Little Ferns For Fanny\'s Little Friends
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14 [Illustration: LITTLE NELLY.]
THIRTY-FIRST THOUSAND.
LITTLE FERNS
FOR
FANNY'S LITTLE FRIENDS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"FERN LEAVES."
WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY FRED M. COFFIN.
AUBURN AND BUFFALO:
MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN.
1854.
Published first in England by International Arrangement with the
American Proprietors, and entered at Stationers' Hall.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-three, by DERBY AND MILLER, In the Clerk's Office
of the District Court of the Northern District of New-York.
STEREOTYPED BY
DERBY AND MILLER,
AUBURN.
TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER
THESE
"Little Ferns"
ARE
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
"They reckon not by months, and years
Where she hath gone to dwell."
Transcriber's Note: The stanza of poetry quoted in SCOTT FARM is from
_The Reaper and The Flowers_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. This same
stanza, with a slight variation, can be found in _Woman's Endurance_, by
A. D. L., B.A., Chaplain in the Concentration Camp, Bethulie, O.R.C.,
Project Gutenberg EText-No. 16859. The complete poem, again with a
slightly different first stanza, can be found in _The Complete Poems
of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project
Gutenberg EText No. 1365.
PREFACE.
DEAR CHILDREN:--
Aunt Fanny 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 nobody,
I'll tell nobody,
I'll tell nobody; no--not I!"
FANNY FERN.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
WHERE IS LITTLE NELLY? 11
LITTLE GEORGE'S STORY 14
MATTY AND MABEL; OR WHO IS RICH!--WHO IS POOR! 16
THE BABY'S COMPLAINT 20
LITTLE FLOY; OR, TEARS AND SMILES 22
THE LAKE TRIP; OR, GOING A FISHING 27
"MILK FOR BABES" 30
THE LITTLE "MORNING GLORY" 33
THE CHARITY ORPHANS 35
DON'T GET ANGRY 37
"LITTLE BENNY" 42
A RAP ON SOMEBODY'S KNUCKLES 43
LITTLE FREDDY'S MUSINGS 45
ONLY A PENNY 47
A LITTLE BOY WITH A BIG HEART 52
MAY MORNING 56
THE LITTLE DANDELION MERCHANT 59
WALTER WILLET 61
CHILDREN, DID YOU EVER HEAR OF MR. "THEY SAY!" 66
THE LITTLE MARTYR 69
SELFISH MATTHEW 75
CITY CHILDREN 78
ROSALIE AND HETTY 81
THE CRYSTAL PALACE 84
KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY 89
NEW-YORK IN SHADOW 94
HATTY'S MISTAKE 100
MIN-YUNG 104
TOM, THE TAILOR 108
BETSEY'S DREAM 114
SCOTT FARM 119
A TRUE STORY 126
THE LITTLE EMIGRANTS 131
ALL ABOUT THE DOLANS 136
FRONTIER LIFE; OR, MITTY MOORE 141
UNCLE JOLLY 151
A PEEP UNDER GROUND--THE RAFFERTYS AND THE ROURKES 157
"BALD EAGLE;" OR, THE LITTLE CAPTIVES 162
A STREET SCENE 171
LETTER FROM TOM GRIMALKIN TO HIS MOTHER 177
WHAT CAME OF AN OMNIBUS RIDE, AND "ONE PULL TO
THE RIGHT!" 180
LITTLE GERTRUDE'S PARTY 188
FERN MUSINGS 195
CRAZY TIM 200
CICELY HUNT; OR, THE LAME GIRL 206
THE LITTLE TAMBOURINE PLAYER 214
THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT 223
BLACK CHLOE 229
A PEEP FROM MY WINDOW 235
THE BOY PEDLAR 239
THE NEW COOK 242
LETTY 250
FRONTIER STORIES 260
A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS 268
THE ENGLISH EMIGRANTS 276
NEW-YORK SUNDAY 282
THE BOY WHO LIKED NATURAL HISTORY 288
KNUD IVERSON 292
CHILDREN IN 1853 296
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
LITTLE NELLY FRONTISPIECE.
