Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 4

people are so fond of hearing "something new," that they can't make up their minds to turn their backs upon him; so they sit, and smile, and listen, till he has nothing more to tell, and then they draw down their faces, and tell him he "_ought not to talk so_!"--just as if Mr. "They Say" didn't see that they were perfectly delighted with him? Certainly, he goes off laughing in his sleeve to think they suppose him such a fool.

Mr. "They Say" is a very great traveler. It is astonis.h.i.+ng how much ground he can get over without the help of steamboats, cars, stages, or telegraph wires. He may be found in a thousand places at once--in every little village in the United States--in every house and shop and hotel and office. _Editors_ are very fond of Mr. "They Say." They always give him the best chair in the office, for he is an amazing help to them. In fact, it is Aunt f.a.n.n.y's opinion, that their newspapers would die a natural death without him. To be sure, he sometimes gets them into shocking sc.r.a.pes with his big fibs; but they know how to twist and turn out of it.

Yes, Mr. "They Say" is a cowardly liar! He couldn't look an honest man straight in the eye, any more than he could face a cannon ball. He would turn as pale as a snow-wreath, and melt into nothing just about as quick.

Oh! Aunt f.a.n.n.y knows all about him. So when he comes on _her_ track, she looks straight at her inkstand, and minds her own business. She knows that nothing plagues the old fellow like being treated with perfect indifference. _That's_ the way to kill him off!

THE LITTLE MARTYR.

How brightly the silver moon s.h.i.+nes in that little bow window! Let us peep in. What do you see? A little girl lies there sleeping. She is very fair--tears are upon her cheeks--she sighs heavily, and clasps a letter tightly to her little bosom.

She is young to know sorrow. Life's morning should be all suns.h.i.+ne;--clouds come at its noon and eve.

Listen! some one glides gently into Nettie's room. It is a very old lady, but her form is drawn up as straight as your own, though her face is seamed with wrinkles and her hand trembles with age. She is stern and hard-featured. Should you meet her anywhere you would feel a chill come over you, as if the bright sun were clouded. You never would dare to lay your head upon her lap, and you would not think of kissing her, any more than you would a stone post.

See! she creeps up to Nettie's bed, and a heavy frown gathers on her wrinkled face as she spies the letter on her bosom. Now she draws it from between the child's fingers, reads it, mutters something between her closed teeth, and then burns it to cinders in the candle; then she shakes her head, and frowning darkly at little Nettie, glides, spectre-like, out of the room.

The same bright moon s.h.i.+nes in at a window in the city. It is past midnight, but a lady sits there, toiling, toiling, toiling, though her lids long ago drooped heavily, and the candle is nearly burned to the socket. _Why_ does she toil? Why does she sigh? Why does she get up and walk the floor as if afraid that sleep may overtake her?

Ah! a mother's love never dies out. That lady is Nettie's mother. She has something to work _for_;--she is trying to earn money enough (cent by cent) to bring home, and clothe and feed that poor little weeping, home-sick Nettie, who cried herself to sleep, with her mother's letter hugged to her bosom.

The old lady whom you saw burning Nettie's letter, was her grandmother.

She was very jealous of Nettie's mother, because her son (Nettie's father,) loved her so well; and after he died she revenged herself upon her, by giving her all the pain she could. She promised if Nettie would come and live with her to be kind to her; and as Nettie's mother and little sister Ida hadn't enough to eat, Nettie had to go and live with the old lady. She cried very hard, and her mother cried too, and so did Nettie's little sister Ida; but the old lady promised that Nettie should come often and see them, and that they should come and see her.

But she only said so to get Nettie away. After she got her she was very unkind to her, and used to tell her that her mother "was a foolish woman--not fit to bring her up"--and when Nettie got up to leave the room, because she couldn't bear to hear her talk against her dear mother, the old lady would shake her, and bring her back, and sit her down on the chair so hard as to make her cry with pain, and then force her to hear all she had to say.

You may be sure that all this made poor little Nettie feel very miserable. She had nothing to amuse her; she wasn't allowed to drive hoop, because it was "boy's play;" she wasn't allowed to go to walk, for fear she would "wear her shoes out;" she wasn't allowed to read story-books, for fear she "wouldn't study;" she wasn't allowed to play with dolls, because "it was silly;" she mustn't go visiting, because "it wasn't proper;" she mustn't have a playmate come to see her, because "it made a disturbance;" she couldn't have a kitten, because "animals were a nuisance;" she mustn't talk to her grandmother, because "little girls must be seen and not heard." So she sat there, like a little automaton, and watched the clock tick, and counted the times her grandmother put on and took off her spectacles, and thought of her mother and little sister till she bit her finger nails so that they bled.

