Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 2

buttercups in the meadows. Her
little dog Fidele is weary waiting for her, and her sweet-voiced canary
has forgotten to sing. Has anybody seen my little Nelly? She had eyes
blue as the summer heavens, hair like woven sunbeams, teeth like seed
pearls, and a voice soft as the wind sighing through the river willows.
Nelly is not down by the river? No; she never goes where I bid her not.
She is not at the neighbors? No; for she is as shy as a wood-pigeon.
Where can my little pet be? There is her doll--(Fenella she called it,
because it was so tiny,)--she made its dress with her own slender
fingers, laughing the while, because she was so awkward a little
dress-maker. There is her straw hat,--she made that oak-leaf wreath
about the crown one bright summer day, as we sat on the soft moss in
the cool fragrant wood. Nelly liked the woods. She liked to lie with her
ear to the ground and make believe hear the fairies talk; she liked to
look up in the tall trees, and see the bright-winged oriole dart through

the branches; she liked to watch the clouds, and fancy that in their
queer shapes she saw cities, and temples, and chariots, and people; she
liked to see the lightning play; she liked the bright rainbows. She liked
to gather the sweet wild flowers, that breathe out their little day of
sweetness in some sheltered nook; she liked the cunning little squirrel,
peeping slily from some mossy tree-trunk; she liked to see the bright
sun wrap himself in his golden mantle, and sink behind the hills; she
liked the first little silver star that stole softly out on the dark, blue sky;
she liked the last faint note of the little bird, as it folded its soft wings
to sleep; she liked to lay her cheek to mine, as her eyes filled with
happy tears, because God had made the world so very fair.
Where is our Nelly?
She is not talking with Papa?--no; he can't find her either. He wants to
see her trip down the gravel walk to meet him when business hours are
over, and he has nothing to do but to come home and love us. He wants
her to ramble with; he wants that little velvet cheek to kiss when he
wakes each morning.
Where is Nelly?
I am sure she loved Papa. It was she who ran to warm his slippers when
his horse's feet came prancing down the avenue. It was she who
wheeled the arm-chair to its nice, snug corner; it was she who ran for
the dressing-gown; it was she who tucked in the pockets a sly bit of
candy, that she had hoarded all day for "poor, tired Papa." It was she
who laid her soft hand upon his throbbing temples, when those long,
ugly rows of figures at the counting-room, had given him such a cruel
headache. It was she who kneeled beside her bed and taught herself this
little prayer. "Please, God, let me die before my Papa."
Where is Nelly?
My dear little pets, the flowers shed dewy tears over her bright, young
head long time ago. God did "let her go before Papa," and then ... he
took Papa, too. Here is a lock of raven hair, and a long, golden
ringlet--all that is left of Nelly and Papa--but in that blessed land,

where tears are wiped away, Aunt Fanny knows her "lost are found."

LITTLE GEORGE'S STORY.
My Aunt Libby patted me on the head the other day and said, "George,
my boy, this is the happiest part of your life." I guess my Aunt Libby
don't know much. I guess she never worked a week to make a kite, and
the first time she went to fly it got the tail hitched in a tall tree, whose
owner wouldn't let her climb up to disentangle it. I guess she never
broke one of the runners of her sled some Saturday afternoon, when it
was "prime" coasting. I guess she never had to give her biggest marbles
to a great lubberly boy, because he would thrash her if she didn't. I
guess she never had a "hockey stick" play round her ankles in recess,
because she got above a fellow in the class. I guess she never had him
twitch off her best cap, and toss it in a mud-puddle. I guess she never
had to give her humming-top to quiet the baby, and had the paint all
sucked off. I guess she never saved up all her coppers a whole winter to
buy a trumpet, and then was told she must not blow it, because it would
make a noise.
No--I guess my Aunt Libby don't know