Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 8

it not?" said my friend, glancing complacently at a
long procession of little charity children, who were passing, two and

two--two and two--with closely cropped heads, little close-fitting
sun-bonnets and dark dresses; "pleasant sight, is it not, Fanny?"
Yes--no--no, said I, courageously, it gives me the heart-ache. Oh, I see
as you do, that their clothes are clean and whole, and that they are
drilled like a little regiment of soldiers, (heads up,) but I long to see
them step out of those prim ranks, and shout and scamper. I long to
stuff their little pockets full of anything--everything, that other little
pets have. I want to get them round me, and tell them some comical
stories to take the care-worn look out of their anxious little faces. I
want to see them twist their little heads round when they hear a noise,
instead of keeping them straight forward as if they were "on duty." I
want to know if anybody tucks them up comfortably when they go to
bed, and gives them a good-night kiss. I want to know if they get a
beaming smile, and a kind word in the morning. I want to know who
soothes them when they are in pain; and if they dare say so, when they
feel lonely, and have the heart-ache. I want to see the tear roll freely
down the cheek, (instead of being wiped slyly away,) when they see
happy little ones trip gaily past, hand in hand, with a kind father, or
mother. I want to know if "Thanksgiving" and "Christmas" and "New
Year's" and "Home" are anything but empty sounds in their orphan
ears.
I know their present state is better than vicious poverty, and so I try to
say with my friend, "it is a pleasant sight;" but the words die on my lip;
for full well I know it takes something more than food, shelter and
clothing, to make a child happy. Its little heart, like a delicate vine, will
throw out its tendrils for something to lean on--something to cling to;
and so I can only say again, the sight of those charity orphans gives me
the heart-ache.

DON'T GET ANGRY.
"I hate you," Aunt Fanny, said a little boy, pouting and snapping his
boots with the little riding whip in his hand; you laughed to-day at
dinner, when I burned my mouth with my soup, and I never shall love
you again--never!--said the little passionate boy.

Now, Harry, what a pity!--and my pocket handkerchiefs all in the wash,
too! That's right--laugh;--now I'll tell you a story.
I've been to the State Prison to-day, and I almost wish I hadn't
gone--such a sick feeling came over me when I saw those poor
prisoners. Oh, Harry! how pale and miserable they looked, in those
ugly, striped clothes, with their heads closely shaven, working away at
their different trades, with a stout man watching them so sharply, to see
that they didn't speak to each other; and some of them very young, too.
Oh, it was very sad. I almost felt afraid to look at them, for fear it
would hurt their feelings, and I longed to tell them that my heart was
full of pity, and not to get discouraged, and not to despair.
Such little, close cells as they sleep in at night,--it almost stifled me to
think of it,--and so dismal and cheerless, too, with an iron door to bolt
them in. On Sunday they stay in their cells nearly all day, and some of
the cells are so dark that they cannot see even to read the Bible allowed
them: and there they lie, thinking over, and over, and over, their own
sad thoughts. So you can't wonder that they dread Sunday very much,
and are very glad to be put to hard work again on Monday, to get rid of
thinking.
Then we saw them march into dinner--just like soldiers, in single file,
with a guard close beside them, that they should not run away. I
suppose they were very glad to eat what was laid on those wooden
plates, but you or I would have gone hungry a long while first. In fact, I
think, Harry, that PRISON food would choke me any how, though it
were roast turkey or plum pudding. I'm quite sure my gypsey throat
would refuse to swallow it.
Then we went into the Hospital for the sick prisoners. It is hard to be
sick in one's own home, even, with kind friends around; but to be sick
in a prison!--to lie on such a narrow bed that you cannot toss about,--to
bear, (beside your own pain and misery,) the moanings of your sick
companions,--to see through the grated windows the bright, blue sky,
the far off hills,