[ A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS. ]
Well, I don't know as there is any use in my sitting here at the window any longer. Bricks and mortar, mortar and bricks! and little strips of yards not big enough to swing a cat round in. You may, perhaps you will, ask with the Frenchman, "Vat for you want to swing a cat round?"
But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them—there is one, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat, with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle, from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and provides her that pretty little garden.
Now just look in the next yard—it is just the same size as the other, but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of "Bogles Hyperian."
There's a little child dancing out that door, too; now he stands poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard; unpromising, isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I know very well what you would tell her; that mamma lies in bed asleep—although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfast alone and gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little fellow—I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and flowers—yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a little hot-house plant.
I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)
Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I know nobody finds old maids). There now, didn't I tell you so? See,—she moves a little table up to the window and holds the table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with only one cup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and bows her head—and now I am sorry for what I've said about her, because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she fancies going. Don't you?
There's an old bachelor's room;—fussy old thing! he has been one good hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers—(red ones, too!) I could warm my hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to find its latitude; that you see will be a work of time. He has got it in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so—he is too busy shaving himself, to go down there to shave them! that's a settled point.
Look now at that window!—a young mother comes to it with a little new baby,—its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs its five hairs, and thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has got her work cut out for the winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and put down—washed—dressed and undressed—nursed, rocked and trotted—laid on its back, and laid on its stomach—and laid on its side. Just as if I didn't know!—I could tell her a great many things she don't know about taking care of that baby.