Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 12

The woman was pretty, spite of the blood-stained handkerchief about her face, and was caressing the frightened girl upon her lap in such a gentle, womanly way, that I concluded she must be her mother. On the box, with the coachman, was a police officer. What could it all mean?

I will tell you.

Some years ago, in one of the handsomest houses in New-York, lived a lady and her husband, and a little girl named Rosa. They had plenty of money, plenty of servants, and, of course, plenty of friends. They had a fine carriage and horses, and every day you might have seen Mrs.

Simon, dressed like a queen, seated upon the velvet cushions, with black John, the coachman, upon the box, and black Peter, the footman, standing behind, while little Rosa, as gay as a little paroquet, peered out from her little plumed hat, laughing merrily at all the fine sights she saw.

The shop-keepers flew round as if they had St. Vitus' dance, when Mrs.

Simon's carriage stopped at their door, with the glossy, sleek-coated horses and their silver-mounted harness, and the liveried servants.

They bowed and smirked, and skipped round, and pulled little "Cash's"

ears for not getting her "change" quicker, and offered to send home any, and all, and every bundle she chose to order, quicker than chain lightning, if it were only a paper of No. 6 needles.

When she got into her carriage again, and rode down Broadway, whiskered gentlemen on the pavement hoisted their beavers, and bent themselves as low as their corsets would possibly allow, and ladies nodded, and showed their pretty little teeth, and declared that Mrs. Simon was "a perfect little love."

From all this show and luxury, she came down to an empty purse, and a widow's weeds. Her husband lost all his property at once. Money was all the poor man had ever cared for. He had not the courage to live and look his misfortune boldly in the face, but took his own life, (like a coward,) and left his dainty wife and child to bear _alone_ the cross that his manly shoulders couldn't carry.

Well, Mrs. Simon buried her husband, and then looked about her for her friends; but alas! they had all fled, like b.u.t.terflies, with the sunshine. Her fine house, furniture and carriage and horses, were all taken from her, to pay her husband's debts; and she wandered forth, no one knew whither.

My dear children, it is a very sad thing to be proud and poor. Mrs.

Simon was very proud. She could not make up her mind to work. She fancied, poor mistaken woman, that it would degrade her. She didn't see that all whose opinion is worth caring for, would respect her the more, for her striving to earn bread for herself and her child.

So she sat and cried, and worried herself almost sick, instead of looking at little Rosa, and then stepping out, with a brave heart, and saying: I have been rich; I am now poor:--I want some work to do. She couldn't bring her mind to _that_; so, as I told you, she disappeared, n.o.body knew whither, and the world went on just the same without her.

Other gay carriages rolled up and down Broadway, with the glittering harness, and sleek horses, and pampered servants; bearing ladies as gay and as pretty as Mrs. Simon. None of them asked what had become of their old friend; they were all too busy about their own affairs; frolicking and dancing away their lives, just as if they were to live that way forever.

Where was Mrs. Simon? If you had looked into a house where wicked people dwell, who live by breaking all G.o.d's commandments, there you would have found her and little Rosa.

Was she happy there? Can any body be happy who makes up his mind to do wrong? No; poor woman; she dreaded nothing so much as her own thoughts; and sometimes when Rosa bounded into the room, she would start us if a serpent had stung her. She didn't think when she went there, that sickness and death would come to her in that wretched place; but they did. And what was to become of little, innocent Rosa? Must she die and leave her _there_? The thought of it made great drops of agony start out on her pale face. She looked about her. There were none there who feared either G.o.d or man, and her moments were fast numbering. She called to her bedside one of the inmates who had been kind to her--a young girl, whose heart was not hard and stony. She said to her, with her hands clasped,

"Promise me, before I die, that you will get Rosa away from this wretched place--quick--promise!"

"I will, I will!" said the young girl, wiping the death-damp from her forehead.

