screaming to his mother if he got a scratch, as if a wild tiger were
after him; and if you said anything to him about it, he'd pout, and
stick out his lips so far that you might have hung your hat on 'em! It
was like drawing teeth to get him to go across the room to hand you a
newspaper. He ought to have had a little world all to himself, hadn't
he?
Well, I used to pity him--there was nothing child-like about him. He
always seemed to me like a little wizzled-up, miserly old man. He never
tossed his cap up in the air, and laughed a good hearty laugh; he never
sprang or ran, or climbed or shouted; no--he crawled round as if he had
lead weights on his heels, and talked without scarce moving his lips,
and wore a face as long as the horse's in your father's barn. _Such_ a
boy as he was! Had he been mine I should have tried to get some life
into him somehow.
When his mother was told of his faults, she'd say, "Oh, he'll out-grow
them by and by." I knew better. I knew that his selfishness would grow
as fast as he did; and that when he came to be a man, he would be
unfeeling to the poor, and make hard bargains with them, and wring the
last penny out of their poor, threadbare pockets.
Poor Matthew! he'll never be happy; no--he never'll know the luxury of
making a sad face bright, or of drying up the tear of the despairing;
and when he dies he can't carry his money _with_ him--he has got to
leave it at the tomb door,--and who, do you suppose, will come there to
mourn for him?
Oh, dear children, be _generous_--if you haven't but half a stick of
candy, give _somebody_ a bite of it. Perhaps some child will say "But I
haven't anything _to give_." That's a mistake; that boy or girl isn't
living who has nothing to give. Give your sympathy--give pleasant words
and beaming smiles to the sad and weary-hearted. If a little child goes
to your school who is poorly clad, patched, darned; nay, even
ragged;--if the tear starts to his eye when your schoolmates laugh, and
shun, and refuse to play with him--just you go right up and put your
arms round his neck; ask him to play with _you_. _Love him_;--love
sometimes is meat and drink and clothing. You can all love the sad and
sorrowful. Then never say you have "_nothing to give_."
CITY CHILDREN.
I wonder where all the little children are? I can't find any here in
New-York. There are plenty of young gentlemen and ladies, with little
high-heeled boots, and ruffled shirts, who step gingerly, carry
perfumed handkerchiefs, use big words, talk about parties, but who
would be quite at a loss how to use a hoop or a jump rope--little pale,
candy-fed creatures, with lustreless eyes, flabby limbs, and no more
life than a toad imbedded in a rock,--little tailor and milliner "lay
figures," stiff, fine and artificial.
No; there are no little _children_ here. I'm very sorry;--I love little
children. I used to know some once, with broad, full chests; plump,
round limbs; feet that knew how to run, and hands that could venture to
go through an entry without drawing on a kid glove,--blithe, merry
little children, who got up and went to bed with the sun; who fed on
fresh, new milk, and stepped on daisies, and knew more about
butter-cups and clover blossoms, than parties and fashions,--little
guileless children, who danced and jumped and laughed for the same
reason the birds sing--_because they couldn't help it_,--who didn't
care any more than the birds, whether their plumage was red, green,
yellow or brown, so that they could dart and skim and hop where they
liked, warble when they had a mind, and fold their wings where they
pleased, when weary. But _these_ little city hot-house plants,
shivering, shrinking, drooping--I had almost said _dying_, every time
the wind blows--it quite makes my heart ache.
I think I must go hunt up their mammas, and beg them to give their
little sensitive plants more air and sunshine, to make them hardy. Dear
me! the mammas here are never at home. Some are in the great ladies'
saloon (bright with gilding and mirrors,) in Broadway, sipping red
"cordial," eating sugared wine drops and French cakes, and chattering
with the gentlemen; some are at Madam Modeste's, planning a new ball
dress, and talking about feathers and fashions; some are looking at a
set of diamonds at the jewellers; and some are still in bed, although
it is high noon, because they danced themselves so weary last night.
