THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERSWHO LIVE ON THE ROUND BALL THAT FLOATS IN THE AIR

BY

JANE ANDREWS

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS FORMERLY SUPERVISOR INBOSTON PUBLIC SCHOOLS

FOR

MY THREE LITTLE FRIENDS

Marnie, Bell, and Geordie

I HAVE WRITTEN THESE STORIES

CONTENTS.

MEMORIAL OF MISS JANE ANDREWSTHE BALL ITSELFTHE LITTLE BROWN BABYAGOONACK, THE ESQUIMAU SISTERHOW AGOONACK LIVES THROUGH THE LONG SUMMERGEMILA, THE CHILD OF THE DESERTTHE LITTLE MOUNTAIN MAIDENTHE STORY OF PEN-SETHE LITTLE DARK GIRLLOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER RHINELOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE WESTERN FORESTTHE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS

MEMORIAL OF MISS JANE ANDREWS. [Born Dec. 1, 1833. Died July 15,1887.]

BY LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS.

Perhaps the readers and lovers of this little book will be glad of afew pages, by way of introduction, which shall show them somewhat ofMiss Andrews herself, and of her way of writing and teaching, as anold friend and schoolmate may try to tell it; and, to begin with, aglimpse of the happy day when she called a few of her friends togetherto listen to the stories contained in this volume, before they wereoffered to a publisher.

Picture to yourselves a group of young ladies in one of the loveliestof old-fashioned parlors, looking out on a broad, elm-shaded streetin the old town of Newburyport. The room is long and large, with widemahogany seats in the four deep windows, ancient mahogany chairs, andgreat bookcases across one side of the room, with dark pier-tables andcentre-table, and large mirror,—all of ancestral New England solidityand rich simplicity; some saintly portraits on the wall, a moderneasel in the corner accounting for fine bits of coloring on canvas,crayon drawings about the room, and a gorgeous firescreen of autumntints; nasturtium vines in bloom glorifying the south window, andGerman ivy decorating the north corner; choice books here and there,not to look at only, but to be assimilated; with an air of quietrefinement and the very essence of cultured homeness pervadingall;—this is the meagre outline of a room, which, having once satwithin, you would wish never to see changed, in which many pure andnoble men and women have loved to commune with the lives which havebeen so blent with all its suggestions that it almost seems a part oftheir organic being.

But it was twenty-five years ago [This memorial was written in 1887.]that this circle of congenial and expectant young people were drawntogether in the room to listen to the first reading of the MSS. of"The Seven Little Sisters." I will not name them all; but one whoseyouthful fame and genius were the pride of all, Harriet Prescott (nowMrs. Spofford), was Jane's friend and neighbor for years, and heardmost of her books in MSS. They were all friends, and in a verysympathetic and eager attitude of mind, you may well believe; forin the midst, by the centre-table, sits Jane, who has called themtogether; and knowing that she has really written a book, each onefeels almost that she herself has written it in some unconscious way,because each feels identified with Jane's work, and is ready to be asproud of it, and as sure of it, as all the world is now of the successof Miss Jane Andrews's writings for the boys and g

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