ROSE CLARK. BY FANNY FERN.
NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY MASON BROTHERS 1856.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by MASON BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern District of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY Thomas B. Smith, 82 & 84 Beekman Street.
PRINTED BY John A. Gray, 97 Cliff St.
Reader!
When the frost curtains the windows, when the wind whistles fiercely at the key-hole, when the bright fire glows, and the tea-tray is removed, and father in his slippered feet lolls in his arm-chair; and mother with her nimble needle "makes auld claes look amaist as weel as new," and grandmamma draws closer to the chimney-corner, and Tommy with his plate of chestnuts nestles contentedly at her feet; then let my unpretending story be read. For such an hour, for such an audience, was it written.
Should any dictionary on legs rap inopportunely at the door for admittance, send him away to the groaning shelves of some musty library, where "literature" lies embalmed, with its stony eyes, fleshless joints, and ossified heart, in faultless preservation.
Then, should the smile, and the tear, have passed round, while the candle flickers in the socket, if but one kindly voice murmur low,
"May God bless her!"
it will brighten the dreams of
FANNY FERN.
CONTENTS
ROSE CLARK.
CHAPTER I.
"Here is number fifty-four, Timmins," said the matron of a charity-school to her factotum, as she led in a little girl about six years of age; "number fifty-four; you must put another cot in the long hall, and another plate in the eating-room. What is your name, child?"
"Rose," replied the little one, vailing her soft, dark eyes under their curtaining lashes, and twisting the corner of a cotton shawl.
"Rose!" repeated the matron, in a contemptuous aside, to Timmins; "I knew it would be sure to be something fanciful; beggars always go on stilts."
"I am not a beggar," said the child, "I am mother's little Rose."
"Mother's little Rose?" repeated the matron, again, in the same sneering tone; "well—who was mother?"
"Mother is dead," said the child, with a quivering lip.
"No loss, either," said Mrs. Markham to Timmins, "since she did not know better than to let the child run in the streets."
"Mother was sick, and I had to go of errands," said the child, defensively.
"Ah, yes—always an excuse; but do you know that I am the matron of this establishment? and that you must never answer me back, in that way? Do you know that you must do exactly as I and the committee say? Timmins, bring me the scissors and let us lop off this mop of a wig," and she lifted up the clustering curls, behind which Rose seemed trying to hide.
"There—now you look proper and more befitting your condition," said Mrs. Markham, as the sheared lamb rose from its kneeling posture and stood before her. "Timmins, Timmins!" Mrs. Markham whispered, "don't throw away those curls; the hairdresser always allows me something handsome for them. It is curious what thick hair beggar children always have."
"But I am not a beggar," said Rose again, standing up very straight before Mrs. Markham.
"Look at it," said Mrs. Markham, with a sneer; "look at it, Timmins, it is 'not a beggar.' Look at its ragged frock, and soiled shawl, and torn pinafore; it 'is not a beggar.' We shall have some work to do here, Timmins. Come here, Rose."
"Did you hear me, child?" she repeated, as Rose remained stationary.
The child moved slowly toward Mrs. Markham.
"Look me in the eye."
