The Young Friends.
Pubd. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, St. Pauls Church Yard.
I gave Clare a charming spring nosegay, and her little fingers were instantly busy in making two nosegays of it, and the best of every flower was in Constance's share.
My wife picked a basket of cherries for Constance. Constance smiled and curtsied, and was thankful, but did not eat the fruit. "Why is this, Constance?" said my wife, "the cherries are not sour."—"Perhaps not," said I, "but Constance would think them sweeter if shared with her friend;" and away sprang the little maiden to seek Clare, and eat with her the hoarded cherries.
It was a bleak stormy autumn day, Clare could not be found—Constance too was missing—Where could they be?
We searched the gardens, the village lanes, the fields; nothing could be discovered of them. They were not used to wander. Every body became anxious. I joined in the search, and bent my way towards a neighbouring wood. The villagers were sure the little girls were not there. "Well," said I, "no matter; having tried all probable places, it is wise to try the improbable." I hastened on; the evening was closing, the wind blowing, and the rain beginning to fall. I could scarcely discern objects. At last, I saw something white: it approached, and, behold, the two lost girls, Clare carrying Constance.
"How is this," cried I. "Ah!" said the panting Clare, "how glad I am to see you, Sir. Poor Constance fell, and hurt her ankle;—sprained it, I believe;—and so we could move but slowly."—"You could have come more quickly."—"How! And left Constance?"—"Child! you might have both perished."—"We should have been together," answered Clare with a quiet smile.