ashions. I should be sorry to see you finified up so. Then, there was
a beautiful baby's cradle, lined with soft, white satin, with a rich
lace curtain, fit for Queen Victoria's baby, or your mother's; and a
tiny little robe and cap lying near it, delicate as a lily leaf.

Then there was a tall wax lady dressed in deep black, (black eyes too)
to show off the mourning goods; and between you and me, I think she
_mourned_ quite as much as a great many persons who put on black.

Then there was a pyramid of perfumery--done up in bottles--enough to
sweeten the handkerchiefs and dispositions of all the young ladies in
New-York.

Then there were silver and gold tea-sets, and dishes and trays, and
knives and forks, for rich ladies who like to be tied to a bunch of
keys, and sleep with one eye open.

Then there were beautiful pictures, which many a poor artist had toiled
and sighed over, and which I should like to give him a good bag of
money for, and then hang them up in my parlor. Pictures are such
pleasant, quiet company.

Then there were a great many machines, and instruments, and engines, of
much importance, which grown up people would be interested in, but
which I will not describe to you.

Well, these pretty things I have told you about were not all on the
lower floor of the Palace. No; part of them were in the galleries. You
could sit there and look down below upon the great statue of General
Washington on horseback; upon Daniel Webster; and then, upon the
Lilliputians that were walking around looking at them; then, you could
shut your eyes and listen to the music, and fancy you were in some
enchanted region, for it was quite like a fairy tale, the whole of it.

KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY.

I am an old maid. Perhaps I might have been married. Perhaps not. I
don't know as that is anybody's business.

I have a little room I call my own. There's a bedstead in it covered
with a patched quilt, made of as many colors as "Joseph's coat," and an
old-fashioned bureau with great claw feet, and a chair whose cushion is
stuffed with cotton batting; a wash-stand, a table, and a looking-glass
over it. At the side of the looking-glass is a picture of Daniel
Webster, which I look at oftener than in the looking-glass--for I am an
ugly old maid, and Daniel was one of a thousand.

Old maids like to have a good time, as well as other folks; so, I don't
shut myself up moping in my little salt-box of a room. When the four
walls