IT was a lovely day in June, and the poor little girl was going out.
She was so poor that she had to go in a great big carriage, with two
fat, slow horses and a sleepy driver, who got very angry if you asked
him to drive a little faster. She was dressed in a white frock, frilled
and flounced, and she had a fashionable little hat on her head, which
stuck up in front, so that the wind was always catching it and blowing
it off. She had tight kid gloves on her little hands, and beautiful
little bronze kid boots on her feet; so you see she was very poor
indeed.
The carriage rolled slowly along through the park, and the little girl
saw many other poor children, also sitting in carriages, with tight
kid gloves and kid boots; she nodded to them, and they to her, but
it was not very interesting. By and by they left the park, and drove
out into the country, where there were green fields, with no signs to
keep people off the grass. The grass was full of buttercups, and in one
field were two little girls, running about, with their hands full of
the lovely golden blossoms, laughing and shouting to each other. One
had a pink calico dress on, and the other a brown gingham, and they
were barefooted, and their sunbonnets were lying on the grass. The poor
little girl looked at them with sparkling eyes.
“Oh, Mademoiselle!” she cried, “may I get out and run about a little?
See what a good time those children are having! Do let me jump out,
please!”
“_Fi donc_, Claire!” said the lady who sat beside her. She was a thin,
dark lady, with sharp, eager black eyes, and not a pleasant face. “_Fi
donc!_ What would madame, your mother, say, if she heard you desiring
to run in the fields like the beggar children? Those children—dirty
little wretches!—are barefooted, and it is evident that their hair
has never known the brush. Do not look at them, child! Look at the
prospect!”
“I don’t care about the prospect!” said the poor child. “I want some
buttercups. We never have buttercups at our house, Mademoiselle. I wish
I might pick just a few!”
“Assuredly not!” cried Mademoiselle, her eyes growing blacker and
sharper. “Let you leave the carriage and run about in the mire, for the
sake of a few common, vulgar flowers? Look at your dress, Claire! Look
at your delicate shoes, and your new pearl-colored gloves! Are these
the things to run in the dirt with? I will not be responsible for such
conduct. Sit still, and when we reach home the gardener shall pick you
some roses.”
“I don’t want roses!” said the poor little girl, sighing wearily. “I am
tired of roses. I want buttercups!”
She sighed again, and leaned back on the velvet cushions; the carriage
rolled on. The barefoot children gazed after it with wondering eyes.
“My!” said one, “wasn’t she dressed fine, though!”
“Yes,” said the other; “but she looked as if she was having a horrid
time, poor thing.”
“Poor thing!” echoed the first child.