Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 4

"no nice place to cry." You didn't know that through the long,
weary day, her mamma never took her gently on her lap,--or kissed her
pale face,--or read her pretty stories, to charm her pain away,--or told
her of that happy home, where none shall say, I'm sick. You didn't
know that she never went to her little bed at night, to smooth her pillow,
or put aside the ringlets from the flushed cheek, or kneel by the little
bed, and ask the dear All Father to heal and bless her child. You didn't
know that she danced till the stars grew pale, while poor little Mabel
tossed restlessly from side to side, longing for a cool draught for her
parched lip.
"You won't be naughty any more?"--that's a darling. And now
remember, my dear little Matty, that money is not happiness;--that fine
clothes and fine carriages are not happiness;--and that even this bright,
beautiful world, with its birds, its flowers, and its sunshine, is dark
without a loving heart to rest upon. Thank God for kind parents and a
happy home, 'Tis you who are rich, Matty; pray for poor Mabel.

THE BABY'S COMPLAINT.
Now, I suppose you think, because you never see me do anything but
feed and sleep, that I have a very nice time of it. Let me tell you that
you are mistaken, and that I am tormented half to death, although I
never say anything about it. How should you like every morning to
have your nose washed up, instead of down? How should you like to
have a pin put through your dress into your skin, and have to bear it all
day till your clothes were taken off at night? How should you like to be
held so near the fire that your eyes were half scorched out of your head,
while your nurse was reading a novel? How should you like to have a
great fly light on your nose, and not know how to take aim at him, with
your little, fat, useless fingers? How should you like to be left alone in
the room to take a nap, and have a great pussy jump into your cradle,
and sit staring at you with her great green eyes, till you were all of a
tremble? How should you like to reach out your hand for the pretty
bright candle, and find out that it was way across the room, instead of
close by? How should you like to tire yourself out crawling way across
the carpet, to pick up a pretty button or pin, and have it snatched away,
as soon as you begin to enjoy it? I tell you it is enough to ruin any
baby's temper. How should you like to have your mamma stay at a
party till you were as hungry as a little cub, and be left to the mercy of
a nurse, who trotted you up and down till every bone in your body
ached? How should you like, when your mamma dressed you up all
pretty to take the nice, fresh air, to spend the afternoon with your nurse
in some smoky kitchen, while she gossipped with one of her cronies?
How should you like to submit to have your toes tickled by all the little
children who insisted upon "seeing the baby's feet?" How should you
like to have a dreadful pain under your apron, and have everybody call
you "a little cross thing," when you couldn't speak to tell what was the
matter with you? How should you like to crawl to the top stair, (just to
look about a little,) and pitch heels over head from the top to the
bottom?
Oh, I can tell you it is no joke to be a baby! Such a thinking as we keep
up; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to get our brains

knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a sensible baby, who is
in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait to grow up.

LITTLE FLOY;
OR,
TEARS AND SMILES.
It was a very hot morning in August, when little Floy stopped to look in
at a city fruiterer's window. There were bright golden apples, nice juicy
pears, plump bunches of grapes, luscious plums and peaches, and
mammoth melons. In truth, it was a very tempting show, to a little girl,
who lived on dry bread and milk, and sometimes had not enough of that.
It was not, however, of herself that Floy was thinking, as the tears
started to her large blue eyes, and she pushed back her faded
sun-bonnet, and looked wistfully at the "forbidden fruit."
Floy once lived in a beautiful house in the country, with her papa and