Little Ferns For Fannys Little Friends | Page 6

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 wonders if Betty will give the baby his humming top to play with before he gets home--and whether his mother will have apple dumplings for dinner? And then he explores his Sunday pocket for the absent string and marble, and then his little toes get so fidgety that he can't stand it, and he says out loud, "hi--ho--hum!" and then he gets a very red ear from his father, for disturbing his comfortable nap in particular, and the rest of the congregation generally.
Yes, I'd have a church for children, if I could only find a minister who knew enough to preach to them! You needn't smile! It needs a very long head to talk to a child. It is much easier to talk to older people whose brains are so cobwebbed with "isms" and "ologies," that you can make them lose themselves when they get troublesome; but that straight-forward,