Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 1

Little Ferns For f.a.n.n.y's Little Friends.

by f.a.n.n.y Fern.

PREFACE.

DEAR CHILDREN:--

Aunt f.a.n.n.y has written you some stories, which she hopes will please and divert you. She would rather have come to you, and _told_ them, that she might have seen your bright faces; but as that could not be, she sends her little book instead. Perhaps you will sometime come and see her, and _then_ won't we have a nice time telling stories?

Where do I live?

Won't you tell--certain true? Won't you tell Susy, or Mary, or Hatty, or Sammy, or Tommy, or even your pet Uncle Charley?

Oh, I _can't_ tell!

"If I tell it to one, she will tell it to two, And the next cup of tea, they will plot what they'll do; So I'll tell n.o.body, I'll tell n.o.body, I'll tell n.o.body; no--not I!"

f.a.n.n.y FERN.

LITTLE FERNS.

WHERE IS LITTLE NELLY?

She is not in the garden; I have searched under every bush and tree.

She is not asleep in the summer-house, or in the old barn. She is not feeding the speckled chickens, or gathering b.u.t.tercups in the meadows.

Her little dog Fidele is weary waiting for her, and her sweet-voiced canary has forgotten to sing. Has anybody seen my little Nelly? She had eyes blue as the summer heavens, hair like woven sunbeams, teeth like seed pearls, and a voice soft as the wind sighing through the river willows.

Nelly is not down by the river? No; she never goes where I bid her not.

She is not at the neighbors? No; for she is as shy as a wood-pigeon.

Where can my little pet be? There is her doll--(Fenella she called it, because it was so tiny,)--she made its dress with her own slender fingers, laughing the while, because she was so awkward a little dress-maker. There is her straw hat,--she made that oak-leaf wreath about the crown one bright summer day, as we sat on the soft moss in the cool fragrant wood. Nelly liked the woods. She liked to lie with her ear to the ground and make believe hear the fairies talk; she liked to look up in the tall trees, and see the bright-winged oriole dart through the branches; she liked to watch the clouds, and fancy that in their queer shapes she saw cities, and temples, and chariots, and people; she liked to see the lightning play; she liked the bright rainbows. She liked to gather the sweet wild flowers, that breathe out their little day of sweetness in some sheltered nook; she liked the cunning little squirrel, peeping slily from some mossy tree-trunk; she liked to see the bright sun wrap himself in his golden mantle, and sink behind the hills; she liked the first little silver star that stole softly out on the dark, blue sky; she liked the last faint note of the little bird, as it folded its soft wings to sleep; she liked to lay her cheek to mine, as her eyes filled with happy tears, because G.o.d had made the world so very fair.

Where _is_ our Nelly?

She is not talking with Papa?--no; he can't find her either. He wants to see her trip down the gravel walk to meet him when business hours are over, and he has nothing to do but to come home and love us. He wants her to ramble with; he wants that little velvet cheek to kiss when he wakes each morning.

Where is Nelly?

I am sure she loved Papa. It was she who ran to warm his slippers when his horse's feet came prancing down the avenue. It was she who wheeled the arm-chair to its nice, snug corner; it was she who ran for the dressing-gown; it was she who tucked in the pockets a sly bit of candy, that she had h.o.a.rded all day for "poor, tired Papa." It was she who laid her soft hand upon his throbbing temples, when those long, ugly rows of figures at the counting-room, had given him such a cruel headache. It was she who kneeled beside her bed and taught herself this little prayer. "Please, G.o.d, let me die before my Papa."

Where _is_ Nelly?

My dear little pets, the flowers shed dewy tears over her bright, young head long time ago. G.o.d _did_ "let her go before Papa," and then ... he took Papa, too. Here is a lock of raven hair, and a long, golden ringlet--all that is left of Nelly and Papa--but in that blessed land, where tears are wiped away, Aunt f.a.n.n.y knows her "lost are found."

