DEBORAH'S BOOK.
ends, with which, she said, I might dress my dolls; and two books, with pictures in them. These last, she said, I might look at as often as I liked, but I must not tear them; they were hers. So saying, she left me, and if ever I was happy in my life I was happy then. All by myself, plenty of new toys, a table on purpose for me, and a little window, which, when I stood upon my ottoman and looked out, showed me the long waste of salmon-colored sand, and the bathing-machines left high and dry, and the green sea tumbling at a distance; and the happy little shrimpers with their nets, whose absolute duty it was to do what all children long to do as a pleasure—take off their shoes and stockings and splash about in the warm salt water. What delight to have all these things, and quiet to observe them in, and leisure to enjoy them! The nursery at home had plenty of toys in it, but there were two babies there, who must not be awakened by any games of play while they slept, and when they were awake it always resounded with such laughing and jumping, such pushing and running, such crying, quarrelling, and making it up again (unhappily for this divided world a more easy thing in chidhood than afterwards), that there was no time for enjoying play, and no quiet for reading even the prettiest story. 'Master John, be quiet; your shouting goes through my head; O, deary me, Miss Mary, do sit down and keep quiet; Miss Alice, if you can't leave off that crying, I really must call your mamma,' were the constant complaints heard in our nursery; but childhood, on the whole, is a happy time, though
