with keen eyes at the girl’s deerskin robe, fringed at the sides, with its embroidered bodice, and the rows of colored beads that decorated her neck and her brown bedaubed arms. “But Edith,” she continued, “can’t you tell us something about these squaws?”

The girl looked somewhat dismayed for a moment; perhaps the sudden recollection of the last time she had faced her companions, the shame she had felt, and the punishment that had been meted out to her, caused the flush that showed even beneath her paint and grease.

“Why—I—oh, I don’t think there is much to tell,” she faltered. But encouraged by a nod from Mrs. Morrow she continued, “Lillie Bell lent me Washington Irving’s History of New York. It tells how Peter Minuit purchased the island from the Indians—the Dutch people called them Wilden—and where the bargain was made. It was close to a little block house inside a palisade of red cedars very near the traders’ hut in a place called Capsey, the place of safe landing. Washington Irving claimed that the name, ‘Manhattan,’ came from a tribe of Indians whose squaws always wore their husband’s hats, but I never knew that Indians wore hats, so I suppose it is just one of his jokes.”

There was a general laugh at Edith’s sally, and then the girls broke into loud applause. Perhaps they, too, were doing a little thinking and were anxious to show Edith that the deeds of the past were forgotten in her well-doing.

Annetje, after marshaling her forces, now led the girls through the quaint Dutch room to show them the many relics of past days. The wide-throated fireplace with its gay-colored tiles—still in a state of good preservation—with their queer scriptural figures, each picture with the number of the text in the Bible that told its story, awakened great interest.

Mahogany tables, queer little sideboards, and curiously carved chairs next claimed their attention, while the slaap-bauck, a funny little closet built in the side walls of the room, its shelf covered with a mattress, and with folding doors to open at night for a guest bed, won special favor.

A flowered tabby cloth, a foot-warmer, and an old chest called a kos, and which Nathalie declared was similar to the one that the industrious Marie de Peyster had filled with linen, was regarded with much awe. A nutwood case, a wardrobe called a kasten—filled with old Dutch costumes, grimy and moth-eaten—divided honors with a beautiful old cupboard with glass doors, displaying rare old blue and white Delft, said to have come from Holland years and years ago.

But curios pall in time, and so the girls were not at all reluctant to follow their hostesses into the quaint old kitchen, gayly decorated with the orange and blue of the Dutch Republic. Here, many exclamations of admiration escaped them when they saw the long table in the center of the room, with its bloom of hyacinths, gillyflowers, narcissus, daffodils, and tulips, all reminders of the little beau-pots that adorned the window sills, or peeped from the flower patches in front of the gable-roofed houses in the days of the first settlers.

Embowered in this floral display was a huge silver bowl hung with tiny silver spoons. This was the caudle dish, the inseparable accompaniment of feast gatherings or when the kinder were christened. From the hot, spicy odor that emanated from this relic of Dutch festivity the girls knew it held something good.

But there was no more time to admire, for it was now discovered that a flower was tied with daintily colored ribbon to the back of each chair. Recognizing that they were intended for place-cards, the girls flew hurriedly around the table trying to find the flower that matched the one on the cards they had received from the windmill.

Mrs. Van Vorst, typifying the first Dutch settlement in the New World, now cordially welcomed her guests with a few appropriate words. She was followed by Nita, who, standing on the platform of her chair, recited a greeting in Dutch—a little thing that Nathalie had taught her—with quaint precision, while her eyes twinkled humorously.

The edibles were now served, the little serving-maid being Carol assisted by Peter attired as a herdsman in low-heeled shoes, brass buckles, gray stockings, and with a twisted cow’s horn hanging from his shoulder.

Roasted oysters served with hot split biscuits tempered with butter were the first course. Then came salmon À la Hollandaise and patriotic crabs, so called because the settlers declared that they were the color of the flag of the Prince of Orange. Frankfurters now appeared, so deliciously prepared that the Pioneers barely recognized their hike stand-by, served with carrots and turnips garnished with parsley. Green salad now followed with the caudle served from the silver bowl, each girl ladling this particular Dutch dainty, piping hot, into her own china cup.

The goodies were jellies, custards, oly krecks—sometimes called doughnuts because of the tiny nut in the center—krullers, izer-cookies, or waffles, syllabubs, and many other toothsome sweets. All of these viands were greatly enjoyed, not only because they were of Dutch renown, but because they were eaten, as their Director declared in memory of the goede vrouven who helped their goede men to lay the first stones of the great city of New York.

Every one was at their merriest when Annetje Jans, who had suddenly grown unduly restive, arose in her chair and holding her caudle cup high proposed a toast to Madame New Amsterdam, Mrs. Van Vorst, their hostess!

Immediately glasses were touched to the lady so honored, who in return proposed a like honor for Madame Stuyvesant, Mrs. Morrow, the Director of the Girl Pioneers of America. Little Miss New York was now honored, who, as she bowed in response to the loud clapping that followed her name, passed the honor on to her friend, Miss Nathalie Page, in Dutch, Madame Annetje Jans.

There was more applause in appreciation of Nita’s tribute, although her voice was low and tremulous with timidity at speaking before so many. But when Nathalie rose on her feet to reply, the clapping grew so vociferous that the color deepened her cheeks to a more vivid pink.

But she stood her ground, and as the teasing girls wearied of clapping she spoke. There was a slight tremor in her voice, but she went steadily on, and after expressing in the name of the Pioneers the great pleasure it had given them to meet the daughter of their hostess, voiced their desires in asking Miss Nita to join with them in their endeavors to imitate the sterling qualities of the early pioneer women, and to become a Girl Pioneer of America!