ONLY A PENNY 47
HATTY'S MISTAKE 100
UNCLE JOLLY 151
CRAZY TIM 200
LETTY 250
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 buttercups 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 God 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 hoarded 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, God, 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. God _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 Fanny 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 Saturday 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 class. 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 cocked 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 grass-hoppers. I wish I was a grass-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 shiny 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
God 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
butterfly, 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 cushions, 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 sunshine, is dark
without a loving heart to rest upon. Thank God 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 pussy 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 button or pin, and have it snatched
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 apron, 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,
TEARS AND SMILES.
It was a very hot morning in August, when little Floy stopped to look
in at a city fruiterer's window. There were bright golden apples, nice
juicy pears, plump bunches of grapes, luscious plums and peaches, and
mammoth melons. In truth, it was a very tempting show, to a little
girl, who lived on dry bread and milk, and sometimes had not enough of
that. It was not, however, of herself that Floy was thinking, as the
tears started to her large blue eyes, and she pushed back her faded
sun-bonnet, and looked wistfully at the "forbidden fruit."
Floy once lived in a beautiful house in the country, with her papa and
mamma. Grand old trees stood guard round the house, like so many
sentinels, and many a little bird slept every night in the shadow of
their drooping branches. Near the house was a pretty pond, with
snow-white ducks, sailing lazily about, and two little spaniels--named
Flash and Dash--who were as full of mischief as little magpies. Then
there were three horses in the stable, and two cows, and hens and
chickens, and a bearded nanny-goat, besides a little pink-eyed rabbit,
who darted about the lawn, with a blue ribbon around his snowy neck.
The trees in the orchard drooped to the ground with loads of rosy
apples, and long-necked pears, and tempting plums and peaches; the
garden bushes were laden with gooseberries raspberries, and currants,
(red and white,) while under the broad green leaves the red ripe
strawberry nestled.
Those were happy days for little Floy. How she rode the horses to the
spring, using their manes for a bridle!--how she ran through the
fields, and garlanded herself like a little May Queen!--how she sprang
at night to meet Papa, who tossed her way up high above his dear curly
head!
* * *
_Now_, though it was sultry midsummer, Floy lived in the hot, stifled
city, up four pairs of stairs, in a room looking out on dingy brick
walls, and gloomy black sheds. Her mamma was dressed in black, and
looked very sad, and very tired; bending all day over that tiresome
writing desk. Sometimes she looked up and smiled at Floy; and then Floy
wished she had not smiled at all--it was so unlike the _old_ smile her
face used to wear in dear papa's life-time. Floy became very tired of
that close room. There were no pretty pictures on the walls, like those
in Floy's house in the country; the chairs were hard and uncomfortable,
and little Floy had nothing to amuse her. Mamma couldn't spare time to
walk much, and Floy was not allowed to play on the sidewalk, lest she
might hear naughty words, and play with naughty children. Mamma's pen
went scratch--scratch--scratch--from sunrise till sunset,--save when
she took a turn across the floor to get rid of an ugly pain in her
shoulders, from constant stooping. Floy was weary of counting the
bricks on the opposite wall,--weary of seeing the milkman stop at seven
o'clock, and the baker at nine,--weary of hearing the shrill voice of
Mrs. Walker, (below stairs,) of whom mamma hired her room. Still Floy
never complained; but sometimes when she could bear the monotonous,
dull stillness no longer, she would slide her little hand round her
mamma's waist, and say, "Please, Mamma, put up that ugly pen, and take
me on your lap."
