Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 17

Mrs. Cicchi told us that Angelo was a good boy, and would much rather work than beg, if he could get anything to do. She said his father made images in Italy, and that Angelo was always trying to do it too, whenever he got a bit of clay; and sometimes she thought he could get a living in that way when she was dead, if he had any friends; but, "poor boy!" she said, and turned her face to the pillow. "Poor boy! oh, how can his father forget him?"

We comforted her, and told her that Angelo should be taken care of, and then she wiped away her tears, and said she "could die happy"--and she did die a few days after; for cold, and hunger, and trouble had done more mischief, than the doctor who was sent to her could undo, with all his skill.

How poor Angelo clung to her dead body! How he kissed her hands and face, and sobbed, "My _poor, poor_ mother!" He grieved so much that we almost feared _he_ would die too.

By and by he listened to me. I told him that his mother was always near him, though he could not _see_ her; and that every time he thought a good thought, or put away an evil one, she sang a sweeter song. Angelo liked that! His great dark eyes glittered through his tears; he smiled and kissed my hand;--often he sits still and listens, as if he heard his mother's song.

Angelo is a _good_ boy. When he is out of school he works with an image maker. It is all play to _him_, he likes it so much. The old man stares to see him go on, but don't say anything. I know very well what he is thinking: he thinks that one of these days Congress will send Angelo an order for a statue for the Capitol!

I think so myself.

Dear little Angelo! his father will be very glad to own him by and by.

Oh, I can tell you, _good luck_ is an _excellent "town crier," to find people with bad memories_!

BLACK CHLOE.

I wonder how you treat the servants in your mother's house? Do you order them round, as if they were so many dray-horses?--or do you speak pleasantly to them when you desire they should wait on you? I know there are a great many bad servants, but there are a great many good ones, too.

I am going to tell you about one.

Her name was Chloe Steele. She lived with a lady by the name of Mrs.

k.u.min. Fannie k.u.min was fifteen years old when Chloe came to live with her mother. Chloe loved to do little services for Fannie, because she was so smiling and good natured. She never rang the bell, just to warn Chloe that she was her mistress; and when she called her for anything, always tried to remember everything she wanted, at once, that she need not make her take any extra steps, up and down stairs.

Chloe noticed this, and felt grateful for it, and was always very careful to regard all her little wishes. She tidied up her little bed-room very carefully, and always ran out in the garden and cut a little bouquet to place in the vase upon her toilette table, to make her room sweet and pleasant for her.

Fannie didn't require much waiting upon; she preferred being her own waiter, (like a sensible little girl.) It was very well she did so, because in a couple of years after Chloe went there to live, she was left an orphan, and when the estate was settled up, it was found that little Fannie had no money to live upon.

Chloe said, "don't be troubled, Miss Fannie; I am used to work. I'll find you a boarding place, and then I'll go out to service, and pay your bills. I can get high wages for a housekeeper's place, and you will live like a lady. It would break my heart to see Master's daughter work for her living."

Fannie said, "You are a dear, good Chloe, but I could not be happy to live that way;--no--I must go to work, and that will keep me from thinking of my troubles. I should become very miserable if I sat still, with my hands folded, and thought only of so many sorrowful things. No, no, dear Chloe--I shall teach in Mrs. ----'s school; and you will see, the education that my dear mother has given me will be just as good as so much money."

So Chloe said no more about supporting her, because she saw that she _really_ would be happier to support herself; but she insisted upon washing and ironing her clothes for her, and the day that she carried them home, all nicely folded in a basket, was the happiest day in the week to poor Chloe.

Chloe had taken a little room to herself, and cooked her own food. All blacks are born cooks, I believe, and many a tempting little dainty she stowed away of a Sat.u.r.day night, to take up to school to Fannie.

Sometimes it would be a loaf of cake; sometimes a pie or two; sometimes a few oysters, nicely cooked; for she said "it was poor fare enough teachers had in boarding schools, and who knew but Miss Fannie might get quite run down, on that and the hard work together."

Then she would go round her room, picking up the stockings and mending them, and brushing her little gaiter boots; and then she would take the comb out of her long hair and part it nicely, and brush it and dress it all over as well as Madame Marmotte, the French hair dresser, could do.

If Fannie took cold, she'd come and make her some hot tea, and soak her feet in mustard water, and leave her some nice hot lemonade to drink when she went away; and if she had a letter to put in the post-office, or was expecting one, then Chloe was on hand to do the errand, just as promptly as an express man.

Now she did all this out of sheer love for Fannie, and because she had been kind to her in her mother's house, and never put on airs and ordered her about, as some children do.

By and by, Miss Fannie took it into her head to get engaged to be married.

Chloe didn't half like it;--she was jealous. She was "afraid Ma.s.sa Hale wouldn't make a good husband enough. Miss Fannie ought to have a _very nice one_, because she was such a fine young lady;" and Chloe shook her woolly head, till her gold hoop ear-rings rung again, and advised Miss Fannie to "wait a leetle longer." "Time enough yet, when she was only eighteen, plenty more gemmen; no hurry _yet_ for Miss Fannie."

