Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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A CHAPTER ON LITERARY WOMEN.
"Well, Colonel, what engrosses your thoughts so entirely this morning? The last new fashion for vests, the price of Macassar oil, or the misfit of your last pair of primrose kids? Make a 'clean breast' of it."
"Come, Minnie, don't be satirical. I've a perfect horror of satirical women. There's no such thing as repose in their presence. One needs to be always on the defensive, armed at all points; and then, like as not, some arrow will pierce the joints of his armor. Be amiable, Minnie, and listen to me. I want a wife."
"You! a man of your resources! Clubs, cigars, fast horses, operas, concerts, theatres, billiard-rooms! Can't account for it," said the merciless Minnie. "Had a premonitory symptom of a crow's foot, or a gray hair? Has old Time begun to step on your bachelor toes?" and she leveled her eye-glass at his fine figure.
The Colonel took up a book, with a very injured air, as much as to say,--Have it out, fair lady, and when you get off your stilts, I'll talk reason to you.
But Minnie had no idea of getting off her stilts; so she
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proceeded,--"Want a wife, do you? I don't see but your buttons, and strings, and straps, are all tip-top. Your laundress attends to your wardrobe, your hôtel de maître to your appetite, you've nice snug quarters at the ---- House, plenty of 'fine fellows' to drop in upon you, and what in the name of the gods do you want of a 'wife?' And if it is a necessity that is not postponable, what description of apron-string does your High Mightiness desire? I've an idea you've only to name the thing, and there'd be a perfect crowd of applicants for the situation. Come, bestir yourself, Sir Oracle, open your mouth, and trot out your ideal."
"Well, then, negatively, I don't want a literary woman. I should desire my wife's thoughts and feelings to centre in me,--to be content in the little kingdom where I reign supreme,--to have the capacity to appreciate me, but not brilliancy enough to outshine me, or to attract 'outsiders.'"
"I like that, because 't is so unselfish," said Minnie, with mock humility. "Go on."
"You see, Minnie, these literary women live on public admiration,--glory in seeing themselves in print. Just fancy my wife's heart turned inside-out to thousands of eyes beside mine, for dissection. Fancy her quickening ten thousand strange pulses with 'thoughts that breathe and words that burn.' Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as Mr. Somebody, that the talented Miss
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---- condescended to marry. Horrible! Minnie, I tell you, literary women are a sort of nondescript monsters; nothing feminine about them. They are as ambitious as Lucifer; else, why do they write?"
"Because they can't help it," said Minnie, with a flashing eye. "Why does a bird carol? There is that in such a soul that will not be pent up,--that must find voice and expression; a heaven-kindled spark, that is unquenchable; an earnest, soaring spirit, whose wings cannot be earth-clipped. These very qualities fit it to appreciate, with a zest none else may know, the strong, deep love of a kindred human heart. Reverence, respect, indeed, such a soul claims and exacts; but think you it will be satisfied with that? No! It craves the very treasure you would wrest from it, Love! That there are vain and ambitious female writers, is true; but pass no sweeping condemnation; there are literary women who have none the less deserved the holy names of wife and mother, because God has granted to them the power of expressing the same tide of emotions that sweep, perchance, over the soul of another, whose lips have never been touched 'with a coal from the altar.'"
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"Good morning, Colonel," said Minnie; "how did you like the lady to whom I introduced you last evening?"
"Like her? I don't like her at all,--I love her!
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She took me by storm! Minnie, that woman must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt. She's my ideal of a wife embodied."
"I thought she'd suit you," said Minnie, not trusting herself to look up. "She's very attractive; but are you sure you can secure her?"
"Well, I flatter myself," said the Colonel, glancing at an opposite mirror, "I shall, at least, 'die making an effort,' before I take No for an answer. Charming woman! feminine from her shoe-lacings to the tips of her eyebrows; no blue-stockings peeping from under the graceful folds of her silken robe. What a charmed life a man might lead with her! Her fingers never dabbled with ink, thank Heaven! She must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt, Minnie!"
