ook modern; but it is astonishing, the genius of army ladies for putting
the best foot foremost. This room was neither square nor oblong; and though
a mere box in size, it had no less than four doors (two belonged to the
closets) and three windows. The closets were utterly useless, being
occupied by an indomitable race of rats and mice; they had an impregnable
fortress somewhere in the old walls, and kept possession, in spite of the
house-keeping artillery Mrs. Moore levelled against them. The poor woman
gave up in despair; she locked the doors, and determined to starve the
garrison into submission.

She was far more successful in other respects, having completely banished
the spirits of formality and inhospitality that presided in these domains.
The house was outside the fort, and had been purchased from a citizen who
lived there, totally apart from his race; Mrs. Moore had the comfort of
hearing, on taking possession, that all sorts of ghosts were at home there;
but she was a cheerful kind of woman, and did not believe in them any more
than she did in clairvoyance, so she set to work with a brave heart, and
every thing yielded to her sway, excepting the aforesaid rats and mice.

Her parlor was the very realization of home comfort. The lounge by the
three windows was covered with small figured French chintz, and it was a
delightful seat, or bed, as the occasion required. She had the legs of
several of the chairs sawed off, and made cushions for them, covered with
pieces of the chintz left from the lounge. The armchairs that looked at
each other from either side of the fireplace place, not being of velvet,
were made to sit in.

In one corner of the room, (there were five,) a fine-toned guitar rested
against the wall; in another, was a large fly-brush of peacock's feathers,
with a most unconscionable number of eyes. In the third, was Captain
Moore's sword and sash. In the fourth, was Mrs. Moore's work-basket, where
any amount of thimbles, needles, and all sorts of sewing implements could
be found. And in the fifth corner was the baby-jumper, its fat and habitual
occupant being at this time oblivious to the day's exertions; in point of
fact, he was up stairs in a red pine crib, sound asleep with his thumb in
his mouth.

One of Chickering's best pianos stood open in this wonderful little parlor,
and Mrs. Moore rung out sweet sounds from it evening after evening. Mrs. M.
was an industrious, intelligent Southern woman; bef