Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 2

_Now_, Harry, _what a pity_!--and my pocket handkerchiefs all in the wash, too! That's right--laugh;--now I'll tell you a story.

I've been to the State Prison to-day, and I almost wish I hadn't gone--such a sick feeling came over me when I saw those poor prisoners.

Oh, Harry! how pale and miserable they looked, in those ugly, striped clothes, with their heads closely shaven, working away at their different trades, with a stout man watching them so sharply, to see that they didn't speak to each other; and some of them very young, too.

Oh, it was very sad. I almost felt afraid to look at them, for fear it would hurt their feelings, and I longed to tell them that my heart was full of pity, and not to get discouraged, and not to despair.

Such little, close cells as they sleep in at night,--it almost stifled me to think of it,--and so dismal and cheerless, too, with an iron door to bolt them in. On Sunday they stay in their cells nearly all day, and some of the cells are so dark that they cannot see even to read the Bible allowed them: and there they lie, thinking over, and over, and over, their own sad thoughts. So you can't wonder that they dread Sunday very much, and are very glad to be put to hard work again on Monday, to get rid of thinking.

Then we saw them march into dinner--just like soldiers, in single file, with a guard close beside them, that they should not run away. I suppose they were very glad to eat what was laid on those wooden plates, but you or I would have gone hungry a long while first. In fact, I think, Harry, that PRISON _food_ would choke me any how, though it were roast turkey or plum pudding. I'm quite sure my _gypsey_ throat would refuse to swallow it.

Then we went into the Hospital for the sick prisoners. It is hard to be sick in one's own home, even, with kind friends around; but to be sick in a _prison_!--to lie on such a narrow bed that you cannot toss about,--to bear, (beside your own pain and misery,) the moanings of your sick companions,--to see through the grated windows the bright, blue sky, the far off hills, and the silver streams threading the green meadows,--to be shut in from the fresh breeze, that would bring you life and health,--to pine and waste away, and think to die, without one dear hand to press yours lovingly--_oh, Harry_!

One of the sick prisoners had a little squirrel. The squirrel was a prisoner, too. He was in a cage--but then sometimes he was let out; and to please me, the door was opened for him. _Didn't_ he jump? poor squirrel! He had no soul--so he wasn't as miserable as his sick keeper; but I'm mistaken if he wouldn't have liked a nut to crack, of _his own finding_ in some leafy wood, where the green moss lies thickly cus.h.i.+oned, and the old trees serve him for ladders!

On a bench in the Hospital was seated a poor, sick black-boy.

"Pompey's" mother was a very foolish mother. She had always let him have his own way. If he cried for anything he always got it, and when he was angry and struck people, she never punished him for it; so Pompey grew up a very bad boy, because his mother never taught him to govern his temper. So one day he got very angry, and did something that sent him to the State Prison, where I saw him. And he grew sick staying so long in doors, and now he was in a consumption--all wasted away--with _such_ hollow cheeks, that it made the tears come to my eyes to look at him. Oh how glad I was when the keeper told me that _next Sunday_ his time would be up, so that he could go out if he liked. The keeper said, "He had better stay there, because they could take good care of him, and he had no friends." I guess the keeper didn't think that poor Pompey had rather crawl on his hands and knees out to the green fields, and die alone, with the sweet, fresh air fanning his poor temples, than to stay with all the doctors in the world in that tomb of a prison.

Harry! I wanted so much to go and shake hands with Pompey, and tell him how happy it made me to know that he was going to get out next Sunday, and that I hoped the sun would s.h.i.+ne just as bright as _ever it could_, and all the flowers blossom out on purpose for _him_ to see; and then I hoped that when his heart was so full of gladness he would feel like _praying_; and then I hoped no cruel, hard-hearted person would point at him and say, "That is a State Prison boy," and so make his heart all hard and wicked again, just as he was trying to be good.

And now, Harry, shake hands with me, and "make up." You know if poor Pompey hadn't got so angry, he wouldn't have been in prison; and as for Aunt f.a.n.n.y, she must learn to be as polite as a French woman, and never laugh again when you burn your mouth with a "hasty plate of soup."

"LITTLE BENNY."

So the simple head-stone said. Why did my eyes fill? I never saw the little creature. I never looked in his laughing eye, or heard his merry shout, or listened for his tripping tread; I never pillowed his little head, or bore his little form, or smoothed his silky locks, or laved his dimpled limbs, or fed his cherry lips with dainty bits, or kissed his rosy cheek as he lay sleeping.