She was "Mrs. Col. Van Zandt." A week after their marriage, Minnie came in, looking uncommonly wicked and mischievous. "What a turtle-dove scene!" said she, as she stood at the door. "Do you know I never peep into Paradise, that I don't feel a Luciferish desire to raise a mutiny among the celestials? And apropos of that, you recollect 'Abelard,' Colonel; and the beautiful 'Zeluka,' by the same anonymous writer; and those little essays by the same hand, that you hoarded up so long? Well, I've discovered the author,--after a persevering investigation among the knowing ones,--the anonymous author, with the signature of 'Heloise.' You
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have your matrimonial arm around her this minute! May I be kissed if you have n't!" and she threw herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of mirth. "O, Colonel! 'marry a woman who has just sense enough to appreciate you, and not brilliancy enough to attract outsiders! Fancy my wife quickening ten thousand strange pulses with thoughts that breathe, and words that burn! Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as the Mr. Somebody the talented Miss ---- condescended to marry'! I declare, I'm sorry for you, Colonel; you have my everlasting sympathy; you look already like a man 'transported for life!'"
"Laugh away, Minnie! You might have played me a worse trick,--for instance, had you married me yourself! 'Heloise' or Amy, 't is all one to me, so long as I can call her wife. I'm quite happy enough to be willing you should enjoy your triumph; and quite willing to subscribe, on my knees, to your creed, that a woman may be literary, and yet feminine and lovable; content to find her greatest happiness in the charmed circle of Home."
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HE WHO HAS MOST OF HEART.
"He who has most of heart knows most of sorrow."
Yes, yes,--they are a fair target for the envious, the malicious, the selfish, and the crafty. God pity them, when the wide world is before them;--when every rough breath of unkindness sends a chill like death to the trusting heart;--when the coarse sneer, and brutal jest, fall with a crucifying sharpness on the sensitive ear,--when private griefs and sorrows, borne with all their crushing weight unshared, too sacred to be trusted to ears that may prove treacherous, are rudely probed, and laid bare to careless eyes, by hands and tongues that should say, "Lean on me, I will shelter you."
Yes, yes,--most of heart, most of sorrow! Treachery repaid for trust,--once, twice, thrice,--the heart still throwing out its tendrils to clasp again but a crumbling ruin. Leaves--buds--flowers--stem, all trampled under the ruthless foot. The same blue, mocking sky overhead; the same heavy thunder-cloud ever looming up in the distance. The little bark, feebly piloted, dashing on amid the billows, amid rocks, and shoals, and quicksands;
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no strong arm to help; no friendly voice to say, "God speed you!" no hope on earth; no haven of rest; no olive branch for the weary dove. The waters never assuaged; the bow of peace never in the heavens. The feeble, fluttering wing beaten earthward when it would soar. O, surely, "he who has most of heart knows most of sorrow!"
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DARK DAYS.
"Dying! How can you ever struggle through the world alone? Who will care for you, Janie, when I am dead?"
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"Have you rooms to let?" said a lady in sable to a hard-featured person.
"Rooms? Why--yes--we have rooms;" surveying Mrs. Grey very deliberately. "You are a widow, I suppose? Thought so by the length of your veil. Been in the city long? How long has your husband been dead? What was the matter of him? Take in sewing or anything? Got any reference? How old is that child of yours?"
"I hardly think the situation will suit," said Mrs. Grey, faintly, as she rose to go.
"Don't cry, mamma," said Charley, as they gained the street. "Won't God take care of us?"
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"Put another stick of wood on the fire, Charley; my fingers are quite benumbed, and I've a long while to work yet."
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"There's not even a chip left," said the boy, mournfully, rubbing his little purple hands. "It seems as though I should never grow a big man, so that I could help you!"
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"Hist! there's a rap." "Work done?" said a rough voice; "cause, if you ain't up to the mark, you can't have any more. 'No fire, and cold fingers.' Same old story. Business is business; I've no time to talk about your affairs. Women never can look at a thing in a commercial p'int of view. What I want to know is in a nut-shell. Is them shirts done or not, young woman?"
