"
Choice of Colors.
The other day, as I was walking on one of the oldest and most picturesque
streets of the old and picturesque town of Newport, R.I., I saw a little
girl standing before the window of a milliner's shop.
It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the side-walks on this street is
so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with very
great care, he steps continually into small wells of water. Up to her
ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as
unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold
day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite warm enough
even so. The child was but thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and
a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red ear stood out
unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled down over it from her
hair. She seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in the window,
and talking to some one inside. I watched her for several moments, and
then crossed the street to see what it all meant.
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