Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 5

Now, Rosalie's cousin Hetty was as plain as a chestnut-bur. She had not a single pretty feature in her face. n.o.body ever thought of calling Hetty a beauty, and _she knew it_! She was used to being overlooked; but she didn't go whining round and making herself unhappy about it,--not she. She just put her mind on something else. She studied, and read books, and learned a great many useful things; so, she had a great deal in her mind to think of, and went singing about as happy as could be, without minding whether anybody noticed her or not.

So she grew up sweet-tempered, amiable, generous and happy. When she went into company, strangers would say, "What a plain little body Hetty is." If they could not find anybody else to talk to, they'd go speak to her. Then Hetty would look up at them with one of her quiet smiles, and commence talking. She would say a great many very sensible things, and some queer ones, and they would listen--and listen--and listen--and by and by look at their watch and wonder what _had_ made time fly so; and then go home, wondering to themselves _how they could ever call such an agreeable girl as Hetty "homely_."

So you see, everybody learned to love her when they found out what a _beautiful soul_ she had; and while Rosalie was pining and fretting herself sick because her beauty was fading, and her admirers were dropping off one by one, to flatter prettier faces, Hetty went quietly on her way, winning hearts and----_keeping them, too_.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

How many of my little readers have seen the Crystal Palace, in New-York? Those of you who have, can skip these pages, while I talk to some of your little bright-eyed country cousins, who have never been there.

You know, my dear little daisies, that poor city children, who have to walk on brick pavements, and breathe bad air, ought to have something by way of a sugar plum, now and then, to make up for it. So, you mustn't pout because _they_ have seen the Crystal Palace, and _you_ have not.

You know John Bull got up a Crystal Palace in England, some time since, to which people of all nations sent articles of their own making,--not to sell, but to show the great crowd who came to look at them what they could do when they tried. It was a grand thing, because it made them anxious to finish off everything in the best possible manner; and as many of the articles were very useful, it did a great deal of good.

Then, it brought thousands of people to see it, and that made Adam's sons and daughters better acquainted, and more sociable, and happier; so, it was a very excellent thing on that account.

Well, you know that we Americans are a very smart people, (ask your grandfather if we are not,) and we made up our minds that we would show John Bull, and Sandy, and Pat, a Crystal Palace of our own; and when an American says he will do a thing--it is done!

So, I was not at all astonished at what I saw last night;--such a beautiful building,--such a splendid gla.s.s roof--such a blaze of light, (for it was evening) my eyes were almost put out! I couldn't begin to tell you all the pretty things there were in it, but if you wish to know what I wanted more than anything else, it was a little marble statue (I suppose you would call it "an image") of a sleeping child. It had the prettiest, plumpest little dimpled limbs, you ever saw, and such an innocent little cherub face; I wanted to catch it up and run away with it.

There were a great many very beautiful statues there, some of which would have made you cuddle very close up to your mother, and hold her hand very tight; for instance, one statue representing a dead mother with a live baby lying on her breast, and a great, strong eagle fastening its claws in the little baby to carry it off. And then, there was a statue of an enormous bear, giving a poor man _such_ a hugging--squeezing the very life out of him; he wouldn't have had to squeeze you at all to kill you, for the very sight of such a grizzly monster would have scared you to death in an instant.

Then there was a gla.s.s case full of swords, and dirks, and daggers, and all sorts of instruments to kill people; and you would have been as glad as I was, had you seen them hanging up there so harmlessly, instead of making widows and orphans, on the battlefield.

Then, there were beautiful pianos with silver keys, and rich sofas, and bedsteads, and chairs, and tables, and bureaus; and pretty, tempting work-boxes, full of all sorts of knick-knacks to tempt ladies to be industrious; and such dainty little writing desks!--oh, I can tell you, it was very hard work not to covet those.

Then the diamonds, and amethysts, and emeralds, and pearls, and rubies, fit for a queen's diadem;--they flashed in my eyes till I was almost blind--but I would rather have had that little image of the sleeping baby than the whole of them.

Then there were silks, and satins, and gauzes, and embroideries, and worsted jackets, and tippets, and gloves, and shoes fit for Cinderella.

Then there were dolls, (boys and girls) dressed up to show off the fas.h.i.+ons. I should be sorry to see you finified up so. Then, there was a beautiful baby's cradle, lined with soft, white satin, with a rich lace curtain, fit for Queen Victoria's baby, or your mother's; and a tiny little robe and cap lying near it, delicate as a lily leaf.

Then there was a tall wax lady dressed in deep black, (black eyes too) to show off the mourning goods; and between you and me, I think she _mourned_ quite as much as a great many persons who put on black.

Then there was a pyramid of perfumery--done up in bottles--enough to sweeten the handkerchiefs and dispositions of all the young ladies in New-York.

Then there were silver and gold tea-sets, and dishes and trays, and knives and forks, for rich ladies who like to be tied to a bunch of keys, and sleep with one eye open.

Then there were beautiful pictures, which many a poor artist had toiled and sighed over, and which I should like to give him a good bag of money for, and then hang them up in my parlor. Pictures are such pleasant, quiet company.

Then there were a great many machines, and instruments, and engines, of much importance, which grown up people would be interested in, but which I will not describe to you.

