THE
HISTORY OF A CHILD.
How well I remember it, that single and lonely laurel tree, it was my friend, my confidant. How often have I sat rocking on the one long, pendant branch, which drooped even to the grass below. I can remember the strange pleasure I took in seeing my tears fall on the bright shining leaves, often while observing them have I forgotten the grief that led to their falling. I was a not a pretty child, and both shy and sensitive; I was silent, and therefore not amusing. No one loved me but an old nurse—why she should have been fond of me I know not, for I gave her much trouble; night after night has she wakened with my crying—but she only wakened to soothe
