Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1854-04-29
GBs aaiIg sPg.
SATURDAY., April 30, 1854.
snturday Evening q caIing.

Little Charlie.
We pick up the following reprooG to care
less mothers, from Fanny Fern. 1t is one of
| the most touching leaves that has dropped
from her pen
am one of that prosecuted class denomi-
uated " old maids" By going quietly about
/ the world, taking care not to jostle my neigh
| bors, or hit against any of their rough angles,
| manage to be cheerful, contented, and hap
| ply. In my multtudinous migrations, have
had some opportunity to study human nature.
Lately, have become a temporary inmate of
crowded. boarding house. My little room
has already begun to look quite homeike.-
| The cheerful sun has expanded the fragrant
flowers 1 love SO well to nurture; my canary
trills his satisfaction in gayer song than ever;
and my pictures, books, and guitar, " drive
| dull care away" and beguile many pleasant
hour. And now, my heart has found new
object of interest I've noticed on the stair
case, and in the hall and lobby, lovely
child, who seemed wandering about at his
own sweet will sometimes sitting YEARLY on
the stairs, almost asleep then lettering at the
ditchen door, watching the operations of the
cook then peeping into the halfopen doors
of the different apartments As, by a rule of
the house, " no children were permitted at the
table," i. was some time before l could ascer-
tain who claimed this little stray wait. One
morning, attracted by the carol of my canary
he ventured to put his little curly head inside
my door. He needed little urging to enter,
for he read, with child's quick instinct his
welcome in my face. An animated CONVEX
sation soon ensued, about birds, flowers, and
pictures-his large blue eyes growing bright
and his check flushed with pleasure as story
followed story while he sat on my knee. At
length l said to him, 90 Charlie won't mamma
be anxious about you, if you stay so long?'
"Oh, no., said he, sLizzie don't care.'
"Who is Lizzie"
''Why, my mamma! She don't care, if I'm
only out of the way. Lizzie made me this
pretty dress" said he, holding up his pretty
embroidered frock; "but Lizzie don't know
any stories, and she says I'm bore. WHAT'S
a borea" said the sweet child, as he looked
trustingly in my face.
"Neyer mind, now,' said | tearfully; "you
may stay with me whenever you like, and we
will be very good friends"
The dinner bell sounding, a gaily dressed
young thing vociferated, in voice anything
but musical, "Charlie! Charlier' When l
apologized for keeping him, she said, careless
ly, as she re-aranged her bracelets, go, it
don't signify, if you can have patience with
him, he's so tiresome with his questions. I've
bought him heaps of toys but he never wants
fashioned questions. Keep him aud welcome,
when you like, but take my work for it, you'll
repent your bargain!' and she trippcd galy
down to dinner Poor little Charlie lime
in plenty to adjust all those silken ringlets-
time to embroider all those little gay dresses
time to linger till midnight over the last new
novel; but for the soul that looked forth from
those deep blue eyes, no time to sow the good
seed-no time to watch lest the enemy should
''sow tares."
From that time, Charlie and l were insep-
arabic. The thoughtless mother, well con-
tent to pass her time devouring all sorts of
trashy literature, in idle gossip with her
| drawing room companions The young father,
weary With business troubles, contentng HIM
| self with a quiet '' good night and closing
the day by visit to the theatre or concert-room.
| Poor Charlie, meanwhile, put to bed for safe
| keeping would lie hours, tossing restless, from
side to side, sc with nothing but his head as
| einnoeently said to me. What a joy to sit by
his side and beguile the lonely hours There
learned to understand the meaning of our Sa-
yiour's words g For of such is the kingdom of
heaven" In Lis clear, silvery, tones, he would
repeat after me, Our Father, asking me the
1neaningof every petition: then he would say
Why don't you tell Lizzie Lizzie don't
know any prayerss'
One night sang him these lines:
Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in living green ~
he raised himself in bed, while the tears trem-
bled ON his long lashes, and said, /" o, sing that
again--it seems as if saw a beautiful pic
ture" Then, taking my guitar, would sit
by his bedside, and watch the blue eyes droop
and grow heavy with slumber, as sang to him.
And she, whose duty, joy, and pride it should
have been to lead those little feet to Him who