Once in a great while, when Nettie had worried her self nearly sick, she got leave to go and see her mother. Then her grandmother always put on her worst clothes, to try to make her ashamed to go, and when she found that Nettie didn't care for her clothes, if she could only see her mother, she scolded and fretted and worried her, and gave her so many charges to come home at a particular hour, else she should be punished, that poor Nettie didn't enjoy her visit at all, but would start and turn pale every time she heard a clock strike, and get so nervous as to bring on a bad headache; and then, when she got home, the old lady would say that it was just like her mother to make her sick, and that she shouldn't go again.

Perhaps you'll ask if Nettie's mother never went to see her. You know it costs money to go in the cars, and Nettie's mother had no money, though she tried hard to earn it. Once in a while she could save up cents enough to carry her there; but she always had to carry something in her pocket for little Ida and herself to eat, for the old lady wouldn't offer them even a gla.s.s of water, because she didn't want them to come and see Nettie.

When they got there poor little Nettie would meet them at the door, with a troubled, frightened look upon her face; and without speaking a word, would lead them through the entry by the hand into her own little room; then she'd close the door, and after looking timidly about the room, jump into her mother's lap and kiss her hands and face, and cry and laugh, and hug little Ida; and Ida and her mother would cry too, and then Nettie would ask, sobbing, "if her mother hadn't earned money enough yet to take her away," and say that she'd rather starve with her mother, than live there, she was so wretched. And Nettie's mother would kiss her, and soothe her, and tell her how late she sat up toiling to get money; and then Nettie would cry for fear her mother would get sick, and then they'd all kiss each other, and almost _wish_ that G.o.d would let them die (then) just as they were--_together_.

Again the silver harvest-moon s.h.i.+nes down upon the silent city. Through a curtained window its rays fall softly upon a bed, where lies a lady sleeping. See! she smiles! _What! Nettie's mother smile?_ Ah, yes; for _Nettie's_ golden head is pillowed on her breast. Nettie's loving arms are twined about her neck. G.o.d is good;--the "barrel of meal" does not fail, nor the "cruse of oil." Well may Nettie's mother smile, now that all she craves on earth is in her clasping arms.

SELFISH MATTHEW.

Such a selfish boy as Matthew was! You wouldn't have given a fig to play with him. He had carpenters' tools and books, and chequers and chess, and drawing materials, and b.a.l.l.s and kites, and little s.h.i.+ps and skates, and snow-shovels and sleds. Oh! I couldn't tell you _all_ he had, if I talked a week.

Well, if you went in of a Sat.u.r.day afternoon to play with him, he'd watch all these things as closely as a cat would a mouse; and if you went within shooting distance of them, he'd sing out,--"D-o-n-'t; t-h-a-t-'s m-i-n-e!" Of course it wasn't much fun to go and see him.

You'd got to play everything he wanted, or he'd pout and say he wouldn't play at all. He had slices of cake, that he had h.o.a.rded up till they were as hard as his heart; and cents, and dimes, and half dimes, that he used to handle and jingle and count over, like any little miser. All the beggars in the world couldn't have coaxed one out of his pocket had they been starving to death.

Then Matthew was such a cry-baby. I love a _brave_ boy. He'd go screaming to his mother if he got a scratch, as if a wild tiger were after him; and if you said anything to him about it, he'd pout, and stick out his lips so far that you might have hung your hat on 'em! It was like drawing teeth to get him to go across the room to hand you a newspaper. He ought to have had a little world all to himself, hadn't he?

Well, I used to pity him--there was nothing child-like about him. He always seemed to me like a little wizzled-up, miserly old man. He never tossed his cap up in the air, and laughed a good hearty laugh; he never sprang or ran, or climbed or shouted; no--he crawled round as if he had lead weights on his heels, and talked without scarce moving his lips, and wore a face as long as the horse's in your father's barn. _Such_ a boy as he was! Had he been mine I should have tried to get some life into him somehow.

When his mother was told of his faults, she'd say, "Oh, he'll out-grow them by and by." I knew better. I knew that his selfishness would grow as fast as he did; and that when he came to be a man, he would be unfeeling to the poor, and make hard bargains with them, and wring the last penny out of their poor, threadbare pockets.

Poor Matthew! he'll never be happy; no--he never'll know the luxury of making a sad face bright, or of drying up the tear of the despairing; and when he dies he can't carry his money _with_ him--he has got to leave it at the tomb door,--and who, do you suppose, will come there to mourn for him?

Oh, dear children, be _generous_--if you haven't but half a stick of candy, give _somebody_ a bite of it. Perhaps some child will say "But I haven't anything _to give_." That's a mistake; that boy or girl isn't living who has nothing to give. Give your sympathy--give pleasant words and beaming smiles to the sad and weary-hearted. If a little child goes to your school who is poorly clad, patched, darned; nay, even ragged;--if the tear starts to his eye when your schoolmates laugh, and shun, and refuse to play with him--just you go right up and put your arms round his neck; ask him to play with _you_. _Love him_;--love sometimes is meat and drink and clothing. You can all love the sad and sorrowful. Then never say you have "_nothing to give_."

CITY CHILDREN.

