Such treasures these books were to Elsie--strange reading for a child, but very precious to her all the same. No "Alice in Wonderland," no "Little Folks," no "St Nicholas," or "Fairy Tales"; but the "Pilgrim's Progress," garnished with pictures--such pictures, enough to make your hair stand on end,--Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," and last, but by no means least, that most delightful of all books, "Don Quixote." How Elsie loved the Don and his bony steed! She knew all his adventures by heart--all that were in the book, that is--for, of course, both the beginning and the end were lost.
If you will promise not to mention it, I will tell you a great secret. Elsie was writing a story herself. It was the nicest story you ever read in your life; but it was not very easy to read, being written in large badly-formed childish characters on odd leaves of old copy books, and sometimes the story and the copies got rather mixed; and the spelling was, to say the least of it, quite unique, but it was a lovely story for all that. Perhaps some day you will read it yourself. Elsie used to read it aloud to her little friend the robin, and he listened with his pert little head on one side as he hopped about picking up the crumbs she had saved with so much difficulty for him; he was a most grateful little birdie, and never forgot a kindness. She always knew his tap! tap! at the window, and used to run to open it for him. It is very nice to have a little bird for a friend, for it never quarrels or sulks like some little boys or girls do, when it cannot get its own way.
Elsie
It was a bitterly cold day in December. The snow had been falling all night, and when morning came the earth was covered with a beautiful soft white carpet. It was lovely to look at. Elsie sat up in her little turret chamber watching the happy little fisher-children snowballing each other. She would have liked a game with them, but she knew that Nanny would not let her go. It was so cold, too, for there was no fire anywhere but in the kitchen, and Nanny was making what she called the dinner, and was always very cross when Elsie got in the way, so Elsie sat upstairs in her little turret chamber trying to warm her cold little hands by wrapping them up in an old shawl which had certainly been a good one in its day, but unluckily there was very little of it left. After watching the children for a time, she crept downstairs into the kitchen.
"Oh, Nanny, let me help you with the dinner," she said pleadingly, "it's so cold upstairs."
The old woman was not a bad sort, but she was rather cross; everything had gone wrong with her that morning. First, she could not get any sticks on account of the snow, and the ones she had were damp and would not burn; then the Squire had grumbled at her for extravagance.
"Oh, get out of the way, you are more of a hindrance than a help," she answered pettishly.
Elsie went back again to her little room and looked out of the window at the pure white snow. How lovely it looked! She would just run out to see what it was like on the soft white carpet. How happy the hardy fisher-children looked, with their fresh glowing faces and sturdy limbs, as they pelted one another with the soft powdery snow!
She put on her old shawl and her apology for a hat, and stole quietly out to the enchanted land. Old Nanny saw her go, but took no notice, muttering to herself as she went on with her household duties. The fresh keen air made little Elsie feel quite gay and happy as she frisked about revelling in her new-found liberty.