The grave closed over poor Mrs. Simon and her errors; and poor little Rosa sobbed as if she had been the best mother in the world; and then the young girl, of whom I have spoken, whispered to Rosa that _she_ would be kind to her,--and so she was; for Mrs. Simon's death had made her think of a great many good thoughts, and she wanted to get away, too, and live where G.o.d was feared.

_Now_ you know who were in the carriage that was driving away with the police officer. It was that young girl and little Rosa. The man in whose house she lived, caught her going away with the child, and cut her with a knife that such people always carry. That's why the blood was on her cheek, and on Rosa's dress. And then, in the struggle to get Rosa away, he broke her little arm with his rough grasp; so she had it "in a sling." Perhaps they might not have got away at all, had not a police-man heard their screams and helped them off. The man in whose house they had been, was sent to "The Tombs" (a place in New York for such people,) and then he was sentenced to the Penitentiary; and Rosa was very glad to hear that, because she trembled all over for fear he would get her again.

Dear little Rosa! the fright, and her grief, and the broken arm together, threw her into a fever; and for a long while it was feared she would die; but you will be glad to know that she got well, and that I have seen her since, with her face as full of sunshine as if a cloud had never pa.s.sed over it; and that I have heard her, with some other little children, in a school, saying: "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not;" and you can't tell how happy this made me, after hearing her sad story.

Are you not glad that there are good, true, kind hearts left in the world, who remember that Jesus said, "_Feed my lambs_"?

LETTER FROM TOM GRIMALKIN TO HIS MOTHER.

MY DEAR MAMMA GRIMALKIN: How _could_ you let Miss Nipper take me away from you? I am so miserable, that I have not run around after my tail once since I came here. There's nothing here to amuse me, not even a fly in the room to catch, for Miss Nipper won't have one about. There she sits, knitting--knitting--knitting--in the chimney corner. If she'd only drop her ball now and then, it would be quite a pretty little excitement for me to chase it round, you know; but she never drops her ball, nor her handkerchief, nor even leaves an old shoe round for me to toss about--and as to playing with her ap.r.o.n strings, I should as soon think of jumping into the cradle of Queen Victoria's baby.

I should like to hop up in the chairs now and then, by way of variety, but I don't dare,--or up on the window seats, to see what's going on in the street; but she won't let me. Goodness knows she needn't be afraid my paws are dirty, for I haven't been over the threshold since I came here, for a breath of fresh air; beside, every morning she souses me head over heels in a tub of water, till I hear all sorts of sounds, and see all sorts of sights; and then roasts my brains out drying me between the andirons. Ah, it's very well for people to talk about "leading a _dog's_ life of it."

_I_ say, let 'em try a _cat's_.

Now I am about old enough to begin to go into society a little, and there are a plenty of well-bred cats here in the neighborhood, with beautiful voices, who give free concerts every moonlight night, but Miss Nipper won't let me stir a paw. I don't think I shall stand it much longer; for the other day, when she went out of the room, I hopped up on the table, and noticed that my whiskers had begun to grow considerable large, and that set me to examining my _claws_. You understand!

How does Tabby do? Have you weaned her yet? Don't she ever feel sorry, now I am away, that she used to nurse so much more than her share? She needs to have you cuff her ears now and then, that Tabby. She never had any sisterly affection for me, although one of my eyes was a week longer getting open than hers. I shan't forget it in a hurry. I often think it over, as I lie here on the hearth-rug, listening to the everlasting click, click of Miss Nipper's knitting-needles. Oh, it's a very hard case, Mother Grimalkin, for a kitty with such a warm heart, and such a frisky disposition as I have, to do nothing but think such miserable thoughts, and lie here staring the ashes in the fire-place out of countenance.

Miss Nipper is so stingy of her milk, too, that my ribs are all p.r.i.c.king through my fur; besides, you will be concerned to learn that I'm growing up as ignorant as a young Hottentot: for how can I learn to catch mice, boxed up in a parlor without any closets?

Answer me that, and please write soon to your afflicted son,

TOM GRIMALKIN.