"Indeed, there is only one finished, though I have done my best," said Mrs. Grey.
"Well, hand it along; you won't get any more; and sit up to-night and finish the rest, d'ye hear?"
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"Have you vests that you wish embroidered, sir?"
"Y-e-s," said the gentleman (?) addressed, casting a look of admiration at Mrs. Grey.--"Here, James, run out with this money to the bank.--Wish it for yourself, madam?" said he blandly. "Possible? Pity to spoil those blue eyes over such drudgery."
A moment, and he was alone.
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"He's a very sick child," said the doctor, "and there's very little chance for him to get well here;" drawing his furred coat to his ears, as the wind whistled through the cracks. "Have you no friends in the city, where he could be better provided for?"
Mrs. Grey shook her head mournfully.
"Well, I'll send him some medicine to-night, and tomorrow we will see what can be done for him."
"Tomorrow!" All the long night the storm raged fearfully. The driving sleet sifted in through the loose windows, that rattled, and trembled, and shook. Mrs. Grey hushed her breath, as she watched the little, waxen face, and saw that look creep over it that comes but once. The sands of life were fast ebbing. The little taper flickered and flashed--and then--went out forever!
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It was in the "poor man's lot" that Harry Grey's pet boy was buried. There were no carriages, no mourners, no hearse. Mrs. Grey shuddered, as the wagon jolted over the rough stones to the old burying-place. She uttered a faint scream, as the sexton hit the coffin against the wagon in lifting it out. Again and again she stayed his hand, when he would have fastened down the lid; she heard with fearful distinctness the first heavy clod that fell upon her boy's breast; she looked on with a dreadful fascination, while he filled up the grave; she saw the last
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shovelful of earth stamped down over him, and when the sexton touched her arm, and pointed to the wagon, she followed him mechanically, and made no objection, when he said "he guessed he'd drive a little faster, now that the lad was out." He looked at her once or twice, and thought it very odd that she did n't cry; but he did n't profess to understand women folks. So, when it was quite dusk, they came back again to the old wooden house; and there he left her, with the still night and her crushing sorrow.
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"Who will care for you, Janie, when I am dead?"
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NIGHT.
Night! The pulse of the great city lies still. The echo of hurrying feet has long since died away. The maiden dreams of her lover; the wife, of her absent husband; the sick, of health; the captive, of freedom. Softly falls the moonlight on those quiet dwellings; yet, under those roofs are hearts that are throbbing and breaking with misery too hopeless for tears; forms bent before their time with crushing sorrow; lips that never smile, save when some mocking dream comes to render the morrow's waking tenfold more bitter. There, on a mother's faithful breast, clam and beautiful, lies the holy brow of infancy. O, could it but pass away thus, ere the bow of promise has ceased to span its future!--ere that serenest sky be darkened with lowering clouds!--ere that loving heart shall feel the death-pang of despair!
There, too, sits Remorse, clothed in purple and fine linen, "the worm that never dieth" hid in its shining folds. There, the weary watcher by the couch of pain, the dull ticking of the clock striking to the heart a nameless terror. With straining eye its hours are counted; with nervous hand the draught that brings no healing is held to the pallid lip.
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The measured tread of the watchman as he passes his round, the distant rumble of the coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone breaks the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts, like unbidden guests, rush in. Life appears like the dream it is. Eternity, the waking; and, involuntarily, the most careless eye looks up appealingly to Him by whom the hairs of our heads are all numbered.
Blessed night! Wrap thy dark mantle round these weary earth-pilgrims! Over them all the "Eye that never slumbereth" keepeth its tireless watch. Never a fluttering sigh escapes a human breast unheard by that pitying ear. Never an unspoken prayer for help, that finds not its pitying response in the bosom of Infinite mercy.
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CHILDREN'S RIGHTS.
