"In the principal street of San Francisco stood a small female orphan,
marking time like a volunteer. Her little bare feet imprinted cold
kisses on the paving-stones as she put them down and drew them up
alternately. The chilling rain was having a good time with her scalp,
and toyed soppily with her hair--her own hair. The night-wind shrewdly
searched her tattered garments, as if it had suspected her of smuggling.
She saw crowds of determined-looking persons grimly ruining themselves
in toys and confectionery for the dear ones at home, and she wished she
was in a position to ruin a little--just a little. Then, as the happy
throng sped by her with loads of things to make the children sick, she
leaned against an iron lamp-post in front of a bake-shop and turned on
the wicked envy. She thought, poor thing, she would like to be a
cake--for this little girl was very hungry indeed. Then she tried again,
and thought she would like to be a tart with smashed fruit inside; then
she would be warmed over every day and nobody would eat her. For the
child was cold as well as hungry. Finally, she tried quite hard, and
thought she could be very well content as an oven; for then she would be
kept always hot, and bakers would put all manner of good things into her
with a long shovel."
S.E.--I've read that somewhere.
P.C.--Very likely. This little story has never been rejected by any
paper to which I have offered it. It gets better, too, every time I
write it. When it first appeared in _Veracity_ the editor said it cost
him a hundred subscribers. Just mark the improvement! (_Reads_.)
"The hours glided by--except a few that froze to the pavement--until
midnight. The streets were now deserted, and the almanac having
predicted a new moon about this time, the lamps had been conscientiously
extinguished. Suddenly a great globe of sound fell from an adjacent
church-tower, and exploded on the night with a deep metallic boom. Then
all the clocks and bells began ringing-in the New Year--pounding and
banging and yelling and finishing off all the nervous invalids left over
from the preceding Sunday. The little orphan started from her dream,
leaving a small patch of skin on the frosted lamp-post, clasped her thin
blue hands and looked upward, 'with mad disquietude,'"--