9 May 1857

A PICTURE.

All the pretty pictures are not in the print-shops, daguerrean galleries, and artists' studios; though it is a great pleasure to stroll through them. Walk with your eyes open, and you will often be repaid, as I was the other day. A huge pile of sand had been thrown up in a quiet out-of-the-way street. Three little girls had scooped

themselves out a [Missing text (illegible)] the [Missing text (illegible)]; the wind had blown back their bonnets, and was tossing their loose hair merrily about their bright faces. They looked so happy, and so pretty, that I stopped to gaze at them. Suddenly the rosiest of the little things spied me, and raising her curly head up out of the nest—with eyes dancing with glee, she said,—"Lady, don't you wish you could play here?"

Ah, well the little rogue saw, with the penetrating eye of childhood, that I was longing for the care-free days of sand-houses and sun-bonnets; and yet, little revellers, life is earnest, and so I would not, if I could, forget the lessons that care and sorrow have taught me—nor would I shake the dew from you, little morning-glories. Sparkle on.

FANNY FERN.