I wonder where all the little children are? I can't find any here in New-York. There are plenty of young gentlemen and ladies, with little high-heeled boots, and ruffled shirts, who step gingerly, carry perfumed handkerchiefs, use big words, talk about parties, but who would be quite at a loss how to use a hoop or a jump rope—little pale, candy-fed creatures, with lustreless eyes, flabby limbs, and no more life than a toad imbedded in a rock,—little tailor and milliner "lay figures," stiff, fine and artificial.
No; there are no little children here. I'm very sorry;—I love little children. I used to know some once, with broad, full chests; plump, round limbs; feet that knew how to run, and hands that could venture to go through an entry without drawing on a kid glove,—blithe, merry little children, who got up and went to bed with the sun; who fed on fresh, new milk, and stepped on daisies, and knew more about butter-cups and clover blossoms, than parties and fashions,—little guileless children, who danced and jumped and laughed for the same reason the birds sing—because they couldn't help it,—who didn't care any more than the birds, whether their plumage was red, green, yellow or brown, so that they could dart and skim and hop where they liked, warble when they had a mind, and fold their wings where they pleased, when weary. But these little city hot-house plants, shivering, shrinking, drooping—I had almost said dying, every time the wind blows—it quite makes my heart ache.
I think I must go hunt up their mammas, and beg them to give their little sensitive plants more air and sunshine, to make them hardy. Dear me! the mammas here are never at home. Some are in the great ladies' saloon (bright with gilding and mirrors,) in Broadway, sipping red "cordial," eating sugared wine drops and French cakes, and chattering with the gentlemen; some are at Madam Modeste's, planning a new ball dress, and talking about feathers and fashions; some are looking at a set of diamonds at the jewellers; and some are still in bed, although it is high noon, because they danced themselves so weary last night. So, poor little things, I suppose you must stay in your heated nurseries, bleaching like potato sprouts in a dark cellar, till Molly or Betty think best to let you out. Well, Aunt Fanny would be so glad to tie a little sun-bonnet on your head, put on a dress loose enough to run in, and take you off into the country a while. She'd show you little cups and saucers, made of acorns, that would beat all they have in the Broadway toy-shops, (and cost you nothing, either); and soft, green seats of moss, embroidered with little golden flowers, much handsomer than any the upholsterer could put in your mamma's drawing room, (and which never fade in the sunlight); then she'd show you a pretty picture of bright green fields, where a silver stream goes dancing through, where little fish dart beneath, where the heated cattle come to drink, and the little birds dip their wings, then are off and away!
Oh, such merry times as we'd have! I know where the purple geranium grows; where the bright scarlet columbine blushes, and where the pale wax plant hides under its glossy green leaf. I know where the blue eyed anemone blossoms; I know where the bright lobelia nods its royal scarlet head; (I know how to pull off my shoes and wade in after it, too); and I know how to make a wreath of it for your pretty little head. Oh, I know how to make your eyes shine—and your little heart happy. So tie on your sun-bonnet, and come with me,—the more the merrier. I don't believe your mammas will ever know you, when I bring you back.
Everybody called Rosalie a beauty. Everybody was right. Her cheeks looked like a ripe peach; her hair waved over as fair a forehead as ever a zephyr kissed; her eyes and mouth were as perfect as eyes and mouth could be; no violet was softer or bluer than the one, no rose-bud sweeter than the other. All colors became Rosalie, and whatever she did was gracefully done.
Yes, everybody thought Rosalie was "a beauty." Rosalie thought so herself. So, she took no pains to be good, or amiable, or obliging. She never cared about learning anything, for she said to herself, I can afford to have my own way; I can afford to be a dunce if I like; I shall be always sought and admired for my pretty face.
So, Rosalie dressed as tastefully as she and the dress-maker knew how, and looked up to show her fine eyes, and down to show her long eye-lashes, and held up her dress and hopped over little imaginary puddles, to show her pretty feet; and smiled to show her white teeth; and danced to show her fine form—and was as brilliant and as brainless as a butterfly.