LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little Anniestands on her father's doorsteps trying to hear what the man with theloud voice is talking about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling thepeople that an elephant and a lion and a royal tiger and a horse withhorns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come totown and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them.Perhaps little Annie would like to go? Yes, and I can see that thepretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street with the greentrees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine and the pavementsand the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept themwith her broom. She feels that impulse to go strolling away--thatlonging after the mystery of the great world--which many childrenfeel, and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take aramble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand, and like some brightbird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upward fromher white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street.
Smooth back your brown curls, Annie, and let me tie on your bonnet,and we will set forth. What a strange couple to go on their ramblestogether! One walks in black attire, with a measured step and a heavybrow and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girltrips lightly along as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lesther feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathybetween us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have asmile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grownladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie, for Idelight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinlesschild. So come, Annie; but if I moralize as we go, do not listen tome: only look about you and be merry.
Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses andstage-coaches with four thundering to meet each other, and trucks andcarts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels fromthe wharves; and here are rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashedto pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling awheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such atumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes onwith fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grownpeople who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would toextreme old age. Nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way forlittle Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of herclaim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure. Astreet-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church andpours forth his strains to the busy town--a melody that has goneastray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices and the war ofpassing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None but myself andlittle Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune,as if she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. Butwhere would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in their toes orthe rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeblewith disease; some are so lean that their bones would rattle, andothers of such ponderous size that their agility would crack theflagstones; but many, many have leaden feet because their hearts arefar heavier than lead. It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon.What a company of dancers should we be! For I too am a gentleman ofsober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately on.
It is a question with me whether this giddy child or my sage self havemost pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. We love the silks ofsunny hue that glow within the darkened premises of the sprucedry-goods men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver andthe chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments,glistening at the window of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I,seeks for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glassesat the hardware-stores. All that is bright and gay attracts us both.
Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood as well aspresent partialities give a peculiar magic. How delightful to let thefancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner--those pies with suchwhite and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether richmince with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple delicatelyrose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a loftypyramid; those sweet little circlets sweetly named kisses; those darkmajestic masses fit to be bridal-loaves at the wedding of an heiress,mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar! Thenthe mighty treasures of sugarplums, white and crimson and yellow, inlarge glass vases, and candy of all varieties, and those littlecockles--or whatever they are called--much prized by children fortheir sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, bylove-sick maids and bachelors! Oh, my mouth waters, little Annie, andso doth yours, but we will not be tempted except to an imaginaryfeast; so let us hasten onward devouring the vision of a plum-cake.
Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind,in the window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary lady? Yes; she isdeeply read in Peter Parley's tomes and has an increasing love forfairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribenext year to the _Juvenile Miscellany_. But, truth to tell, sheis apt to turn away from the printed page and keep gazing at thepretty pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make thisshop-window the continual loitering-place of children. What wouldAnnie think if, in the book which I mean to send her on New Year'sday, she should find her sweet little self bound up in silk or moroccowith gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman grown withchildren of her own to read about their mother's childhood? That wouldbe very queer.
Little Annie is weary of pictures and pulls me onward by the hand,till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh,my stars! Is this a toyshop, or is it fairy-land? For here are gildedchariots in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side byside, while their courtiers on these small horses should gallop intriumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, aredishes of chinaware fit to be the dining-set of those same princelypersonages when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest hall oftheir palace--full five feet high--and behold their nobles feastingadown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and queenshould sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. Herestands a turbaned Turk threatening us with his sabre, like an uglyheathen as he is, and next a Chinese mandarin who nods his head atAnnie and myself. Here we may review a whole army of horse and foot inred-and-blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds ofnoiseless music; they have halted on the shelf of this window aftertheir weary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for soldiers? Noconquering queen is she--neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine; herwhole heart is set upon that doll who gazes at us with such afashionable stare. This is the little girl's true plaything. Thoughmade of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage endowed bychildish fancy with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine ofromance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, thechief inhabitant of that wild world with which children ape the realone. Little Annie does not understand what I am saying, but lookswishfully at the proud lady in the window. We will invite her homewith us as we return.--Meantime, good-bye, Dame Doll! A toy yourself,you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are also toys,though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys,though they wear grave visages. Oh, with your never-closing eyes, hadyou but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them, what awise doll would you be!--Come, little Annie, we shall find toysenough, go where we may.
Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is curious in the mostcrowded part of a town to meet with living creatures that had theirbirthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature inthe wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird hanging outof the window in his cage. Poor little fellow! His golden feathers areall tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened twice asbrightly among the summer islands, but still he has become a citizenin all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so well withoutthe u
proar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not knowhow miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, calling out, "PrettyPoll! Pretty Poll!" as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talking abouther prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll,though gaudily dressed in green and yellow! If she had said "PrettyAnnie!" there would have been some sense in it. See that gray squirrelat the door of the fruit-shop whirling round and round so merrilywithin his wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill, he makes itan amusement. Admirable philosophy!
Here comes a big, rough dog--a countryman's dog--in search of hismaster, smelling at everybody's heels and touching little Annie's handwith his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain havepatted him.--Success to your search, Fidelity!--And there sits a greatyellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat,gazing at this transitory world with owl's eyes, and making pithycomments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast.--Oh,sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair ofphilosophers.
Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier and hisding-dong-bell. Look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air,pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they had met together tochoose a king, according to their custom in the days of AEsop. But theyare choosing neither a king nor a President, else we should hear amost horrible snarling! They have come from the deep woods and thewild mountains and the desert sands and the polar snows only to dohomage to my little Annie. As we enter among them the great elephantmakes us a bow in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bendinglowly down his mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust outbehind. Annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of theelephant, who is certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. Thelion and the lioness are busy with two beef-bones. The royal tiger,the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with ahaughty step, unmindful of the spectators or recalling the fiercedeeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon suchinferior animals from the jungles of Bengal.
Here we see the very same wolf--do not go near him, Annie!--theselfsame wolf that devoured little Red Riding-Hood and hergrandmother. In the next cage a hyena from Egypt who has doubtlesshowled around the pyramids and a black bear from our own forests arefellow-prisoners and most excellent friends. Are there any two livingcreatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly befriends? Here sits a great white bear whom common observers would calla very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be only absorbed incontemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of hiscomfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the littlecubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bearof sentiment. But oh those unsentimental monkeys! The ugly, grinning,aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous and queer little brutes!Annie does not love the monkeys; their ugliness shocks her pure,instinctive delicacy of taste and makes her mind unquiet because itbears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. But here is a littlepony just big enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he gallopsin a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music.And here, with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding-whip in hishand--here comes a little gentleman small enough to be king of thefairies and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flyingleap into the saddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrilygallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman.--Come,Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys onhorseback there.
Mercy on us! What a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annieever read the cries of London city? With what lusty lungs doth yonderman proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comesanother, mounted on a cart and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blastfrom a tin horn, as much as to say, "Fresh fish!" And hark! a voice onhigh, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcingthat some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot and darksomecaverns into the upper air. What cares the world for that? But,well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction--the scream of alittle child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart,sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Anniesympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe.
Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear.Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book or a show ofbeautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible thanany in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell inhis right hand and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurriedmotion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and thesounds are scattered forth in quick succession far and near.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town. Itdrowns the buzzing talk of many tongues and draws each man's mind fromhis own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascendsto the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to thecellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Whoof all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-houseor hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier!What saith the people's orator?
"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL of five years old, in a bluesilk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazeleyes. Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother--"
Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found.--Oh, my pretty Annie, weforgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair andhas sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrightingold and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let gomy hand? Well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go forget not tothank Heaven, my Annie, that after wandering a little way into theworld you may return at the first summons with an untainted andunwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have gone too farastray for the town-crier to call me back.
Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit throughout myramble with little Annie. Say not that it has been a waste of preciousmoments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk and a reverie ofchildish imaginations about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice.Has it been merely this? Not so--not so. They are not truly wise whowould affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life ofaged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simplethoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth for little cause ornone, their grief soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on usis at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almostforgotten and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but asyesterday, when life settles darkly down upon us and we doubt whetherto call ourselves young any more,--then it is good to steal away fromthe society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend anhour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains ofstill fresh existence we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, tostruggle onward and do our part in life--perhaps as fervently as ever,but for a time with a kinder and purer heart and a spirit more lightlywise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!
Twice Told Tales Page 8
