Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 6

they meet her. Floy thinks it is very nice all
round. Dear, innocent little Floy!

THE LAKE TRIP;
OR,
GOING A FISHING.
Oh! Aunty, it has done raining! The sun is shining so brightly; we are
going to the Lake to fish--Papa says so--you and Papa, and Bell, and
Harry, and Emma, and Agnes, and our dog Bruno.
Of course, Aunty, who was always on hand for such trips, wasn't five
minutes springing to her feet, and in less than half an hour Pat stood at
the door with the carriage, (that somehow or other always held as many

as wanted to go, whether it were five, or forty-five;) "Papa" twisting the
reins over hats and bonnets with the dexterity of a Jehu; jolt--jolt--on
we go, over pebble stones--over plank roads--past cottages--past
farms--up hill and down, till we reach "the Lake."
Shall I tell you how we tip-toed into the little egg-shell boats? How,
after a great deal of talk, we all were seated to our minds--how each
one had a great fishing rod put into our hands--how Aunty, (who never
fished before,) got laughed at for refusing to stick the cruel hook into
the quivering little minnows used for "bait"--and how, when they fixed
it for her, she forgot all about moving it round, so beautiful was the
"blue above, and the blue below," until a great fish twitched at her line,
telling her to leave off dreaming and mind her business--and how it
made her feel so bad to see them tear the hook from the mouth of the
poor fish she was so UN-lucky as to catch, that she coaxed them to put
her ashore, telling them it was pleasure not pain she came after--and
how they laughed and floated off down the Lake, leaving her on a
green moss patch, under a big tree--and how she rambled all along
shore gathering the tiniest little shells that ever a wave tossed up--and
how she took off her shoes and stockings and dipped her feet in the
cool water, and listened to the bees' drowsy hum from the old tree trunk
close by, and watched the busy ant stagger home, under the weight of
his well earned morsel--and how she made a bridge of stones over a
little streamlet to pluck some crimson lobelias, growing on the other
side, and some delicate, bell-shaped flowers, fit only for a fairy's bridal
wreath,--and how she wandered till sunset came on, and the Lake's pure
breast was all a-glow, and then, how she lay under that old tree,
listening to the plashing waves, and watching the little birds, dipping
their golden wings into the rippling waters, then soaring aloft to the
rosy tinted clouds? Shall I tell you how the grand old hills, forest
crowned, stretched off into the dim distance--and how sweet the music
of childhood's ringing laugh, heard from the far-off shore--or how
Aunty thought 'twas such a pity that sin, and tears, and sorrow, should
ever blight so fair a world?
But Aunty mustn't make you sad; here come the children leaping from
the boat; they've "caught few fish," but a great deal of sunshine,

(judging from their happy faces.) God bless the little voyagers, all; the
laughing Agnes, the pensive Emma, the dove-eyed, tender-hearted
Mary, the rosy Bell, the fearless Harry. In the green pastures by the still
waters, may the dear Shepherd fold them.

"MILK FOR BABES."
Once in a while I have a way of thinking!--and to-day it struck me that
children should have a minister of their own. Yes, a child's minister!
For amid the "strong meat" for older disciples, the "milk for babes"
spoken of by the infant, loving Saviour, seems to be, strangely enough,
forgotten.
Yes, I remember the "Sabbath Schools;" and God bless and prosper
them--as far as they go. But--there's your little Charles--he says to you
on Saturday night,--"Mother, what day is it to-morrow?" "Sunday, my
pet." "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so tired Sundays."
Poor Charley! he goes to church because he is bid--and often when he
gets there, has the most uncomfortable seat in the pew--used as a sort of
human wedge, to fill up some triangular corner. From one year's end to
another, he hears nothing from that pulpit he can understand. It is all
Greek and Latin to him, those big words, and rhetorical flourishes, and
theological nuts, thrown out for "wisdom-teeth" to crack. So he counts
the buttons on his jacket, and the bows on his mother's bonnet, and he
wonders how the feathers in that lady's hat before him can be higher
than the pulpit or the minister; (for he can't see either.) And then he
wonders, if the chandelier should fall, if he couldn't have one of those
sparkling glass drops,--and then he