But Fannie had her own way that time, too, and married "Ma.s.sa Hale;"

and when Chloe found there was no help for it, she said she would go and be her cook, "just to look after the dear child a bit, and see that she had everything she wanted," and that nothing was wasted.

You ought to have seen her in "Miss Fannie's" kitchen, (for she still kept on calling her Miss Fannie;) with her gay bandanna handkerchief twisted round her wool, and her neat check ap.r.o.n tied round her waist, moving round among the shining pots, and pans, and kettles, as important as if she were the great Mogul; turning out pies and hoe cakes, and flap-jacks, (and every other Jack, too, for Chloe had no beaux dangling after _her_, I promise you.)

If "Miss Fannie" put her head into the kitchen, she'd tell her it was no place for _her_,--to go right up stairs, and sit in the parlor like a lady, and not be worrying her little head about the cooking and such matters; that she'd send up a dinner pretty soon that would make Ma.s.sa Hale open his eyes; and she didn't care if he brought the President home with him to dine!

Chloe was scrupulously honest;--she took care of everything just as carefully as "Miss Fannie"--never wasting, never giving slily away tea or sugar, or bread, or meat, or coal, to her acquaintances, as I'm sorry to say many unprincipled servants do.

So "Ma.s.sa Hale" began to like her, as well as "Miss Fannie," and many a nice calico dress, or handkerchief turban, found its way mysteriously into Chloe's trunk.

After a while, Chloe had _another_ Miss Fannie to look after. Was there ever a baby like that? Certainly not--except the _original_ Miss Fannie. Chloe forgot her pots, and pans, and pickles, and preserves, and hoe-cakes; and said that "somebody else must do the cooking, or else that baby never would thrive; for what did Miss Fannie know about babies, she would like to know?"

So Chloe washed her hands, and walked up into the nursery, and when she said that little Fan must have some peppermint, she had it; and when she objected to its wearing caps, they were taken off; and when she said it was time for her to go to sleep, she _went_ to sleep, as a matter of course.

Chloe sent its mother out to take the air, and told her it was no use for her to trouble her head about the baby, because it was a thing she knew nothing about;--in fact "Miss Fannie" never was allowed to peep into its cradle without Chloe's express permission.

But the time was coming when Sorrow's dark shadow should cross the happy threshold. Death laid his icy finger on the little baby's lip, (with scarce a moment's warning,) just as it had twined itself round all their hearts with its winning little ways.

Who comforted poor Fannie then? Who arrayed the baby's dainty little limbs for burial? Who placed the tiny flowers between its waxen little fingers? Who folded away from the weeping mother's sight the useless caps and robes? Who spoke words of cheer, while her own heart was breaking?--who, but _Chloe_?

Ah, dear children, _never say that servants are without feeling_; never say it spoils them to treat them like human beings. They all have their trials--humble though they be--and (often, G.o.d knows,) _few joys enough_.

A PEEP FROM MY WINDOW.

"Oh, stop! stop! Pray don't beat that child so," said I to a strapping great woman in front of my window. "What has she done? What is the matter? Don't strike her."

"Well, then tell her not to meddle with me again," said the virago, shaking a stick at the child. "I got to that barrel of cinders on the sidewalk, _first_, and had put my stick in it, to see if I could get anything out worth saving; of course, if I came first, I had the first right to what I could find; and then she came up and put _her_ stick in it, without saying 'by your leave.' I'll teach her better manners"--and the stick descended again on the child's shoulders.

"Run in here, run in here," said I. "I'll take care of you;" and I opened the door for her. Poor little thing--all tears, and rags, and dirt; her little bare feet cut and bruised with the stones, and her hair streaming all over her face. You would have pitied her, too. She gazed about the room, looked at the fire, then wistfully at the breakfast table, from which I had just risen.

"You shall have some," said I, giving her a cup of hot coffee and some egg and roll; "eat away, as much as ever you can."

She didn't need a second invitation, but swallowed the food as if she were famished. She put on the shoes and stockings I gave her, and then she told me that her father was killed on the railroad; that her mother had four little children beside herself; that they lived in a cellar in ---- street, where the water often came in and covered the floor; that her mother had a dreadful bad cough; that her baby brother was very sick, and that they had nothing to eat except what they got begging.

"Why did you hunt in that old barrel?" said I.

"To find bits of coal, to burn. Sometimes the servants in the big houses don't sift it, and then we find a great many pieces to carry home and burn. Oh dear! that was such a _nice_ barrel, that the women beat me for coming to!"

"Never mind the barrel," said I; "do you want this? and this? and this?

and this?"--giving her some old dresses, "and this loaf of bread, and this bit of money for your mother?"

"Oh yes--yes. She will be _so_ glad!" And off she skipped, down street, drawing her ragged shawl over her head.