Men's rights! Women's rights! I throw down the gauntlet for children's rights! Yes, little pets, Fanny Fern's about "takin' notes," and she'll "print 'em," too, if you don't get your dues. She has seen you seated by a pleasant window, in a railroad car, with your bright eyes dancing with delight, at the prospect of all the pretty things you were going to see, forcibly ejected by some overgrown Napoleon, who fancied your place, and thought, in his wisdom, that children had no taste for anything but sugar-candy. Fanny Fern knew better. She knew that the pretty trees and flowers, and bright blue sky, gave your little souls a thrill of delight, though you could not tell why; and she knew that great big man's soul was a great deal smaller than yours, to sit there and read a stupid political paper, when such a glowing landscape was before him, that he might have feasted his eyes upon. And she longed to wipe away the big tear that you did n't dare to let fall; and she understood how a little girl or boy, that did n't get a ride every day in the year, should not be quite able to swallow that great big lump in the throat, as he or she sat jammed down in a
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dark, crowded corner of the car, instead of sitting by that pleasant window.
Yes; and Fanny has seen you sometimes, when you've been muffled up to the tip of your little nose in woollen wrappers, in a close, crowded church, nodding your little drowsy heads, and keeping time to the sixth-lie and seventh-lie of some pompous theologian, whose preaching would have been high Dutch to you, had you been wide awake.
And she has seen you sitting, like little automatons, in a badly-ventilated school-room, with your nervous little toes at just such an angle, for hours; under the tuition of a Miss Nancy Nipper, who did n't care a rush-light whether your spine was as crooked as the letter S or not, if the Great Mogul Committee, who marched in once a month to make the "grand tour," voted her a "model school-marm."
Yes, and that ain't all. She has seen you sent off to bed, just at the witching hour of candle-light, when some entertaining guest was in the middle of a delightful story, that you, poor, miserable "little pitcher," was doomed never to hear the end of! Yes, and she has seen "the line and plummet" laid to you so rigidly, that you were driven to deceit and evasion; and then seen you punished for the very sin your tormentors helped you to commit. And she has seen your ears boxed just as hard for tearing a hole in your best pinafore, or breaking a
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China cup, as for telling as big a lie as Ananias and Sapphira did.
And when, by patient labor, you had reared an edifice of tiny blocks,--fairer in its architectural proportions, to your infantile eye, than any palace in ancient Rome,--she has seen it ruthlessly kicked into a shattered ruin, by somebody in the house, whose dinner had n't digested!
Never mind. I wish I was mother to the whole of you! such glorious times as we'd have! Reading pretty books, that had no big words in 'em; going to school where you could sneeze without getting a rap on the head for not asking leave first; and going to church on the quiet, blessed Sabbath, where the minister--like our dear Saviour--sometimes remembered to "take little children in his arms, and bless them."
Then, if you asked me a question, I would n't pretend not to hear; or lazily tell you I "did n't know," or turn you off with some fabulous evasion, for your memory to chew for a cud till you were old enough to see how you had been fooled. And I'd never wear such a fashionable gown that you could n't climb on my lap whenever the fit took you; or refuse to kiss you, for fear you'd ruffle my curls, or my collar, or my temper,--not a bit of it; and then you should pay me with your merry laugh, and your little confiding hand slid ever trustingly in mine.
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O, I tell you, my little pets, Fanny is sick of din and strife, and envy, and uncharitableness!--and she'd rather, by ten thousand, live in a little world full of fresh, guileless, loving little children, than in this great museum full of such dry, dusty, withered hearts.
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SORROW'S TEACHINGS.
"How is it," said I, despondingly, to Aunt Milly, "that you, who have been steeped to the lips in trouble, can be so cheerful?"
"Listen to me, Ellen. You know my first great sorrow,--the loss of my husband. When the grave closed over him, the star of hope faded from my sky. I could see no mercy in the Hand that dealt that blow. The green earth became one wide sepulchre; the sweet ministrations of nature had no healing power. In my selfish despair, I would have shrouded the blue heavens in sable, and thrown a pall of gloom over every happy heart. Months passed by slowly, wearily, and I found no alleviation of my sorrow; no tears came to ease that dull, dead pain that seemed crushing the life from out my heart; no star of Bethlehem shone through the dark cloud over my head.
