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.
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 close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,) sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all three;—sometimes I stay all night.
Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to me and slips a dicky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say nothing.