You would understand then, how hard it is to keep from spoiling her; not by loving her too much; that never hurt anybody; but by giving her everything she wants, whether it is best for her or not, just because it is so heart-breaking to see the tears on her cheeks. That would never do, you know, not even for little motherless Effie; for how is she ever to become good, if she can get everything she wants by crying for it? She can’t understand that now, but by and by she will; and then those who have care of her must learn to say no, no matter how pretty and coaxing she is, if she should want a hammer and a watch to play with; yes, even though she should cry about it.
Nobody can tell whether Effie is loveliest sleeping or waking. Poor little dear; when she is asleep she often makes the motion of nursing with her lips, just as if her mother were living, instead of dead, and she were lying on her warm breast. And then, too, she often smiles till little dimples come in her cheeks, and her lips part, and show her four little white teeth, which have troubled her so much in coming, and which look so like little pearls. And sometimes in her sleep she kicks her little fat leg, with its pretty white foot, and pink toes, out on the coverlet, just as if she were fixing herself for a pretty picture that some artist might paint her. And when she wakes, she puts her little cheek up against yours to be loved and kissed, and—but dear me, you will think I am quite a fool, if I go on this way; and I shouldn’t wonder; for it really is true that I am never tired of telling dear little Effie’s perfections all the same as if she were the only lovely baby that was ever born; although every house holds half a dozen, more or less; still perhaps you might as well not say to me that any of them can begin to compare with little Effie.
But really, after all, I can’t stop till I tell you how much that child knows. I am not certain that it would do to tell state secrets before her; for though she can’t talk, and though she sits on the floor, playing with her toys, I sometimes feel, when she drops them, and looks up with her sweet, earnest little face, as if she had lived another life somewhere, and her grown-up-soul had come back and crept into that little baby’s body. Sometimes, when I look at her, I wish, oh! so much, that I could always keep all sorrow, and all suffering from her, and make her whole life happy; but this cannot be. Besides, I know, that He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will surely care for little motherless Effie.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.