Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 8

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, and the silver streams threading the green meadows,--to be shut in from the fresh breeze, that would bring you life and health,--to pine and waste away, and think to die, without one dear hand to press yours lovingly--oh, Harry!
One of the sick prisoners had a little squirrel. The squirrel was a prisoner, too. He was in a cage--but then sometimes he was let out; and to please me, the door was opened for him. Didn't he jump? poor squirrel! He had no soul--so he wasn't as miserable as his sick keeper; but I'm mistaken if he wouldn't have liked a nut to crack, of his own finding in some leafy wood, where the green moss lies thickly cushioned, and the old trees serve him for ladders!
On a bench in the Hospital was seated a poor, sick black-boy. "Pompey's" mother was a very foolish mother. She had always let him have his own way. If he cried for anything he always got it, and when he was angry