I did not see his eye grow dim; or his little hand droop powerless; or the dew of agony gather on his pale forehead; I stood not with clasped hands and suspended breath, and watched the look that comes but once, flit over his cherub face. And yet, "little Benny," my tears are falling; for, _somewhere_, I know there's an empty crib, a vacant chair, useless robes and toys, a desolate hearth-stone, and a weeping mother.

"Little Benny!"

It was all her full heart could utter; and it was enough. It tells the whole story.

A RAP ON SOMEBODY'S KNUCKLES.

It is very strange my teacher never says a kind word to me. I am quite sure I say my lessons well. I haven't had an "error" since I came to school six months ago. I haven't been "delinquent" or "tardy." I have never broken a rule. Now there's Harry Gray, that fat boy yonder, with the dull eyes and frilled s.h.i.+rt-collar, who never can say his lesson without some fellow prompts him. He comes in half an hour after school begins, and goes home an hour before it is done, and eats pea-nuts all the time he stays; he has all the medals, and the master is always patting him on the head, and smiling at him, and asking him "if the room is warm enough," and all that; I don't see through it.

My dear, honest, conscientious, unsophisticated little Moses! if you only knew what a rich man Harry Gray's father was; what nice old wine he keeps in his cellar; how easy his carriage cus.h.i.+ons are; what nice nectarines and grapes ripen in his hot house; and how much "the master"

is comforted in his inner and outer man thereby, you'd understand how the son of such a nabob couldn't be anything but an embryo "Clay," or "Calhoun," or "Webster,"--though he didn't know "B from a buzzard."

Are you aware, my boy, that your clothes, though clean and neat, are threadbare and patched?--that your mother is a poor widow, whom n.o.body knows?--that no "servant man" ever brought your satchel to school for you?--that you have positively been seen carrying a loaf of bread home from the grocer's?--and that "New Year's day" pa.s.sed by, without your appropriating any of your mother's hard earnings to make "a present" to your disinterested and discriminating teacher? How can you be anything but the dullest and stupidest boy in the school? It is a marvel to me that "the master" condescends to hear you recite at all.

Stay a bit, Moses; don't cry; hold on a while. If your forehead tells the truth, you'll be President of the United States by and by. Then, "the master" (quite oblivious of Harry Gray,) will go strutting round, telling all creation and his cousin, that _he had the honor of first teaching your "young ideas how to shoot!_"

Won't that be fun? Oh, I tell you, Moses! f.a.n.n.y has seen some strange specimens of human nature. Still she tells you, (with tears in her eyes,) that the Master above is the "friend of the friendless;" and _you_ must believe it too, my little darling, and wait, and _trust_.

LITTLE FREDDY'S MUSINGS.

Wish my mamma would please keep me warm. My little bare legs are very cold with these lace ruffles; they are not half as nice as black Jim's woolen stockings. Wish I had a little pair of warm rubbers. Wish I had a long-sleeved ap.r.o.n, for my bare neck and arms. Wish I might push my curls out of my eyes, or have them cut off. Wish my dress would stay up on my shoulders, and that it was not too nice for me to get on the floor to play ninepins. Wish my mamma would go to walk with me sometimes, instead of Betty. Wish she would let me lay my cheek to hers, (if I would not tumble her curls, or her collar.) Wish she would not promise me something "very nice," and then forget all about it.

Wish she would answer my questions, and not always say, "Don't bore me, Freddy!" Wish when we go out in the country, she wouldn't make me wear my gloves, lest I should "tan my hands." Wish she would not tell me that all the pretty flowers will "poison me." Wish I could tumble on the hay, and go into the barn and see how Dobbin eats his supper. Wish I was one of those little frisky pigs. Wish I could make pretty dirt pies. Wish there was not a bit of lace, or satin, or silk, in the world. Wish I knew what makes mamma look so smiling at Aunt Emma's children, (who come here in their papa's carriage,) and so very cross at my poor little cousins, whose mother works so hard and cries so much. Wish I knew what makes the clouds stay up in the sky, and where the stars go in the day time. Wish I could go over on that high hill, where the bright sun is going down, and just touch it with my finger.

Wish I didn't keep thinking of things which puzzle me, when n.o.body will stop to tell me the reason for anything. If I ask Betty, she says, "Don't be a fool, Master Freddy!" I wonder if I am a fool? I wonder if Betty knows much herself? I wonder why my mamma don't love her own little boy? I wonder when I'm grown a man, if I shall have to look so nice all the time, and be so tired of doing nothing?

