Now, I suppose you think, because you never see me do anything but feed and sleep, that I have a very nice time of it. Let me tell you that you are mistaken, and that I am tormented half to death, although I never say anything about it. How should you like every morning to have your nose washed up, instead of down? How should you like to have a pin put through your dress into your skin, and have to bear it all day till your clothes were taken off at night? How should you like to be held so near the fire that your eyes were half scorched out of your head, while your nurse was reading a novel? How should you like to have a great fly light on your nose, and not know how to take aim at him, with your little, fat, useless fingers? How should you like to be left alone in the room to take a nap, and have a great pussy jump into your cradle, and sit staring at you with her great green eyes, till you were all of a tremble? How should you like to reach out your hand for the pretty bright candle, and find out that it was way across the room, instead of close by? How should you like to tire yourself out crawling way across the carpet, to pick up a pretty button or pin, and have it snatched away, as soon as you begin to enjoy it? I tell you it is enough to ruin any baby's temper. How should you like to have your mamma stay at a party till you were as hungry as a little cub, and be left to the mercy of a nurse, who trotted you up and down till every bone in your body ached? How should you like, when your mamma dressed you up all pretty to take the nice, fresh air, to spend the afternoon with your nurse in some smoky kitchen, while she gossipped with one of her cronies? How should you like to submit to have your toes tickled by all the little children who insisted upon "seeing the baby's feet?" How should you like to have a dreadful pain under your apron, and have everybody call you "a little cross thing," when you couldn't speak to tell what was the matter with you? How should you like to crawl to the top stair, (just to look about a little,) and pitch heels over head from the top to the bottom?
Oh, I can tell you it is no joke to be a baby! Such a thinking as we keep up; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to get our brains knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a sensible baby, who is in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait to grow up.
[ LITTLE FLOY;
OR,
TEARS AND SMILES. ]
It was a very hot morning in August, when little Floy stopped to look in at a city fruiterer's window. There were bright golden apples, nice juicy pears, plump bunches of grapes, luscious plums and peaches, and mammoth melons. In truth, it was a very tempting show, to a little girl, who lived on dry bread and milk, and sometimes had not enough of that. It was not, however, of herself that Floy was thinking, as the tears started to her large blue eyes, and she pushed back her faded sun-bonnet, and looked wistfully at the "forbidden fruit."
Floy once lived in a beautiful house in the country, with her papa and mamma. Grand old trees stood guard round the house, like so many sentinels, and many a little bird slept every night in the shadow of their drooping branches. Near the house was a pretty pond, with snow-white ducks, sailing lazily about, and two little spaniels—named Flash and Dash—who were as full of mischief as little magpies. Then there were three horses in the stable, and two cows, and hens and chickens, and a bearded nanny-goat, besides a little pink-eyed rabbit, who darted about the lawn, with a blue ribbon around his snowy neck. The trees in the orchard drooped to the ground with loads of rosy apples, and long-necked pears, and tempting plums and peaches; the garden bushes were laden with gooseberries raspberries, and currants, (red and white,) while under the broad green leaves the red ripe strawberry nestled.
Those were happy days for little Floy. How she rode the horses to the spring, using their manes for a bridle!—how she ran through the fields, and garlanded herself like a little May Queen!—how she sprang at night to meet Papa, who tossed her way up high above his dear curly head!
Now, though it was sultry midsummer, Floy lived in the hot, stifled city, up four pairs of stairs, in a room looking out on dingy brick walls, and gloomy black sheds. Her mamma was dressed in black, and looked very sad, and very tired; bending all day over that tiresome writing desk. Sometimes she looked up and smiled at Floy; and then Floy wished she had not smiled at all—it was so unlike the old smile her face used to wear in dear papa's life-time. Floy became very tired of that close room. There were no pretty pictures on the walls, like those in Floy's house in the country; the chairs were hard and uncomfortable, and little Floy had nothing to amuse her. Mamma couldn't spare time to walk much, and Floy was not allowed to play on the sidewalk, lest she might hear naughty words, and play with naughty children. Mamma's pen went scratch—scratch—scratch—from sunrise till sunset,—save when she took a turn across the floor to get rid of an ugly pain in her shoulders, from constant stooping. Floy was weary of counting the bricks on the opposite wall,—weary of seeing the milkman stop at seven o'clock, and the baker at nine,—weary of hearing the shrill voice of Mrs. Walker, (below stairs,) of whom mamma hired her room. Still Floy never complained; but sometimes when she could bear the monotonous, dull stillness no longer, she would slide her little hand round her mamma's waist, and say, "Please, Mamma, put up that ugly pen, and take me on your lap."