Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends

by Fanny Fern

Last night I thought I would go over to see her; so, I lifted up my dress and waded through the alley, and after getting away from a drunken woman, who insisted upon having my bonnet, I reached Bridget's door in safety.

There they were, all in a heap, as usual,—Michael and Johnny, and Sammy and Pat, and Fanny and Katy, and Mike and the baby. Bridget's face shone like a new milk-pan, when I opened the door (she knows I pity her); she flew round and got me a wooden chair, scrubbed the baby's face with her apron, put one hand on Mike's hair to make it lie down, sent Snip, the dog, yelping under the bed, and asked me how I did; while Jim knocked the ashes out of his pipe, twitched a lock of hair that hung over his forehead, and scraped out his hind foot, by way of a bow.

Presently Johnny began to whisper to Sammy, and Sammy whispered to Mike, and Mike whispered to his mother; and then his mother got up and gave them something out of the closet, which they came and laid in my lap, with their eyes shining like a cat's in the dark. And when I held it up to the light, it turned out to be two new jackets, one for Sammy and one for Johnny, that their good, thrifty mother had made out of an old coat that somebody had given her.

Of course, I admired them; and of course, I buttoned the little boys up in them; and of course, they strutted round, as smart as little corporals; and Sammy shook his red head, and said he would "like to hear Brian Doherty call him a beggar now!"

Bridget smiled, and said, "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy;" and then, Johnny pulled at my gown again, and pointed up in the corner, and right between the windows, where nearly every pane of glass was broken out, stood a brand new cooking stove, with all its shining pots and pans and kettles, set in order on the top, as if the most magnificent dinner that ever was dreamed of, was hissing and stewing and broiling and baking and roasting inside.

As to Sammy, he lifted up all the lids, and poked his nose in, as if he could already smell the dinner. Mike spread out his little blue hands, as if some time or other they would get warm over it; Johnny shouldered the poker and showed me how they were going to rattle the coal out when somebody should give mother work enough to earn money to buy it, and the baby got well enough to let her do it. Then Sammy held the light, and we all walked in a procession, round and round the stove, and voted it a most magnificent affair.

But how did they get it? That's what I wanted to know. Stoves cost money. Sammy saw I was dying to know, so he whispered in my ear, loud enough to be heard in South America, "Mammy earned it shaking carpets, she did."

I turned round and looked at Jim Dolan. If I could have had my own way, I would liked to have put a petticoat and a bonnet on him, and marched him up to the looking-glass!—a great, able-bodied, idle six-footer! I don't think much of a man that will let his wife support him. Do you?

All the way home I was thinking over what poor Bridget said: "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy." I want you to think of that, children, when you pout because the potato is not put on the right side of your plate; or, because little Minnie has climbed into your chair at the table; or, because the apple dumplings are not sweet enough for your dainty little tooth; or, because the tailoress put six buttons instead of seven, on your new overcoat.

Johnny and Sammy would toss their caps up in the air and go wild with joy, if they had all the nice things you have. Poor little fellows! I loved them, because they were so proud of their mother. Oh, children! there's nothing in the wide earth like a mother. All the friends in the world couldn't make up to you for her loss. There's no arm but God's so true and safe to lean upon; there's no heart but His so full of love and pity, so long-suffering and forgiving.