Floy was always sorry when Christmas, and New Year, and Thanksgiving
came round; because it made mamma's eyes so red and swollen, and
because she was such a little girl that she couldn't tell how to
comfort her. She longed to grow up a big lady, that she might earn some
money, so that mamma needn't work so hard; and it puzzled her very much
to know what had become of mamma's old _friends_, who used to ride out
so often to their pretty country house, in papa's lifetime, to eat
strawberries, and to drink tea. She was quite sure she had met some of
them once or twice, when mamma had taken her out to church--but somehow
they didn't seem to see either mamma or Floy.
Floy was very careful of her two dresses, for fear they would get
soiled, (ever since she woke one night, and found mamma washing them
out, when she was hardly able to hold her head up.) She was afraid,
too, that mamma often wanted the bread and milk she made Floy eat; and
only said "she wasn't hungry," because there wasn't enough for her, and
Floy, too.
Well, my dear children, it was the thought of all these things that
sent the warm tears to Floy's bright eyes, as she looked in at the
fruiterer's window that hot August morning.
* * *
Two years have gone by. It is August again. The sky is cloudless--the
birds are singing--and little Floy's tears are all dried up. Her cheeks
are plump and rosy; she has plenty to eat now; and another pair of
shoes, when she has danced her toes out of those she has on. And
mamma?--why, she can sit whole hours with her hands folded, if she
likes, and go to sleep whenever she feels tired; for she has earned
plenty of money for herself, and little Floy, too. Floy is glad of
this, because mamma smiles now, and looks happier--and because all her
old friends, who forgot all about her when she was poor, are so
_delighted_ now whenever they meet her. Floy thinks it is very nice all
round. Dear, innocent little Floy!
THE LAKE TRIP;
OR,
GOING A FISHING.
Oh! Aunty, it has done raining! The sun is shining _so_ brightly; we
are going to the Lake to fish--Papa says so--you and Papa, and Bell,
and Harry, and Emma, and Agnes, and our dog Bruno.
Of course, Aunty, who was always on hand for such trips, wasn't five
minutes springing to her feet, and in less than half an hour Pat stood
at the door with the carriage, (that somehow or other always held as
many as wanted to go, whether it were five, or forty-five;) "Papa"
twisting the reins over hats and bonnets with the dexterity of a Jehu;
jolt--jolt--on we go, over pebble stones--over plank roads--past
cottages--past farms--up hill and down, till we reach "the Lake."
Shall I tell you how we tip-toed into the little egg-shell boats? How,
after a great deal of talk, we all were seated to our minds--how each
one had a great fishing rod put into our hands--how Aunty, (who never
fished before,) got laughed at for refusing to stick the cruel hook
into the quivering little minnows used for "bait"--and how, when they
fixed it for her, she forgot all about moving it round, so beautiful
was the "blue above, and the blue below," until a great fish twitched
at her line, telling her to leave off dreaming and mind her
business--and how it made her feel so bad to see them tear the hook
from the mouth of the poor fish she was so UN-lucky as to catch, that
she coaxed them to put her ashore, telling them it was pleasure not
pain she came after--and how they laughed and floated off down the
Lake, leaving her on a green moss patch, under a big tree--and how she
rambled all along shore gathering the tiniest little shells that ever a
wave tossed up--and how she took off her shoes and stockings and dipped
her feet in the cool water, and listened to the bees' drowsy hum from
the old tree trunk close by, and watched the busy ant stagger home,
under the weight of his well earned morsel--and how she made a bridge
of stones over a little streamlet to pluck some crimson lobelias,
growing on the other side, and some delicate, bell-shaped flowers, fit
only for a fairy's bridal wreath,--and how she wandered till sunset
came on, and the Lake's pure breast was all a-glow, and then, how she
lay under that old tree, listening to the plashing waves, and watching
the little birds, dipping their golden wings into the rippling waters,
then soaring aloft to the rosy tinted clouds? Shall I tell you how the
grand old hills, forest crowned, stretched off into the dim
distance--and how sweet the music of childhood's ringing laugh, heard
from the far-off shore--or how Aunty thought 'twas such a _pity_ that
sin, and tears, and sorrow, should ever blight so fair a world?
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