LITTLE NAPKIN.
I am sure I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Poor little “Napkin!” Of course you know that “Napkin” is Louis Napoleon’s little baby; perhaps you don’t know that his mamma does not nurse him herself. I wonder does she know how much pleasure she loses by not doing it? I wonder does she know how sweet it is to wake in the night, and find a baby’s soft little hand on her neck, and his dear little head lying upon her arm? I wonder does she know how beautiful a baby is when it first wakes in the morning, raising its little head from the pillow, and gazing at you with its lustrous eyes and rosy cheeks, so like a fresh-blown dewy flower? I wonder does she know how delicious it is to give the little hungry rogue his breakfast? No, no; poor Eugenia! poor empress! She knows nothing of all this. She has had all a mother’s pain, and none of a mother’s pleasure. She hires a woman to nurse and sleep with little “Napkin;” she never sees how sweet he looks in the bath, the water dripping from hisround polished limbs; she never puts his little fat arms into the cunning little sleeves of his clean white robe, or puts his little foot, with its rosy-tipped toes, into the little warm stocking. I wouldn’t be the empress, no, not for all her beauty and diamonds, if I could not do all this for my little “Napkin.” The handsomest dresses in all Paris would not comfort me any if I knew Madame Baut, or Madame any body else, was giving my little Napkin his milk, instead of myself; no, indeed. I should be afraid, too, all the time, that some pin was pricking him, or that his frock-strings were tied too tight, or that Madame Baut, or whoever the nurse is, would—but what is the use of talking about it? I would not have any Madame Baut. What is the use of being empress, if you can’t do as you like, especially with your own baby? One might as well be a slave-mother. I had rather be that Irish woman yonder, hanging out her husband’s clothes in the meadow, while her baby creeps after her on all fours, picking butter-cups. Not nurse my own baby! Not wash him, dress him, or sleep with him? Ah, Monsieur Louis Napoleon, it is luckyIam not Eugenie. If you wanted your empress, I am afraid you would have to come to little Napkin’s nursery for her. “Happy as a queen.” It makes me laugh when any body says that; or happyas an empress, either. I don’t want half a dozen maids of honor to dress and undress me, and put me to bed. I don’t want them following at my heels whenever I walk in the halls, gardens, or drawing-rooms. I should go crazy at the thought of it. I should lock the door on the whole of them. I wouldn’t be dressed so many times a day. I wouldn’t have so much twisting, and braiding, and curling, and plaiting of my hair. I wouldn’t call my husband “Sire!” Sire! Just imagine it? How you would laugh to hear your mother call your father “Sire.” No, I would say, Napoleon, or Nappy (just as the whim suited me), suppose we put our little “Napkin” in the basket-wagon, and draw him to the Tuileries; and then I, the empress, would—but, thank goodness, I amnotan empress. I am very sure if I were, I should get my head cut off.
Little Napkin had an uncle named Napoleon Charles, who died when he was very young. One day he was sitting with his mamma, Hortense, at a window of her beautiful palace, which looked out on the avenue. It had been raining very hard, and the avenue was filled with little puddles of water, in which some barefooted children were playing with little boats made of chips. The little Prince Napoleon Charles was beautifully dressed, and had more costly toys to play with than Isuppose you or I ever saw in our lives, some of which were given him by his good, dear, beautiful grandmother Josephine, whom all France, and indeed every body who ever heard of her, loved. But the little Prince Napoleon Charles did not seem to care for the beautiful presents, nor his beautiful clothes, nor the splendid furniture of the palace, but stood looking out of the window on the avenue.
His mamma, noticing it, said, “So, my son, you do not thank your grandmamma for all her kindness and those pretty presents she sent you?”
“Oh, yes, mamma,” said little Napoleon Charley, “but grandmamma is so good, I am used to it; but look at those little boys, mamma.”
“Well,” said his mother, “what of them? Do you wish you had some money to give them?”
“No; papa gave me some money this morning, and it is all given away.”
“Well, then, what ails my dear child? What do you want?”
“Oh,” said the little prince, hesitatingly, “I know you won’t let me; but if I could run about in that beautiful puddle, it would amuse me more than all good grandmamma’s presents!”
You whose fathers are not rich, and who envy otherchildren their fine clothes, fine toys, and fine carriages, must remember this little story. There are plenty of rich men’s children who would be glad to part with all these things, could they only make “dirt-pies,” and splash their bare toes in the gutters, as you do. All is not gold that glitters; believe this, and it will cure you of many a heartache.