I wonder where all the little children are? I can't find any here in New-York. There are plenty of young gentlemen and ladies, with little high-heeled boots, and ruffled s.h.i.+rts, who step gingerly, carry perfumed handkerchiefs, use big words, talk about parties, but who would be quite at a loss how to use a hoop or a jump rope--little pale, candy-fed creatures, with l.u.s.treless eyes, flabby limbs, and no more life than a toad imbedded in a rock,--little tailor and milliner "lay figures," stiff, fine and artificial.

No; there are no little _children_ here. I'm very sorry;--I love little children. I used to know some once, with broad, full chests; plump, round limbs; feet that knew how to run, and hands that could venture to go through an entry without drawing on a kid glove,--blithe, merry little children, who got up and went to bed with the sun; who fed on fresh, new milk, and stepped on daisies, and knew more about b.u.t.ter-cups and clover blossoms, than parties and fas.h.i.+ons,--little guileless children, who danced and jumped and laughed for the same reason the birds sing--_because they couldn't help it_,--who didn't care any more than the birds, whether their plumage was red, green, yellow or brown, so that they could dart and skim and hop where they liked, warble when they had a mind, and fold their wings where they pleased, when weary. But _these_ little city hot-house plants, s.h.i.+vering, shrinking, drooping--I had almost said _dying_, every time the wind blows--it quite makes my heart ache.

I think I must go hunt up their mammas, and beg them to give their little sensitive plants more air and suns.h.i.+ne, to make them hardy. Dear me! the mammas here are never at home. Some are in the great ladies'

saloon (bright with gilding and mirrors,) in Broadway, sipping red "cordial," eating sugared wine drops and French cakes, and chattering with the gentlemen; some are at Madam Modeste's, planning a new ball dress, and talking about feathers and fas.h.i.+ons; some are looking at a set of diamonds at the jewellers; and some are still in bed, although it is high noon, because they danced themselves so weary last night.

So, poor little things, I suppose you must stay in your heated nurseries, bleaching like potato sprouts in a dark cellar, till Molly or Betty think best to let you out. Well, Aunt f.a.n.n.y would be _so_ glad to tie a little sun-bonnet on your head, put on a dress loose enough to run in, and take you off into the country a while. She'd show you little cups and saucers, made of acorns, that would beat all they have in the Broadway toy-shops, (and cost you nothing, either); and soft, green seats of moss, embroidered with little golden flowers, much handsomer than any the upholsterer could put in your mamma's drawing room, (and which never fade in the sunlight); then she'd show you a pretty picture of bright green fields, where a silver stream goes dancing through, where little fish dart beneath, where the heated cattle come to drink, and the little birds dip their wings, then are off and away!

Oh, such merry times as we'd have! I know where the purple geranium grows; where the bright scarlet columbine blushes, and where the pale wax plant hides under its glossy green leaf. I know where the blue eyed anemone blossoms; I know where the bright lobelia nods its royal scarlet head; (I know how to pull off my shoes and wade in after it, too); and I know how to make a wreath of it for your pretty little head. Oh, I know how to make your eyes s.h.i.+ne--and your little heart happy. So tie on your sun-bonnet, and come with me,--the more the merrier. I don't believe your mammas will ever know you, when I bring you back.

ROSALIE AND BETTY.

Everybody called Rosalie a beauty. Everybody was right. Her cheeks looked like a ripe peach; her hair waved over as fair a forehead as ever a zephyr kissed; her eyes and mouth were as perfect as eyes and mouth could be; no violet was softer or bluer than the one, no rose-bud sweeter than the other. All colors became Rosalie, and whatever she did was gracefully done.

Yes, everybody thought Rosalie was "a beauty." _Rosalie thought so herself._ So, she took no pains to be good, or amiable, or obliging.

She never cared about learning anything, for she said to herself, I can afford to have my own way; I can afford to be a dunce if I like; I shall be always sought and admired for my pretty face.

So, Rosalie dressed as tastefully as she and the dress-maker knew how, and looked _up_ to show her fine eyes, and _down_ to show her long eye-lashes, and held up her dress and hopped over little imaginary puddles, to show her pretty feet; and smiled to show her white teeth; and danced to show her fine form--and was as brilliant and as brainless as a b.u.t.terfly.

Now, I suppose you think that Rosalie was very happy. Not at all! She was in a perfect fidget lest she should not get all the admiration she wanted. She was torturing herself all the while, for fear some prettier face would come along, and eclipse hers. If she went to a party and every person in the room (but one) admired her, she would fret herself sick, because _that one_ didn't bow down and wors.h.i.+p her.

Never having studied or read anything, Rosalie could talk nothing but nonsense; so, everybody who conversed with her, talked nonsense, too, and paid her silly compliments, and made her believe that all she needed to make her _quite_ an angel was a pair of wings; and then she would hold her pretty head on one side, and simper; and they would go away laughing in their sleeves, and saying, "What a vain little fool Rosalie is!"