PREFACE.I NEVER had the slightest intention of writing a book. Had such a thought entered my mind, I should not long have entertained it. It would have seemed presumptuous. What! I, Fanny Fern, write a book? I never could have believed it possible. How, then, came the book to be written? some one may ask. Well, that's just what puzzles me. I can only answer in the dialect of the immortal "Topsy," "I 'spect it growed!" And, such as it is, it must go forth; for "what is written, is written, and—stereotyped. So, dear readers (for I certainly number some warm, friendly hearts among you), here is my book, which I sincerely wish were worthier of your regard. But I can only offer you a few "Fern leaves," gathered at random, in shady spots, were sunbeams seldom play, and which I little thought ever to press for your keeping. Many of the articles submitted were written for
and published in the Boston Olive Brance, Boston True Flag, and the New York Musical World and Times, while many are now here published for the first time. Some of the articles are sad, some are gay; each is independent of all the others, and the work is consequently disconnected and fragmentary; but, if the reader will imagine me peeping over his shoulder, quite happy should he pay me the impromptu compliment of smile or a tear, it is possible we may come to a good understanding by the time the book shall have been perused. FANNY FERN. |