A MODERN CINDERELLA: OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE
A MODERN CINDERELLA
THE LITTLE OLD SHOE
HOW IT WAS LOST
Among green New England hills stood an ancient house, many-gabled,
mossy-roofed, and quaintly built, but picturesque and pleasant to the
eye; for a brook ran babbling through the orchard that encompassed it
about, a garden-plat stretched upward to the whispering birches on the
slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel upon the lawn, as they had
stood almost a century ago, when the Revolution rolled that way and
found them young.
One summer morning, when the air was full of country sounds, of mowers
in the meadow, black-birds by the brook, and the low of kine upon the
hill-side, the old house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain
humble history began.
And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-featured, looked in at the
open door in answer to the call.
"Just bring me the third volume of 'Wilhelm Meister,' there's a dear.
It's hardly worth while to rouse such a restless ghost as I, when I'm
once fairly laid."