LITTLE GEORGE'S STORY.

My Aunt Libby patted me on the head the other day and said, "George, my boy, this is the happiest part of your life." I guess my Aunt Libby don't know much. I guess _she_ never worked a week to make a kite, and the first time she went to fly it got the tail hitched in a tall tree, whose owner wouldn't let her climb up to disentangle it. I guess she never broke one of the runners of her sled some Sat.u.r.day afternoon, when it was "prime" coasting. I guess she never had to give her biggest marbles to a great lubberly boy, because he would thrash her if she didn't. I guess she never had a "hockey stick" play round her ankles in recess, because she got above a fellow in the cla.s.s. I guess she never had him twitch off her best cap, and toss it in a mud-puddle. I guess she never had to give her humming-top to quiet the baby, and had the paint all sucked off. I guess she never saved up all her coppers a whole winter to buy a trumpet, and then was told she must not blow it, because it would _make a noise_.

No--I guess my Aunt Libby don't know much; little boys have troubles as well as grown people,--all the difference is they daren't complain.

Now, I never had a "bran new" jacket and trowsers in my life--never,--and I don't believe I ever shall; for my two brothers have shot up like Jack's bean-stalk, and left all their out-grown clothes "to be made over for George;" and that cross old tailoress keeps me from bat and ball, an hour on the stretch, while she laps over, and nips in, and tucks up, and cuts off their great baggy clothes for me. And when she puts me out the door, she's sure to say--"Good bye, little Tom Thumb." Then when I go to my uncle's to dine, he always puts the big dictionary in a chair, to hoist me up high enough to reach my knife and fork; and if there is a dwarf apple or potatoe on the table, it is always laid on my plate. If I go to the play-ground to have a game of ball, the fellows all say--Get out of the way, little chap, or we shall knock you into a c.o.c.ked hat. I don't think I've grown a bit these two years. I know I haven't, by the mark on the wall--(and I stand up to measure every chance I get.) When visitors come to the house and ask me my age, and I tell them that I am nine years old, they say, Tut, tut! little boys shouldn't tell fibs. My brother Hal has got his first long-tailed coat already; I am really afraid I never shall have anything but a jacket. I go to bed early, and have left off eating candy, and sweet-meats. I haven't put my fingers in the sugar-bowl this many a day. I eat meat like my father, and I stretch up my neck till it aches,--still I'm "_little_ George," and "nothing shorter;" or, rather, I'm shorter than nothing. Oh, my Aunt Libby don't know much. How _should_ she? She never was a boy!

MATTY AND MABEL;

OR,

WHO IS RICH?--WHO IS POOR?

There, Puss! said little Matty, you may have my dinner if you want it.

I'm tired of bread and milk. I'm tired of this old brown house. I'm tired of that old barn, with its red eaves. I'm tired of the garden, with its rows of lilacs, its sun-flowers, and its beds of catnip and penny-royal. I'm tired of the old well, with its pole balancing in the air. I'm tired of the meadow, where the cows feed, and the hens are always picking up gra.s.s-hoppers. I wish I was a gra.s.s-hopper! I ain't happy. I am tired of this brown stuff dress, and these thick leather shoes, and my old sun-bonnet. There comes a nice carriage,--how smooth and s.h.i.+ny the horses are; how bright the silver-mounted harness glitters; how smart the coachman looks, in his white gloves. How nice it must be to be rich, and ride in a carriage; oh! there's a little girl in it, no older than I, and all alone, too!--a RICH little girl, with a pretty rose-colored bonnet, and a silk dress, and cream-colored kid gloves. See--she has beautiful curling hair, and when she puts her pretty face out the carriage window, and tells the coachman to go here, and to go there, he minds her just as if she were a grown lady. Why did G.o.d make _her_ rich, and _me_ poor? Why did he let _her_ ride in a carriage, and _me_ go barefoot? Why did he clothe _her_ like a b.u.t.terfly, and _me_ like a caterpillar?

