OF OLD NEW YORK

and sugar. Perhaps that is why he had only one lung.
I don't know.

I am Still living in our Ninth Street house. It is a
beautiful house and has glass sliding doors with birds of
Paradise sitting on palm trees painted on them. But I
am afraid we shall never move again. I think it is de¬
lightful to move. I think it is so nice to shut my eyes
at night and not to know where anything will be in the
morning, and to have to hunt for my brush and comb
and my books and my etceteras, but my mother and my
nurse do not feel that way at all.

I forgot to say I have a little niece, nearly as old as I
am, and she lives in the country. Her mother is my
sister, and her father is a clergyman, and I go there in
the summer, and she comes here in the winter, and we
have things together, like whooping-cough and scarletina.
Her name is Ellen and she is very bright. She writes
elegant compositions, but I beat her in arithmetic. I hate
compositions unless they are on subjects I can look up in
books.

Beside my little niece, I have a dear cousin near my
age. Her father died in New Orleans, and her mother
then came to New York to live. She brought all her
six children with her, and also the bones of seven other
little children of hers, who had died in their infancy.
She brought them in a basket to put in the family vault
on Long Island.

My aunt and my cousins came to New York three
years ago. I was in my trundle-bed one night and woke
up and saw my mother putting on her hat and shawl, and
I began to cry, but she told me to be a good girl and go
to sleep, and next day she would take me to see some
little cousins.    So the next day she took me, but first we

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