So, poor little things, I suppose you must stay in your heated
nurseries, bleaching like potato sprouts in a dark cellar, till Molly
or Betty think best to let you out. Well, Aunt Fanny would be _so_ glad
to tie a little sun-bonnet on your head, put on a dress loose enough to
run in, and take you off into the country a while. She'd show you
little cups and saucers, made of acorns, that would beat all they have
in the Broadway toy-shops, (and cost you nothing, either); and soft,
green seats of moss, embroidered with little golden flowers, much
handsomer than any the upholsterer could put in your mamma's drawing
room, (and which never fade in the sunlight); then she'd show you a
pretty picture of bright green fields, where a silver stream goes
dancing through, where little fish dart beneath, where the heated
cattle come to drink, and the little birds dip their wings, then are
off and away!
Oh, such merry times as we'd have! I know where the purple geranium
grows; where the bright scarlet columbine blushes, and where the pale
wax plant hides under its glossy green leaf. I know where the blue eyed
anemone blossoms; I know where the bright lobelia nods its royal
scarlet head; (I know how to pull off my shoes and wade in after it,
too); and I know how to make a wreath of it for your pretty little
head. Oh, I know how to make your eyes shine--and your little heart
happy. So tie on your sun-bonnet, and come with me,--the more the
merrier. I don't believe your mammas will ever know you, when I bring
you back.
ROSALIE AND BETTY.
Everybody called Rosalie a beauty. Everybody was right. Her cheeks
looked like a ripe peach; her hair waved over as fair a forehead as
ever a zephyr kissed; her eyes and mouth were as perfect as eyes and
mouth could be; no violet was softer or bluer than the one, no rose-bud
sweeter than the other. All colors became Rosalie, and whatever she did
was gracefully done.
Yes, everybody thought Rosalie was "a beauty." _Rosalie thought so
herself._ So, she took no pains to be good, or amiable, or obliging.
She never cared about learning anything, for she said to herself, I can
afford to have my own way; I can afford to be a dunce if I like; I
shall be always sought and admired for my pretty face.
So, Rosalie dressed as tastefully as she and the dress-maker knew how,
and looked _up_ to show her fine eyes, and _down_ to show her long
eye-lashes, and held up her dress and hopped over little imaginary
puddles, to show her pretty feet; and smiled to show her white teeth;
and danced to show her fine form--and was as brilliant and as brainless
as a butterfly.
Now, I suppose you think that Rosalie was very happy. Not at all! She
was in a perfect fidget lest she should not get all the admiration she
wanted. She was torturing herself all the while, for fear some prettier
face would come along, and eclipse hers. If she went to a party and
every person in the room (but one) admired her, she would fret herself
sick, because _that one_ didn't bow down and worship her.
Never having studied or read anything, Rosalie could talk nothing but
nonsense; so, everybody who conversed with her, talked nonsense, too,
and paid her silly compliments, and made her believe that all she
needed to make her _quite_ an angel was a pair of wings; and then she
would hold her pretty head on one side, and simper; and they would go
away laughing in their sleeves, and saying, "What a vain little fool
Rosalie is!"
Now, Rosalie's cousin Hetty was as plain as a chestnut-bur. She had not
a single pretty feature in her face. Nobody ever thought of calling
Hetty a beauty, and _she knew it_! She was used to being overlooked;
but she didn't go whining round and making herself unhappy about
it,--not she. She just put her mind on something else. She studied, and
read books, and learned a great many useful things; so, she had a great
deal in her mind to think of, and went singing about as happy as could
be, without minding whether anybody noticed her or not.
So she grew up sweet-tempered, amiable, generous and happy. When she
went into company, strangers would say, "What a plain little body Hetty
is." If they could not find anybody else to talk to, they'd go speak to
her. Then Hetty would look up at them with one of her quiet smiles, and
commence talking. She would say a great many very sensible things, and
some queer ones, and they would listen--and listen--and listen--and by
and by look at their watch and wonder what _had_ made time fly so; and
then go home, wondering to themselves _how they could ever call such an
agreeable girl as Hetty "homely_."
So you see, everybody learned to love her when they found out what a
_beautiful soul_ she had; and while Rosalie was pining and fretting
herself sick because her beauty was fading, and her admirers were
dropping off one by one, to flatter prettier faces, Hetty went quietly
on her way, winning hearts and----_keeping them, too_.
THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
How many of my little readers have seen the Crystal Palace, in
New-York? Those of you who have, can skip these pages, while I talk to
some of your little bright-eyed country cousins, who have never been
there.
