LILL’S TRAVELS IN SANTA CLAUS LAND.
EFFIE had been playing with her dolls one cold December morning, and Lill had been reading, until both were tired. But it stormed too hard to go out, and, as Mrs. Pelerine had said they need not do anything for two hours, their little jaws might have been dislocated by yawning before they would as much as pick up a pin. Presently Lill said, “Effie, shall I tell you a story.”
“O yes! do!” said Effie, and she climbed up by Lill in the large rocking-chair in front of the grate. She kept very still, for she knew Lill’s stories were not to be interrupted by a sound, or even a motion. The first thing Lill did was to fix her eyes on the fire, and rock backward and forward quite hard for a little while, and then she said, “Now I am going to tell you about my thought travels, and they are apt to be a little queerer, but O! ever so much nicer, than the other kind!”
WHAT HAPPENED TO KATHIE AND LU.
IT was a very great misfortune, and it must have been a sad affliction to the friends of the two children, for both were once pretty and charming.
It came about in this way.
Little Winnie Tennyson—she wasn’t the daughter of Mr. Alfred Tennyson, the poet-laureate of England, but was as sweet as any one of that gentleman’s poems—had been to the city; and she had brought home so many wondrous improvements that her two little bosom friends, Lu Medway and Kathie Dysart, were almost struck dumb to behold and to hear what Winnie said and what Winnie had.
“O yes! do!” said Effie, and she climbed up by Lill in the large rocking-chair in front of the grate. She kept very still, for she knew Lill’s stories were not to be interrupted by a sound, or even a motion. The first thing Lill did was to fix her eyes on the fire, and rock backward and forward quite hard for a little while, and then she said, “Now I am going to tell you about my thought travels, and they are apt to be a little queerer, but O! ever so much nicer, than the other kind!”
WHAT HAPPENED TO KATHIE AND LU.
IT was a very great misfortune, and it must have been a sad affliction to the friends of the two children, for both were once pretty and charming.
It came about in this way.
Little Winnie Tennyson—she wasn’t the daughter of Mr. Alfred Tennyson, the poet-laureate of England, but was as sweet as any one of that gentleman’s poems—had been to the city; and she had brought home so many wondrous improvements that her two little bosom friends, Lu Medway and Kathie Dysart, were almost struck dumb to behold and to hear what Winnie said and what Winnie had.
0 comments:
Post a Comment