PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXV.
PHILADELPHIA, APRIL, 1859.
No. 4.
OUR LITTLE FLORENCE.
BY ADBIE K. HUHT.
Was there ever such a witch as our little, ^
early-headed, two-year-old Florence? At six 5
months of age she was a model baby, lying in
her crib by the hour and studying the anatomy
of her chubby hands, or kicking her little, fat,
pin-cushion feet from under her long, baby
clothes.
Nobody ever dreamed of the wild pranks she would one day cut up, or the commotion she would cause in our quiet household.
But baby found out, at last, that hands and feet were made for something, and forthwith set about making up for lost time. • How delighted we all were at her first successful effort in walk¬ ing. The little limbs soon became strong, and then Miss Baby determined to show what she could do. Unlike many grown up young ladies the kitchen to her was the most delightful of places. She seemed to know by instinct if a door of the forbidden place was open. Was a bowl of dough placed under the stove to rise? She was sure to find it; and the prints of those •hubby fingers quite certain to be left in it Was a pan of milk left carelessly on the edge of the table? A dash and a scream would soon announce what had happened, and Florence would be found dripping like another Undine. Was she unusually quiet? Some mischief was •ertainly brewing; and a search would perhaps find her ladyship seated on the floor, with the molasses-cup or sugar-bowl in her lap, busily ®®gaged in stowing away into her mouth what she did not spill on her face and dress. After a thorough washing of face and hands, and a change of garments, if our vigilance was for one moment relaxed, the young lady would be doing some washing on her own account. As much of her dress as she could get in the tub of water underwent a vigorous rubbing, but ■ome new idea would usually enter her head as •oon as her clothes were thoroughly saturated, You XXXV.—17
and away she would fly to the coal-house as
fast as the wet garments clinging to her limbs
would permit. Presently some one would call
Florence, and a sooty little imago would appear
at the door, her ludicrous appcaranco causing
us all to scream with laughter, instead of re¬
proving her as we had at first intended.
But the house and yard soon ceased to con¬ tent her investigating nature. Was a gate left open? A pair of sharp eyes were sure to dis¬ cover it, and a pair*of little feet, and a bunch of flaxen curls would be seen flying down street. Were they fastened up? Some hole in the fence, nobody else would ever have noticed, afforded a place of egress for the adventurous little maiden.
But the afternoon nap gave some rest to the household, which her wild frolics kept in a ferment. Long neglected Correspondence was attended to, without fear of.having the table upset, or ink turned over. Bits of dainty work, that would not bear rough handling, were brought from their hiding-places, and busy fingers worked fast during the brief hour Miss Mischief rested from her labors. At the end of that time, curly-head standing in the door, rub¬ bing her saucy nose, and taking a survey of the apartment to see what sho should dive into next, was the signal to put away writing and fancy work, and prepare for another campaign.
But with the approach of twilight, the weary eyelids would droop; the soiled garments were removed and replaced by the snowy night-dress; and little Florence was soon in the land of baby dreams.
When we listened to her gentle breathing, os she nestled in our arms, and watched the sweet smile that played around the rose-bud mouth, we sometimes thought the angels were holding communion with the little sleeper, and all the trouble she had caused us was forgotten.
But the morning light usually dispelled these