WHAT CAME OF AN OMNIBUS RIDE,

AND

"ONE PULL TO THE RIGHT!"

Some time ago, (no matter _when_;--little folks shouldn't be curious!) I was riding in an omnibus with some half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and white kidded gentlemen.

At a signal from somebody on the sidewalk, the driver reined up his horses, and a very old man, with tremulous limbs and silvery locks, presented himself at the door for admission. The driver shouted through the sky-light, "Room for one more, there, inside;"--but the gentlemen looked at the old man and frowned, and the ladies spread out their ruffled skirts, for his hat was shabby, and his coat very threadbare.

_He_ saw how it was, and why there was "no room," and meekly turned about to go down the steps, when a fine-looking young man, who sat next to me, sprang to the door, and seizing him by the arm, said, "Take my place, sir; you are _quite_ welcome to it. I am young and hearty; it won't weary me to walk"--and kindly leading the old man to the vacant seat, he leaped from the steps and walked briskly down the street, while I looked admiringly after him, saying to myself, "That young man has had a good mother."

We drove on, and the more I looked at the old man's silver hairs, and fine, honest face, the more indignant I felt, at the way he had been treated. Whether he read my thoughts in my countenance, or not, I can't say; but, after most of the pa.s.sengers had got out, he moved up to me and said, "Good boy--good boy--wasn't he? My dear, (and here his voice sunk to a confidential whisper,) I have got money enough to buy out all the upstart people that filled this omnibus, twenty times over, but I like this old coat and hat. They are as good as a crucible. Help me to find out the true metal. Good morning, my dear. Thank you for your pity, just as much as if I needed it"--and the old man pulled the strap, got out of the omnibus, and hobbled off down street.

Some time after, I advertised for lodgings, and was answered by a widow lady. I liked the air of her house, it was so neat and quiet; and then, the flowering plants in the window were a letter of recommendation to me. Your cold-hearted, icicle people never care for flowers; (you may write that in the fly-leaf of your primer.) But what particularly pleased me, at Mrs. Harris', was the devotion of her son to his mother.

I expected no less, because the minute he opened the door, I saw that he was the same young man who gave up his seat in the omnibus to the old gentleman.

John did all the marketing and providing as wisely and as well as if he were seventy, instead of seventeen. He wheeled his mother's arm-chair to the pleasantest corner; handed her her footstool, and newspaper, and spectacles; offered her his arm up stairs and down, and spent his evenings by _her_ side, instead of joining other young men in racing over the city to find ways to kill time.

It was a beautiful sight, in these days, when beardless boys come stamping and whistling into their mother's presence, with their hats on, and call her "the old woman."

I spent a pleasant autumn under Mrs. Harris' quiet roof. And now, winter had set in, with its nice long evenings. John came in to tea, one night, with his bright face over-clouded. His mother was at his side in an instant. John's master had failed, and John was thrown out of employment!

Then I learned, that it was only by the strictest economy, and h.o.a.rding of every cent of John's small salary, that the house rent was paid and the table provided.

And now, so the widow said, the house must be given up, for John might be a long while getting another place; clerkships were so difficult to obtain; and they must not think of running in debt.

It was _such_ a pity. We were all so comfortable and happy there, in that cozy little parlor, with its sunny bow window full of flowers, and its bright Lehigh fire, and softly cushioned chairs; that cozy parlor, where the little round table, with its snowy cloth, had been so often spread; and the fragrant coffee, and delicate tea-biscuit, and racy newspaper had been so often discussed; where John, in his slippers and dressing-gown, with his dark hair pushed off his broad forehead, read to us page after page of some favorite author, while the wind was welcome to whistle itself dumb outside the threshold, and old Winter to pile up the snow at the door till he got tired of it.

It _was_ hard!

John walked up and down the floor, with his hands crossed behind, and Mrs. Harris went round the room, hunting after her spectacles, when they were comfortably reposing on the bridge of her fine Roman nose.

A knock at the door!