Well, these pretty things I have told you about were not all on the lower floor of the Palace. No; part of them were in the galleries. You could sit there and look down below upon the great statue of General Was.h.i.+ngton on horseback; upon Daniel Webster; and then, upon the Lilliputians that were walking around looking at them; then, you could shut your eyes and listen to the music, and fancy you were in some enchanted region, for it was quite like a fairy tale, the whole of it.

KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY.

I am an old maid. Perhaps I might have been married. Perhaps not. I don't know as that is anybody's business.

I have a little room I call my own. There's a bedstead in it covered with a patched quilt, made of as many colors as "Joseph's coat," and an old-fas.h.i.+oned bureau with great claw feet, and a chair whose cus.h.i.+on is stuffed with cotton batting; a wash-stand, a table, and a looking-gla.s.s over it. At the side of the looking-gla.s.s is a picture of Daniel Webster, which I look at oftener than in the looking-gla.s.s--for I am an ugly old maid, and Daniel was one of a thousand.

Old maids like to have a good time, as well as other folks; so, I don't shut myself up moping in my little salt-box of a room. When the four walls close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,) sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all three;--sometimes I stay all night.

Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to me and slips a d.i.c.ky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say nothing.

I have lately made the acquaintance of a new family, by the name of Tompkins; and very pleasant people they are, too. They have a whole house full of children,--not one too many, according to my way of thinking. Louisas and Jennys, and Marthas and Marys, and Tommys and Johnnys, besides a little baby that its mother has never had time to name.

I love to watch little children. I love to hear them talk when they don't think I am listening. I love to read to them and watch their eyes sparkle. I love to play with them, and walk with them. They are often much pleasanter company than grown people--at least, so Kizzy thinks.

But that is only an old maid's opinion.

I hadn't visited at the Tompkins' long, before I noticed that little "Luly," as they called her, was one by herself; that is, she was not a favorite with the rest of the family. At first I didn't understand how it was, and I felt very much like saying I didn't like it; for Luly seemed to be a nice little girl, and playful as a little kitty. She was always laughing, singing, and dancing--now in at one door, and now out at the other, like a will-o'-the-wisp, or a jack-o'-lantern. Why on earth they didn't like Luly, I couldn't see. Being an old maid, of course I couldn't rest easy till I found out the reason of this; and I soon did it, as you'll see, if you read on to the end of my story.

One day Luly came to me saying, "Tell me a story, there's a good Kizzy, I am tired of running round."

Well, I knit to my seam needle, and then I took her up on my lap and began:

Once there was a little girl whose name was Violetta. She had never kept still five minutes since she was born, and I suppose the shoemakers were very glad of it. She was as much like a little squirrel as a little girl could be--nibbling and scampering, scampering and nibbling, from sunrise to sunset.

When Violetta came into the room, everybody looked uneasy. If her papa was writing, he'd lay one hand over his papers, and push his ink-stand as far as possible into the middle of the table; mamma would catch up her work-basket and put it in her lap; her little brothers and sisters would all scrabble up their playthings, and run; even the little baby would crawl on its hands and knees as fast as it could, and catch hold of its mother's gown.

You might be sure if you laid a thing out of your hand, you never would find it in the same spot where you left it, if Violetta were in the room. She would run off with your scissors, your bodkin, your needlebook, and your spool of cotton; she would stuff your handkerchief in her pocket by mistake; she'd break the strings of your bag, trying to open it; she'd try your spectacles on to her kitten, and tie your new tippet on the dog Ponto's neck.

Then she would run into the kitchen and dip her fingers into the preserves, and upset the egg-basket, and open the oven door and let the heat all out when the pies were baking, and leave the cover off the sugar bucket, and dip into the milk to feed her kitty, and disturb the cream, and nibble round a loaf of fresh cake, just like a little mouse.

Well, of course everybody disliked her, and hated to see her come where they were. She never got invited anywhere, because nothing was safe from her little Paul Pry fingers; and when company came she generally got sent out of the room. It was a great pity, because she was really a pretty little girl, and a very bright one, too.

"Oh, Miss Kizzy," said Luly, "I never will do so any more, I----"

Why, Luly, I didn't say _you_ did so; I was talking about Violetta.

"Oh, but it is just like _me_," said the honest little girl; "I have done all those things, Miss Kizzy--every one of them; but I didn't think it would make everybody hate me. I want to be loved, Miss Kizzy; but you don't know how dreadful hard it is for a little girl to 'keep still.'"

Yes I do, Luly; and you needn't "keep still," as you call it, but you mustn't meddle with what don't belong to you. I see how it is: you are a very active little girl, and want something to do all the time. I'll ask your mother to let you go to school--(Luly frowned)--to me, Luly!

"Oh, that's so nice," said Luly. "Don't get a bench--will you? Don't make me set up straight. Don't make me fold up my hands and keep my toes still, will you, Miss Kizzy?"

Well, Luly came to my school, and stood up or sat down, just as she liked. She was the only scholar I had, so I was not particular about that; but after she had learned to read, she would "keep still" for hours together without minding it, if you'd only give her a book.

Poor little Luly; she didn't _mean_ to be naughty; she only wanted something to do. She is one of the best little girls now that ever carried a satchel.

NEW-YORK IN SHADOW.