Floy was always sorry when Christmas, and New Year, and Thanksgiving came round; because it made mamma's eyes so red and swollen, and because she was such a little girl that she couldn't tell how to comfort her. She longed to grow up a big lady, that she might earn some money, so that mamma needn't work so hard; and it puzzled her very much to know what had become of mamma's old friends, who used to ride out so often to their pretty country house, in papa's lifetime, to eat strawberries, and to drink tea. She was quite sure she had met some of them once or twice, when mamma had taken her out to church—but somehow they didn't seem to see either mamma or Floy.
Floy was very careful of her two dresses, for fear they would get soiled, (ever since she woke one night, and found mamma washing them out, when she was hardly able to hold her head up.) She was afraid, too, that mamma often wanted the bread and milk she made Floy eat; and only said "she wasn't hungry," because there wasn't enough for her, and Floy, too.
Well, my dear children, it was the thought of all these things that sent the warm tears to Floy's bright eyes, as she looked in at the fruiterer's window that hot August morning.
Two years have gone by. It is August again. The sky is cloudless—the birds are singing—and little Floy's tears are all dried up. Her cheeks are plump and rosy; she has plenty to eat now; and another pair of shoes, when she has danced her toes out of those she has on. And mamma?—why, she can sit whole hours with her hands folded, if she likes, and go to sleep whenever she feels tired; for she has earned plenty of money for herself, and little Floy, too. Floy is glad of this, because mamma smiles now, and looks happier—and because all her old friends, who forgot all about her when she was poor, are so delighted now whenever they meet her. Floy thinks it is very nice all round. Dear, innocent little Floy!
[ THE LAKE TRIP;
OR,
GOING A FISHING. ]
Oh! Aunty, it has done raining! The sun is shining so brightly; we are going to the Lake to fish—Papa says so—you and Papa, and Bell, and Harry, and Emma, and Agnes, and our dog Bruno.
Of course, Aunty, who was always on hand for such trips, wasn't five minutes springing to her feet, and in less than half an hour Pat stood at the door with the carriage, (that somehow or other always held as many as wanted to go, whether it were five, or forty-five;) "Papa" twisting the reins over hats and bonnets with the dexterity of a Jehu; jolt—jolt—on we go, over pebble stones—over plank roads—past cottages—past farms—up hill and down, till we reach "the Lake."
Shall I tell you how we tip-toed into the little egg-shell boats? How, after a great deal of talk, we all were seated to our minds—how each one had a great fishing rod put into our hands—how Aunty, (who never fished before,) got laughed at for refusing to stick the cruel hook into the quivering little minnows used for "bait"—and how, when they fixed it for her, she forgot all about moving it round, so beautiful was the "blue above, and the blue below," until a great fish twitched at her line, telling her to leave off dreaming and mind her business—and how it made her feel so bad to see them tear the hook from the mouth of the poor fish she was so un-lucky as to catch, that she coaxed them to put her ashore, telling them it was pleasure not pain she came after—and how they laughed and floated off down the Lake, leaving her on a green moss patch, under a big tree—and how she rambled all along shore gathering the tiniest little shells that ever a wave tossed up—and how she took off her shoes and stockings and dipped her feet in the cool water, and listened to the bees' drowsy hum from the old tree trunk close by, and watched the busy ant stagger home, under the weight of his well earned morsel—and how she made a bridge of stones over a little streamlet to pluck some crimson lobelias, growing on the other side, and some delicate, bell-shaped flowers, fit only for a fairy's bridal wreath,—and how she wandered till sunset came on, and the Lake's pure breast was all a-glow, and then, how she lay under that old tree, listening to the plashing waves, and watching the little birds, dipping their golden wings into the rippling waters, then soaring aloft to the rosy tinted clouds? Shall I tell you how the grand old hills, forest crowned, stretched off into the dim distance—and how sweet the music of childhood's ringing laugh, heard from the far-off shore—or how Aunty thought 'twas such a pity that sin, and tears, and sorrow, should ever blight so fair a world?