Matty, come here. Climb into my lap,--lay your head upon my shoulder,--so.

Now listen. You are well and strong, Matty?--yes. You have enough to eat and drink?--yes. You have a kind father and mother?--yes. You have a crowing little dimpled baby brother?--yes. You can jump, and leap, and climb fences, and run up trees like a squirrel?--yes.

Well; the little girl with the rose-colored bonnet, whom you saw riding in the carriage, is a poor little cripple. You saw her fine dress and pretty pale face, but you didn't see her little shrunken foot, dangling helplessly beneath the silken robe. You saw the white gloved coachman, and the silver-mounted harness, and the soft, velvet cus.h.i.+ons, but you didn't see the tear in their little owner's soft, dark eyes, as she spied you at the cottage door, rosy and light-footed, free to ramble 'mid the fields and flowers. You didn't know that her little heart was aching for somebody to love her. You didn't know that her mamma loved her diamonds, and silks, and satins better than her own little girl.

You didn't know that when her little crippled limb pained her, and her heart ached, that she had "no nice place to cry." You didn't know that through the long, weary day, her mamma never took her gently on her lap,--or kissed her pale face,--or read her pretty stories, to charm her pain away,--or told her of that happy home, where none shall say, I'm sick. You didn't know that she never went to her little bed at night, to smooth her pillow, or put aside the ringlets from the flushed cheek, or kneel by the little bed, and ask the dear All Father to heal and bless her child. You didn't know that she danced till the stars grew pale, while poor little Mabel tossed restlessly from side to side, longing for a cool draught for her parched lip.

"You won't be naughty any more?"--that's a darling. And now remember, my dear little Matty, that money is not happiness;--that fine clothes and fine carriages are not happiness;--and that even this bright, beautiful world, with its birds, its flowers, and its suns.h.i.+ne, is dark without a loving heart to rest upon. Thank G.o.d for kind parents and a happy home, 'Tis _you_ who are _rich_, Matty; pray for _poor_ Mabel.

THE BABY'S COMPLAINT.

Now, I suppose you think, because you never see me do anything but feed and sleep, that I have a very nice time of it. Let me tell you that you are mistaken, and that I am tormented half to death, although I never say anything about it. How should you like every morning to have your nose washed _up_, instead of _down_? How should you like to have a pin put through your dress into your skin, and have to bear it all day till your clothes were taken off at night? How should you like to be held so near the fire that your eyes were half scorched out of your head, while your nurse was reading a novel? How should you like to have a great fly light on your nose, and not know how to take aim at him, with your little, fat, useless fingers? How should you like to be left alone in the room to take a nap, and have a great p.u.s.s.y jump into your cradle, and sit staring at you with her great green eyes, till you were all of a tremble? How should you like to reach out your hand for the pretty bright candle, and find out that it was way across the room, instead of close by? How should you like to tire yourself out crawling way across the carpet, to pick up a pretty b.u.t.ton or pin, and have it s.n.a.t.c.hed away, as soon as you begin to enjoy it? I tell you it is enough to ruin any baby's temper. How should you like to have your mamma stay at a party till you were as hungry as a little cub, and be left to the mercy of a nurse, who trotted you up and down till every bone in your body ached? How should you like, when your mamma dressed you up all pretty to take the nice, fresh air, to spend the afternoon with your nurse in some smoky kitchen, while she gossipped with one of her cronies? How should you like to submit to have your toes tickled by all the little children who insisted upon "seeing the baby's feet?" How should you like to have a dreadful pain under your ap.r.o.n, and have everybody call you "a little cross thing," when you couldn't speak to tell what was the matter with you? How should you like to crawl to the top stair, (just to look about a little,) and pitch heels over head from the top to the bottom?

Oh, I can tell you it is no joke to be a baby! Such a thinking as we keep up; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to get our brains knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a sensible baby, who is in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait to grow up.

LITTLE FLOY;

OR,