ONLY A PENNY.

Now I am going to tell you a story about little Clara. Those of you who live in the city will understand it; but some of my little readers may live in the country, (or at least I hope they do,) where a beggar is seldom seen; or if he is, can always get of the good, nice, kind-hearted farmer, a bowl of milk, a fresh bit of bread, and liberty to sleep in the barn on the sweet-scented hay; therefore, it will be hard for you to believe that there is anybody in the wide world with enough to eat, and drink, and wear, who does not care whether a poor fellow creature starves or not; or whether he lives or dies.

But listen to my story.

One bright, sunny morning I was walking in Broadway, (New-York,) looking at the ladies who pa.s.sed, in their gay clothes--as fine as peac.o.c.ks, and just about as silly--gazing at the pretty shop windows, full of silks, and satins, and ribbons, looking very much as if a rainbow had been s.h.i.+vered there--looking at the rich people's little children, with their silken hose, and plumed hats, and velvet tunics, tip-toeing so carefully along, and looking so frightened lest somebody should soil their nice clothes--when a little, plaintive voice struck upon my ear--

"Please give me a penny, Madam--_only_ a penny--to buy a loaf of bread?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: ONLY A PENNY.]

I turned my head: there stood a little girl of six years,--so filthy, dirty--so ragged, that she scarcely looked like a human being. Her skin was coated with dust; her pretty curly locks were one tangled ma.s.s; her dress was fluttering in strings around her bare legs and shoeless feet--and the little hand she held out to me for "a penny," so bony that it looked like a skeleton's. She looked so very hungry, I wouldn't make her talk till I had given her something to eat; so I took her to a baker's, and bought her some bread and cakes; and it would have made you cry (you, who were never hungry in your life,) to see her swallow it so greedily, just like a little animal.

Then I asked her name, and found out 'twas "Clara;" that she had no papa; that while he lived he was very cruel, and used to beat her and her mother; and that now her mother was cruel too, and drank rum; that she sent little Clara out each morning to beg,--or if she couldn't beg, to steal,--but at any rate to bring home something, "unless she wanted a beating."

Poor little Clara!--all alone threading her way through the great, wicked city--knocked and jostled about,--_so_ hungry--_so_ tired--_so_ frightened! Clara was afraid to steal, (not because G.o.d saw her--for she didn't know anything about _Him_,) but for fear of policemen and prisons--so she wandered about, hour after hour, saying pitifully to the careless crowd, "Only a penny--_please_ give me a penny to buy a loaf of bread!"

Yes--Clara's mother was very cruel; but G.o.d forbid, my little innocent children, that you should ever know how hunger, and thirst, and misery, may sometimes turn even that holy thing--a _mother's love_--to bitterness.

Poor Clara! she had never known a better home than the filthy, dark cellar, where poor people in cities huddle together like hunted cattle; her little feet had never pressed the soft, green meadows; her little fingers had never plucked the sweet wild-flowers; her little eyes had never seen the bright, blue sky, save between dark brick walls. Her little head often pained her. She was foot-weary and heart-sore; and what was worse than all, she had never heard of heaven, "where the weary rest." Wasn't it very pitiful?

Well, little Clara kissed my hand when she had eaten enough--(it was so odd for _Clara_ to have _enough_)--and her sunken eyes grew bright, and she said--"Now I shall not be beaten, because I've something left to carry home;" so she told me where she lived, and I bade her good bye, and told her I would come and see her mother to-morrow.

The next day I started again to find little Clara's mother. I was _very_ happy going along, because I meant, if I could, to get her away from her cruel mother; to make her clean and neat; to teach her how to read and spell, and show to her that the world was not _all_ darkness--not _all_ sin, and tears, and sorrow; and to tell her of that kind G.o.d who loves _everything_ that He has made. So as I told you I was very happy,--the sun looked so bright to me--the sky so fair,--and I could scarcely make my feet go fast enough.

Turning a corner suddenly, I met a man bearing a child's coffin. I cannot tell you _why_ I stood still--why my heart sank like lead--why I could not let him pa.s.s, till I asked him what little form he was bearing away,--or why my heart told me, before he answered, that it was my poor little Clara.

Yes--it was she! I was too late--_she_ was in the little coffin! No hea.r.s.e--no mourners--no tolling bell! Borne along--unnoticed--uncared for--through the busy, crowded, noisy, streets. But, dear children, kind Angels looked pitying down, and Clara "hungers no more--nor thirsts anymore--neither shall the sun light on her, nor any heat."