You know, my dear little daisies, that poor city children, who have to
walk on brick pavements, and breathe bad air, ought to have something
by way of a sugar plum, now and then, to make up for it. So, you
mustn't pout because _they_ have seen the Crystal Palace, and _you_
have not.
You know John Bull got up a Crystal Palace in England, some time since,
to which people of all nations sent articles of their own making,--not
to sell, but to show the great crowd who came to look at them what they
could do when they tried. It was a grand thing, because it made them
anxious to finish off everything in the best possible manner; and as
many of the articles were very useful, it did a great deal of good.
Then, it brought thousands of people to see it, and that made Adam's
sons and daughters better acquainted, and more sociable, and happier;
so, it was a very excellent thing on that account.
Well, you know that we Americans are a very smart people, (ask your
grandfather if we are not,) and we made up our minds that we would show
John Bull, and Sandy, and Pat, a Crystal Palace of our own; and when an
American says he will do a thing--it is done!
So, I was not at all astonished at what I saw last night;--such a
beautiful building,--such a splendid glass roof--such a blaze of light,
(for it was evening) my eyes were almost put out! I couldn't begin to
tell you all the pretty things there were in it, but if you wish to
know what I wanted more than anything else, it was a little marble
statue (I suppose you would call it "an image") of a sleeping child. It
had the prettiest, plumpest little dimpled limbs, you ever saw, and
such an innocent little cherub face; I wanted to catch it up and run
away with it.
There were a great many very beautiful statues there, some of which
would have made you cuddle very close up to your mother, and hold her
hand very tight; for instance, one statue representing a dead mother
with a live baby lying on her breast, and a great, strong eagle
fastening its claws in the little baby to carry it off. And then, there
was a statue of an enormous bear, giving a poor man _such_ a
hugging--squeezing the very life out of him; he wouldn't have had to
squeeze you at all to kill you, for the very sight of such a grizzly
monster would have scared you to death in an instant.
Then there was a glass case full of swords, and dirks, and daggers, and
all sorts of instruments to kill people; and you would have been as
glad as I was, had you seen them hanging up there so harmlessly,
instead of making widows and orphans, on the battlefield.
Then, there were beautiful pianos with silver keys, and rich sofas, and
bedsteads, and chairs, and tables, and bureaus; and pretty, tempting
work-boxes, full of all sorts of knick-knacks to tempt ladies to be
industrious; and such dainty little writing desks!--oh, I can tell you,
it was very hard work not to covet those.
Then the diamonds, and amethysts, and emeralds, and pearls, and rubies,
fit for a queen's diadem;--they flashed in my eyes till I was almost
blind--but I would rather have had that little image of the sleeping
baby than the whole of them.
Then there were silks, and satins, and gauzes, and embroideries, and
worsted jackets, and tippets, and gloves, and shoes fit for Cinderella.
Then there were dolls, (boys and girls) dressed up to show off the
fashions. I should be sorry to see you finified up so. Then, there was
a beautiful baby's cradle, lined with soft, white satin, with a rich
lace curtain, fit for Queen Victoria's baby, or your mother's; and a
tiny little robe and cap lying near it, delicate as a lily leaf.
Then there was a tall wax lady dressed in deep black, (black eyes too)
to show off the mourning goods; and between you and me, I think she
_mourned_ quite as much as a great many persons who put on black.
Then there was a pyramid of perfumery--done up in bottles--enough to
sweeten the handkerchiefs and dispositions of all the young ladies in
New-York.
Then there were silver and gold tea-sets, and dishes and trays, and
knives and forks, for rich ladies who like to be tied to a bunch of
keys, and sleep with one eye open.
Then there were beautiful pictures, which many a poor artist had toiled
and sighed over, and which I should like to give him a good bag of
money for, and then hang them up in my parlor. Pictures are such
pleasant, quiet company.
Then there were a great many machines, and instruments, and engines, of
much importance, which grown up people would be interested in, but
which I will not describe to you.
Well, these pretty things I have told you about were not all on the
lower floor of the Palace. No; part of them were in the galleries. You
could sit there and look down below upon the great statue of General
Washington on horseback; upon Daniel Webster; and then, upon the
Lilliputians that were walking around looking at them; then, you could
shut your eyes and listen to the music, and fancy you were in some
enchanted region, for it was quite like a fairy tale, the whole of it.
KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY.
I am an old maid. Perhaps I might have been married. Perhaps not. I
don't know as that is anybody's business.
I have a little room I call my own. There's a bedstead in it covered
with a patched quilt, made of as many colors as "Joseph's coat," and an
old-fashioned bureau with great claw feet, and a chair whose cushion is
stuffed with cotton batting; a wash-stand, a table, and a looking-glass
over it. At the side of the looking-glass is a picture of Daniel
Webster, which I look at oftener than in the looking-glass--for I am an
ugly old maid, and Daniel was one of a thousand.
Old maids like to have a good time, as well as other folks; so, I don't
shut myself up moping in my little salt-box of a room. When the four
walls close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I
go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,)
sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all
three;--sometimes I stay all night.
Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the
colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if
Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to
me and slips a dicky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say
nothing.
I have lately made the acquaintance of a new family, by the name of
Tompkins; and very pleasant people they are, too. They have a whole
house full of children,--not one too many, according to my way of
thinking. Louisas and Jennys, and Marthas and Marys, and Tommys and
Johnnys, besides a little baby that its mother has never had time to
name.
I love to watch little children. I love to hear them talk when they
don't think I am listening. I love to read to them and watch their eyes
sparkle. I love to play with them, and walk with them. They are often
much pleasanter company than grown people--at least, so Kizzy thinks.
But that is only an old maid's opinion.
I hadn't visited at the Tompkins' long, before I noticed that little
"Luly," as they called her, was one by herself; that is, she was not a
favorite with the rest of the family. At first I didn't understand how
it was, and I felt very much like saying I didn't like it; for Luly
seemed to be a nice little girl, and playful as a little kitty. She was
always laughing, singing, and dancing--now in at one door, and now out
at the other, like a will-o'-the-wisp, or a jack-o'-lantern. Why on
earth they didn't like Luly, I couldn't see. Being an old maid, of
course I couldn't rest easy till I found out the reason of this; and I
soon did it, as you'll see, if you read on to the end of my story.
One day Luly came to me saying, "Tell me a story, there's a good Kizzy,
I am tired of running round."
Well, I knit to my seam needle, and then I took her up on my lap and
began:
Once there was a little girl whose name was Violetta. She had never
kept still five minutes since she was born, and I suppose the
shoemakers were very glad of it. She was as much like a little squirrel
as a little girl could be--nibbling and scampering, scampering and
nibbling, from sunrise to sunset.
When Violetta came into the room, everybody looked uneasy. If her papa
was writing, he'd lay one hand over his papers, and push his ink-stand
as far as possible into the middle of the table; mamma would catch up
her work-basket and put it in her lap; her little brothers and sisters
would all scrabble up their playthings, and run; even the little baby
would crawl on its hands and knees as fast as it could, and catch hold
of its mother's gown.
You might be sure if you laid a thing out of your hand, you never would
find it in the same spot where you left it, if Violetta were in the
room. She would run off with your scissors, your bodkin, your
needlebook, and your spool of cotton; she would stuff your handkerchief
in her pocket by mistake; she'd break the strings of your bag, trying
to open it; she'd try your spectacles on to her kitten, and tie your
new tippet on the dog Ponto's neck.
Then she would run into the kitchen and dip her fingers into the
preserves, and upset the egg-basket, and open the oven door and let the
heat all out when the pies were baking, and leave the cover off the
sugar bucket, and dip into the milk to feed her kitty, and disturb the
cream, and nibble round a loaf of fresh cake, just like a little mouse.
Well, of course everybody disliked her, and hated to see her come where
they were. She never got invited anywhere, because nothing was safe
from her little Paul Pry fingers; and when company came she generally
got sent out of the room. It was a great pity, because she was really a
pretty little girl, and a very bright one, too.
"Oh, Miss Kizzy," said Luly, "I never will do so any more, I----"
Why, Luly, I didn't say _you_ did so; I was talking about Violetta.
"Oh, but it is just like _me_," said the honest little girl; "I have
done all those things, Miss Kizzy--every one of them; but I didn't
think it would make everybody hate me. I want to be loved, Miss Kizzy;
but you don't know how dreadful hard it is for a little girl to 'keep
still.'"
