it. I should be very glad, had I time, to write each of you a long
letter—indeed, many long letters; but how is this possible, if I “make
some more books for you,” as you all request me to do? One cannot write
a book as fast as one can read it through; perhaps you do not think of
that. Besides, I write every week for the New York _Ledger_. Then I have
a great many other calls upon my time, of which you know nothing. Like
your own mamma, I have children. They sometimes say, “Oh, do throw away
that tiresome pen, and talk to us.” And then I say, “Yes, presently.”
But still I have to keep on writing. Then, you know, if I only used my
head, and never my feet, my head would not last long. I must exercise a
great deal every day, else I should fly up the chimney, or through the
roof, like a witch. But for all that I don’t forget one little girl or
boy who ever wrote to me; and although I cannot answer, it always
pleases me to hear from you. I want you all to believe this, and write
me whenever you feel like it.
BABY EFFIE.
Do you see this little baby? Her name is Effie, and her young mother is
dead. Well, partly on that account, and partly because she is just the
loveliest, and brightest, and sweetest baby that ever was born, she
rules every one in the house. How? why, by one smile or cunning little
trick, she can make them all go and come, fetch and carry, rise and sit
down, all the same as if they had no will but hers. For instance, you
may say, now at such a time I will go to such a place; but if that baby
catches sight of you going out, and makes up a little grieved mouth
because you are going, unless you could coax her to forget it, with a
piece of the moon, or some such wonderful thing, you would very likely
stay at home with her. If you say your side aches, and really, Effie
grows so fat on her good sweet milk, that you must let nurse carry her
more, even if she _does_ whimper a little; and you may really _mean_ to
do it; but oh, why has she such a dear little red mouth, and such a
distracting way of fixing her lips, and such a pleading look in her soft
eyes, and such a musical little coax to make believe talk, unless it be
that her dimpled feet shall always be on your obedient neck? You can’t
look at her as if she were only a rag baby. And very likely you’d get
thinking, too, that nobody could tie her bonnet, or cloak, save
yourself, or button her little red boots right; so that no fold of her
mite of a stocking should double under her ridiculous little toes.
Perhaps you think it is a very simple thing to wash and dress little
Effie. That shows how little you know. Now listen. That baby has four
distinct little chins that you must watch your chance to wash between
her frantic little crying-spells; then she has as many little rolls of
fat on the back of the neck, that have to be searched out, and bathed;
and all the time you are doing this you have to be talking little baby
talk to her, to make her believe you are only playing, instead of
washing her. Then baby won’t have her ears or nose meddled with; and if
you interfere with her toes, she won’t put up with it a minute; and it
takes two people to open her chubby little fists when it is time to wash
them. Then you haven’t the least idea of the job it is to get one of her
stiff little vexed arms out of her cambric sleeve; or how many times she
kicks while you are tying on her tiny red shoe. Then she is just as mad
as can be when you lay her over on her stomach to tie the strings of her
frock; and she is still more mad if you lay her on her back. And
besides, she can stiffen herself out, when she likes, so that “all the
king’s men” couldn’t make her sit down, and at another time she will
curl herself up in a circle, so that neither they nor anybody else could
straighten her out; then you had better just count the garments that
have to be got off and on before this washing and dressing business is
done; and then every now and then you have to stop to see that she is
not choking or strangling; or that you have not put any of her funny
little legs or arms out of joint, or hurt her bobbing little head. Now,
I hope you understand what a delicate job it is. But when the last
string is tied, and little Effie comes out of this daily misery into
scarlet-lipped, diamond-eyed peace, looking fresh and sweet as a
rosebud, and dropping off to sleep in your arms, with quivering white
eyelids and pretty murmurings of the little half-smiling lips, while the
perfect little fat waxen hands lie idly by her side, ah—then you should
see her!
You would understand then, how hard it is to keep from spoiling her; not
by loving her too much; _that_ never hurt anybody; but by giving her
everything she wants, whether it is best for her or not, just because it
is so heart-breaking to see the tears on her cheeks. _That_ would never
do, you know, not even for little motherless Effie; for how is she ever
to become good, if she can get everything she wants by crying for it?
She can’t understand that now, but by and by she will; and then those
who have care of her _must_ learn to say _no_, no matter how pretty and
coaxing she is, if she should want a hammer and a watch to play with;
yes, even though she should cry about it.
Nobody can tell whether Effie is loveliest sleeping or waking. Poor
little dear; when she is asleep she often makes the motion of nursing
with her lips, just as if her mother were living, instead of dead, and
she were lying on her warm breast. And then, too, she often smiles till
little dimples come in her cheeks, and her lips part, and show her four
little white teeth, which have troubled her so much in coming, and which
look so like little pearls. And sometimes in her sleep she kicks her
little fat leg, with its pretty white foot, and pink toes, out on the
coverlet, just as if she were fixing herself for a pretty picture that
some artist might paint her. And when she wakes, she puts her little
cheek up against yours to be loved and kissed, and—but dear me, you will
think I am quite a fool, if I go on this way; and I shouldn’t wonder;
for it really _is_ true that I am never tired of telling dear little
Effie’s perfections all the same as if she were the only lovely baby
that was ever born; although every house holds half a dozen, more or
less; still perhaps you might as well not say to _me_ that any of them
can begin to compare with little Effie.
But really, after all, I can’t stop till I tell you how much that child
knows. I am not certain that it would do to tell state secrets before
her; for though she can’t talk, and though she sits on the floor,
playing with her toys, I sometimes feel, when she drops them, and looks
up with her sweet, earnest little face, as if she had lived another life
somewhere, and her grown-up-soul had come back and crept into that
little baby’s body. Sometimes, when I look at her, I wish, oh! so much,
that I could always keep all sorrow, and all suffering from her, and
make her whole life happy; but this cannot be. Besides, I know, that He
who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will surely care for little
motherless Effie.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.