A CURE FOR CROSS LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS.
One night we all were at the supper table. We were in a very bad humor, and did not know what to do with ourselves, and in a minute or two Aunt Sue said, "When we get up stairs we will have a growling party." We thought that would be a very good plan, as our aunts and grandma and mamma did not like noise at the table. So after supper we went up to the little sitting-room, and mamma told me to begin. I told them my collar was very stiff (to tell the truth, when Aunt Sue said a "growling party," I thought we were going to howl all the time). They all thought that was very funny, and asked me what else. I said that was all. Then they asked my sister Lucy what was the matter with her. She said she had the toothache and ear-ache and headache. Then mamma said she had a pain, and she might have something else. Then Aunt Sue said her head hurt, and Aunt Nell said her feet hurt, and Aunt Bessie said she had a sick headache. At last we began to laugh at so much misery, and that put us in a good humor right away. Now, whenever we are in a bad humor, we have a growling-party, for this is all a true story.
Helen D. F. (nine years old).
Please read Aunt Edna's letter, children. You will find it worth thinking about, and we slip it in like a sandwich between your own letters, instead of printing it in the column with the treasurer's report about the Cot, because we want you to pay attention to what this kind lady has to say.
To my dear little "Cot" Friends,—I want to write and tell you something very funny about the "mite chest" in our ward. You remember I told you I put one there; and last Ash-Wednesday—the first day of Lent, as many of you know—I thought I would take out what money was in it, so as to empty it again at Easter, when it would all be Lenten offerings. Sister Catherine told me when I went into the hospital that measles had broken out in our ward, and the little children had all been taken out. Those with the measles were put in a large room at the top of the house, so that they would be away from the rest, and the others were taken to a ward across the hall, and there I found Robert McGee, the little boy I told you of, who was to be in our Cot that is to be. He was just as merry as ever, and put his fat little legs out of the covers to show me how nice and straight they looked. As the mite chest had not taken the measles, I went into our ward to see how it was getting on. The room was very still, windows wide open at either end, the little beds unmade, with the mattresses turned over to air, and little red flannel socks or wrappers hanging on the posts of each crib. The only occupants of the ward were several large dolls, sitting quietly in their chairs, and to judge from their pale faces, they had not taken the measles. However, they did not seem to feel like talking—perhaps they were lonely without their little companions—so I left them, and went to our mite chest. As I took it up, a few pennies rattled, but that was all. But still it seemed to be full of something; so, looking closely, I found it was filled with little scraps of worsted. Some little hand, I imagine, thought the opening at the top looked inviting, so put in the worsted, and no doubt thought it fine fun; but we who are older, and know more, know very well that scraps of worsted won't endow our Cot. So while we will not trouble these little ones who put them there and enjoyed it, no doubt, as it helped to amuse and keep them from fretting while sick, we will work all the harder; we who can run, jump, and play heartily out-of-doors will try and think more of these little ones, ill and suffering, many of whom will never again be able to run, or play, but may have to suffer pain as long as they live.
Now, my dear little friends, I want to ask you all—those who have done so well thus far (and many of you have worked bravely)—not to stop yet; and those who have not yet begun to help us, to do so at once; for, remember we will have to do our share, and also the share of the little ones who give us only scraps of worsted.
Hoping all will do their best; I must say good-by, with love from
Aunt Edna.
New York, March, 1882.