Yes I do, Luly; and you needn't "keep still," as you call it, but you
mustn't meddle with what don't belong to you. I see how it is: you are
a very active little girl, and want something to do all the time. I'll
ask your mother to let you go to school--(Luly frowned)--to me, Luly!
"Oh, that's so nice," said Luly. "Don't get a bench--will you? Don't
make me set up straight. Don't make me fold up my hands and keep my
toes still, will you, Miss Kizzy?"
Well, Luly came to my school, and stood up or sat down, just as she
liked. She was the only scholar I had, so I was not particular about
that; but after she had learned to read, she would "keep still" for
hours together without minding it, if you'd only give her a book.
Poor little Luly; she didn't _mean_ to be naughty; she only wanted
something to do. She is one of the best little girls now that ever
carried a satchel.
NEW-YORK IN SHADOW.
My dear little readers: But a step or two from the famous Broadway, in
New-York, where one sees so much riches and splendor, is a place called
the "Five Points," where the wicked poor live, huddled together in
garrets and cellars, half starved, half naked, and dirty, and wretched,
beyond what _you_, in your pure and happy homes, ever could dream of.
They were recently so numerous, so strong, and so cunning, that even
the police were afraid to go among them, for fear they should get
killed.
A good man by the name of Mr. Pease heard of this dreadful place, and
went down there to see what he could do to make the people better. I
had heard how much good he had done, and to-day I went down to the Five
Points to see for myself.
Oh, I couldn't tell you half the misery that stared me in the face, as
I passed through those streets. Slatternly women, huddled round cellar
doors; dirty children, half naked, playing in the muddy gutters, and
hearing words that may never, never be written for you to read.
Then, there were drinking shops, with such shocking odors issuing from
doors and windows; and red-faced, blear-eyed men, half drunk, leaning
against the barrels, and sitting on the side-walks; and decayed fruit,
in windows so thick with dirt that one could scarcely see through them;
and second-hand, faded dresses and bonnets for sale, swinging from out
the doorways; and girls with uncombed hair and bare feet and bold
faces, fighting and swearing; and old, gray-haired men, smoking pipes
and drinking. I was quite sick at heart, and was glad to get into Mr.
Pease's house, and find _something_ doing to make things better.
Mr. Pease is a very sensible man, as well as a kind hearted one. Some
people who had always had enough to eat, drink, and wear themselves,
wished him only to pray for, and talk to these poor creatures, and give
them tracts; but Mr. Pease knew that many of them were willing to work,
and only stole because they could not get work to do, and must either
steal or starve. So he knew it was no use to talk and tell them they
must be good, so long as he didn't show them any way by which they
could earn their living honestly.
So, like a sensible man, in the first place he took a shop, and got a
great many coarse shirts to make, and told these poor women if they
would come in and make them, he would pay them money, and then they
needn't steal. And they came, too; for many of them were weary enough
of such a wretched life. Nobody likes to be dirty, instead of clean;
nobody likes to be despised, instead of loved; nobody likes a
police-man's hand on his throat, instead of the twining arms of the
good and pure.
No, indeed! Nobody _likes_ to be afraid to look up at the holy stars,
lest their bright eyes should see into their dark souls; nobody likes
to drink till they are senseless as a beast, to stifle the sweet voice
of conscience; nobody likes to be hungry, or thirsty, or sick and
diseased, or so miserable that death would be a blessing.
No, no--no, no! my dear children. So, these poor creatures came
flocking to Mr. Pease's shop, _glad_ to work,--glad of a _chance to
be honest_,--glad to see somebody, like Mr. Pease, who would reach
out his hand and _pull_ them out of this SEA OF SIN, instead of
standing on shore, with his hands folded, while they were drowning,
reading them a tract. They saw that he was _in earnest_,--they saw that
he didn't think himself too good to come right down and _live_ in that
dreadful neighborhood, if he only could help them. And then, when he
had shown them how to put honest bread in their mouths,--when he had
found the way to their hearts, (for these wretched creatures _have_
hearts,)--_then_ he talked to them of God and Heaven, till the tears
rained down their cheeks,--then he asked them to promise him to "go
and sin no more;" and they have kept their word, too. Isn't that good?