"I was sitting one afternoon, as usual, motionless and speechless. It was dark and gloomy without, as my soul within. The driving sleet beat heavily against the windows. Twilight had set in. My little Charley had patiently tried for hours to amuse himself with his toys,
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now and then glancing sadly at my mournful face. But the oppressive gloom was becoming unendurable to the child. At length, creeping slowly to my side, and leaning heavily against my shoulder, he said, in a half sob, 'Does God love to see you look so, mamma?'
"'No, no, Charley!' said I, as I clasped him to my heart with repentant tears. 'No, no!--I'll cloud your sunny face no longer.'
"Alas! dear Ellen, I but turned from one idol to another;--I gave God the second place, and lived only for my boy; and so my wayward heart needed another lesson. The grave took in my last earthly treasure. But when the Smiter had done his work, those little lips, though silent, still said to me, 'God loveth the cheerful giver;' and so, smiling through my tears, I learned to say, 'Thy will be done.' Dear Ellen, if the good Father takes away with one hand, he gives with the other. There is always some blessing left. 'Ilka blade of grass keeps its ain drap o' dew!'"
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"AN INFIDEL MOTHER."
Can it be? Can you look into the depths of those clear blue eyes, that seek yours in such confiding, innocent trust,--can you deck those dimpled limbs, so "fearfully and wonderfully made,"--can you watch with him the first faint streak of light, that ushers in another happy day,--can you point him to the gold and purple sunset glory,--can you look upward with him to the shining host, or place in his eager hand the field flowers which bend their dewy eyes with grateful thanks, and never name "Our Father!"
When, at dead of night, you watch beside his sick couch; when you hush your very breath, to listen to his pained moan; when every gust of wind makes your cheek grow pale; when you turn with trembling hand the healing drops; when every tick of the clock seems beating against your heart; when the little, pallid face looks beseechingly into yours, for the "help" you cannot give; O, where can you turn the suppliant eye, if you see not the "Great Physician?"
When health slowly returns; when the eye brightens, and the red blood colors cheek and lip; when the vacant
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chair is again filled; when the little feet are again busy; when loving arms in playful glee twine again around your neck;--comes there from that mother's heart of thine no burst of grateful thanks to Him who notes even the sparrow's fall?
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Suppose death come. You fold away the little, useless robes; you turn with a filling eye from toys and books, and paths those little feet have trod; you feel ever the shadowy clasp of a little hand in yours; you turn heart-sick from happy mothers, who number no missing lamb from their flock. A sunny ringlet, a rosy cheek, or a piping voice, gives your heart a death-pang. You walk the busy street, and turn your head involuntarily when a little, strange voice calls "Mother!" O, where can you go for comfort then, if you believe not that the "good Shepherd" folds your lamb to his loving breast?
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There is perfidy at your household hearth. There are broken vows, which you may not breathe to human ear. There is treachery repaid for trust! Childhood looks on with a sad wonder; you must "go backward and cast the mantle" of evasion over the moral deformity. Whence shall strength come to your slender shoulders, to bear this heavy cross? How silence the ready tempter's
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voice? Where shall all those warm affections now be garnered up, if not in heaven?
O, you have no anchor, no rudder or compass!--your little bark is adrift, at the mercy of every pitiless gale,--the sea is dark and fearful, the billows mountain high, the sky black with darkness, if you turn from the Great Pilot!
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LITTLE CHARLIE, THE CHILD-ANGEL.
I am one of that persecuted class, denominated old maids. By going quietly about the world, taking care not to jostle my neighbors, or hit against any of their rough angles, I manage to be cheerful, contented and happy. In my multitudinous migrations, I have had some opportunity to study human nature. Lately, I have become a temporary inmate of a crowded boarding-house. My little room has already begun to look home-like. The cheerful sun has expanded the fragrant flowers I love so well to nurture; my canary trills his satisfaction in a gayer song than ever; and my pictures, book, and guitar, drive "dull care away," and beguile many a pleasant hour. And now my heart has found a new object of interest. I've noticed on the staircase, and in the hall and lobby, a lovely child, who seemed wandering about at his own sweet will; sometimes sitting wearily on the stairs, almost asleep; then loitering at the kitchen door, watching the operations of the cook; then peeping into the half-open doors of the different apartments. As, by a rule of the house, "no children were permitted at
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table," it was some time before I could ascertain who claimed this little stray waif.
