A Nice Girl — 124
There is nothing half so sweet in life—half so beautiful, or delightful, or so loveable—as a “nice girl.” Not a pretty, or a dashing, or an elegant girl, but a nice girl. One of those lovely, lively, good-tempered, good-hearted, sweet-faced, amiable, neat, happy, domestic creatures met within the sphere of home, diffusing around the domestic hearth the influence of her goodness like the essence of sweet flowers. A nice girl is not the languishing beauty, dawdling on a sofa, and discussing the last novel or opera; or the giraffe-like creature sweeping majestically through a drawing-room. The nice girl may not even dance or play well, and knows nothing about “using her eyes,” or coquetting with a fan. She is not given to sensation novels—she is too busy. At the opera, she is not in front showing her bare shoulders, but sits quietly and unobtrusively—at the back of the box most likely. In fact, it is not often in such scenes we discover her. Home is her place. Who rises betimes, and superintends the morning meal? Who makes the toast and the tea, and buttons the boys’ shirts, and waters the flowers, and feeds the chickens, and brightens up the parlour and sitting-room? Is it the languisher, or the giraffe, or the élégante? Not a bit of it—it’s the nice girl. Her unmade toilet is made in the shortest possible time; yet how charmingly it is done, and how elegant her neat dress and plain colour! What kisses she distributes among the family! No presenting a cheek or a brow, like a “fine girl,” but an audible smack, which says plainly, “I love you ever so much.” If I ever coveted anything, it is one of the nice girl’s kisses. Breakfast over, down in the kitchen to see about dinner; always cheerful and light-hearted. She never ceases to be active and useful until the day is done, when she will polka with the boys, and sing old songs, and play old tunes to her father for hours together. She is a perfect treasure, is the “nice girl,” when illness comes; it is she that attends with unwearying patience to the sick chamber. There is no risk, no fatigue that she will not undergo, no sacrifice that she will not make. She is all love, all devotion. I have often thought it would be happiness to be ill, to be watched by such loving eyes and tended by such fair hands. One of the most strongly marked characteristics of a “nice girl” is tidiness and simplicity of dress. She is ever associated in my mind with a high frock, plain collar, and the neatest of neck-ribbons, bound with the most modest little brooch in the world. I never knew a “nice girl” who displayed a profusion of rings and bracelets, or who wore low dresses or a splendid bonnet. I say again, there is nothing in the world half so beautiful, half so intrinsically good, as a “nice girl.” She is the sweetest flower in the path of life. There are others far more stately, far more gorgeous, but these we merely admire as we go by. It is where the daisy grows that we lie down to rest.