A Modern Cinderella; Or, The Little Old Shoe, and Other StoriesAlcott, Louisa May
General
A Modern Cinderella; Or, The Little Old Shoe, and Other Stories
Alcott, Louisa May
Fiction; Short stories
"Bless and save us! here's a flock of people coming; my hair is in a
toss, and Nan's without her shoe; run! fly, girls! or the Philistines
will be upon us!" cried Di, tumbling off her perch in sudden alarm.
Three agitated young ladies, with flying draperies and countenances of
mingled mirth and dismay, might have been seen precipitating themselves
into a respectable mansion with unbecoming haste; but the squirrels
were the only witnesses of this "vision of sudden flight," and, being
used to ground-and-lofty tumbling, didn't mind it.
When the pedestrians passed, the door was decorously closed, and no one
visible but a young man, who snatched something out of the road, and
marched away again, whistling with more vigor of tone than accuracy of
tune, "Only that, and nothing more."
HOW IT WAS FOUND.
Summer ripened into autumn, and something fairer than
"Sweet-peas and mignonette
In Annie's garden grew."
Her nature was the counterpart of the hill-side grove, where as a child
she had read her fairy tales, and now as a woman turned the first pages
of a more wondrous legend still. Lifted above the many-gabled roof, yet
not cut off from the echo of human speech, the little grove seemed a
green sanctuary, fringed about with violets, and full of summer melody
and bloom. Gentle creatures haunted it, and there was none to make
afraid; wood-pigeons cooed and crickets chirped their shrill
roundelays, anemones and lady-ferns looked up from the moss that kissed
the wanderer's feet. Warm airs were all afloat, full of vernal odors
for the grateful sense, silvery birches shimmered like spirits of the
wood, larches gave their green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy
music sweet and solemn, as they stood looking heavenward through veils
of summer sunshine or shrouds of wintry snow.
Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood; for when she came into
its precincts, once so full of solitude, all things seemed to wear one
shape, familiar eyes looked at her from the violets in the grass,
familiar words sounded in the whisper of the leaves, grew conscious
that an unseen influence filled the air with new delights, and touched
earth and sky with a beauty never seen before. Slowly these Mayflowers
budded in her maiden heart, rosily they bloomed and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should catch their fresh
aroma, should brush away the fallen leaves, and lift them to the sun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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