e girl plays about at home with a dirty face,
tumbled hair, and an old pinafore on. She won't be made tidy, and I see
her kick and cry when they try to make her neat. Now and then there is a
great dressing and curling; and then I see her prancing away in her
light boots, smart hat, and pretty dress, looking as fresh as a daisy.
But I don't admire her; for I've been behind the scenes, you see, and I
know that she likes to be fine rather than neat.

So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her sister, and runs away
when her mother tells her not to go out of the yard. But the
house-wifely little girl who tends the baby, washes the cups, and goes
to school early with a sunshiny face and kiss all round, _she_, now, is
a neighbour worth having, and I'd put a good mark against her name if I
knew it.

I don't know as it would be proper for me to mention the grown-up people
over the way. They go on very much as the children do; for there is the
lazy, dandified man, who gets up late, and drinks; the cross man, who
swears at the shed-door when it won't shut; the fatherly man, who sits
among his children every evening, and the cheery old man up in the
attic, who has a flower in his window, and looks out at the world with
very much the same serene smile as my orange-coloured baby.

The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play mother; and some don't
do it well either. The forlorn baby's mamma never seems to cuddle and
comfort him; and some day, when the little fist lies cold and quiet, I'm
afraid she'll wish she had. Then the naughty boy's mother. I'm very
sure, if she put her arms round him sometimes, and smoothed that rough
head of his, and spoke to him as only mothers can speak, that it would
tame him far better than the scoldings and thrashings: for I know there
is a true boy's heart, warm and tender, somewhere under the jacket that
gets dusted so often. As for the fine lady who lets her children do as
they can, while she trims her bonnet, or makes panniers, I wouldn't be
introduced to her on any account. But as some might think it was
unjustifiable curiosity on my part to see these things, and an
actionable offence to speak of them, I won't mention them.

I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel an interest in mortals
ever take a look at us on the shady side which we don't show the world,
seeing the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one knows. If
they love, pity, or condemn us? What records they kee