Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 5

green leaves the red ripe strawberry nestled.
Those were happy days for little Floy. How she rode the horses to the spring, using their manes for a bridle!--how she ran through the fields, and garlanded herself like a little May Queen!--how she sprang at night to meet Papa, who tossed her way up high above his dear curly head!
* * *
Now, though it was sultry midsummer, Floy lived in the hot, stifled city, up four pairs of stairs, in a room looking out on dingy brick walls, and gloomy black sheds. Her mamma was dressed in black, and looked very sad, and very tired; bending all day over that tiresome writing desk. Sometimes she looked up and smiled at Floy; and then Floy wished she had not smiled at all--it was so unlike the old smile her face used to wear in dear papa's life-time. Floy became very tired of that close room. There were no pretty pictures on the walls, like those in Floy's house in the country; the chairs were hard and uncomfortable, and little Floy had nothing to amuse her. Mamma couldn't spare time to walk much, and Floy was not allowed to play on the sidewalk, lest she might hear naughty words, and play with naughty children. Mamma's pen went scratch--scratch--scratch--from sunrise till sunset,--save when she took a turn across the floor to get rid of an ugly pain in her shoulders, from constant stooping. Floy was weary of counting the bricks on the opposite wall,--weary of seeing the milkman stop at seven o'clock, and the baker at nine,--weary of hearing the shrill voice of Mrs. Walker, (below stairs,) of whom mamma hired her room. Still Floy never complained; but sometimes when she could bear the monotonous, dull stillness no longer, she would slide her little hand round her mamma's waist, and say, "Please, Mamma, put up that ugly pen, and take me on your lap."
Floy was always sorry when Christmas, and New Year, and Thanksgiving came round; because it made mamma's eyes so red and swollen, and because she was such a little girl that she couldn't tell how to comfort her. She longed to grow up a big lady, that she might earn some money, so that mamma needn't work so hard; and it puzzled her very much to know what had become of mamma's old friends, who used to ride out so often to their pretty country house, in papa's lifetime, to eat strawberries, and to drink tea. She was quite sure she had met some of them once or twice, when mamma had taken her out to church--but somehow they didn't seem to see either mamma or Floy.
Floy was very careful of her two dresses, for fear they would get soiled, (ever since she woke one night, and found mamma washing them out, when she was hardly able to hold her head up.) She was afraid, too, that mamma often wanted the bread and milk she made Floy eat; and only said "she wasn't hungry," because there wasn't enough for her, and Floy, too.
Well, my dear children, it was the thought of all these things that sent the warm tears to Floy's bright eyes, as she looked in at the fruiterer's window that hot August morning.
* * *
Two years have gone by. It is August again. The sky is cloudless--the birds are singing--and little Floy's tears are all dried up. Her cheeks are plump and rosy; she has plenty to eat now; and another pair of shoes, when she has danced her toes out of those she has on. And mamma?--why, she can sit whole hours with her hands folded, if she likes, and go to sleep whenever she feels tired; for she has earned plenty of money for herself, and little Floy, too. Floy is glad of this, because mamma smiles now, and looks happier--and because all her old friends, who forgot all about her when she was poor, are so delighted now whenever 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