One morning, attracted by the carol of my canary, he ventured to put his little, curly head inside my door. He needed little urging to enter, for he read, with a child's quick instinct, his welcome in my face. An animated conversation soon ensued about birds, flowers, and pictures,--his large, blue eyes growing bright, and his cheek flushing with pleasure, as story followed story, while he sat upon my knee.
At length I said to him, "Charlie, won't mamma be anxious about you, if you stay so long?"
"O, no," said he, "Lizzie don't care."
"Who's Lizzie?"
"Why, my mamma! She don't care, if I'm only out of the way. Lizzie made me this pretty dress," said he, holding up his richly-embroidered frock; "but Lizzie don't know any stories, and she says I'm a bore. What is a 'bore?'" said the sweet child, as he looked trustingly in my face.
"Never mind, now," said I, tearfully; "you may stay with me whenever you like, and we will be very good friends."
The dinner-bell sounding, a gayly-dressed young thing vociferated, in a voice anything but musical, "Charlie, Charlie!" When I apologized for keeping him, she said, carelessly, as she rearranged her bracelets, "O, it
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don't signify, if you can have patience with him, he's so tiresome with his questions. I've bought him heaps of toys, but he never wants to play, and is forever asking me such old-fashioned questions. Keep him and welcome, when you like; but take my word for it, you'll repent your bargain!" and she tripped gayly down to dinner.
Poor little Charlie! Time in plenty to adjust all those silken ringlets; time to embroider all those little gay dresses; time to linger till midnight over the last new novel; but for the soul that looked forth from those deep blue eyes, no time to sow the good seed, no time to watch lest the enemy should "sow tares."
From that time Charlie and I were inseparable. The thoughtless mother, well content to pass her time devouring all sorts of trashy literature, or in idle gossip with her drawing-room companions. The young father, weary with business troubles, contenting himself with a quiet "good-night," and closing the day by a visit to the theatre or concert-room. Poor Charlie, meanwhile, put to bed for safe-keeping, would lie hours, tossing restlessly from side to side, "with nothing in his mind," as he innocently said to me. What a joy to sit by his side and beguile the lonely hours! There I learned to understand the meaning of our Saviour's words, "For of such is the kingdom of heaven."
In his clear, silvery tones, he would repeat after me
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"Our Father," asking me the meaning of every petition; then he would say, "Why don't you tell Lizzie? Lizzie don't know any prayers!"
One night I sang him these lines,--
Stand dressed in living green;"--
he raised himself in bed, while the tears trembled on his long lashes, and said, "O, sing that again,--it seems as if I saw a beautiful picture!" Then, taking my guitar, I would sit by his bedside, and watch the blue eyes droop and grow heavy with slumber as I sang to him. And she, whose duty, and joy, and pride, it should have been to lead those little feet to Him who biddeth, "little children come," was indolently and contentedly bound in flowery fetters of her own weaving, unmindful than an angel's destiny was intrusted to her careless keeping.
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Little Charlie lay tossing in his little bed, with a high fever. It is needless to tell of the hold he had upon my heart and services. His childish mother, either unable or unwilling to see his danger, had left me in charge of him,--drawn from his side by the attraction of a great military ball. I changed his heated pillows, gave him the cooling draught, bathed his feverish temples, and, finally, at his request, rocked him gently to quiet his
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restlessness. He placed his little arms caressingly about my neck, and said, feebly, "Sing to me of heaven." When I finished, he looked languidly up, saying, "Where's Lizzie?--I must kiss Lizzie!" and as the words died upon his lips, his eyes drooped, his heart fluttered like a prisoned bird, and little Charlie was counted one in the heavenly fold.
As I closed his eyes, and crossed the dimpled hands peacefully upon his little breast, his last words rang fearfully in my ears,--"Where's Lizzie?"