"I can't tell what's comin'—gall or honey."
But some of them picters and statutes made perfect dents in my memory, and can't be smoothed out agin nohow.
There wuz one little figger jest at the entrance where we went in, "The Young Acrobat," that impressed me dretfully.
It wuz a man's hand and arm that wuz a-risin' up out of a pedestal, and on the hand wuz set the cutest little baby you ever see. I guess it wuz the first time that he'd ever sot up anywhere out of the cradle or his ma's arms.
He looked some skairt, and some proud, and too cunnin' for anything, as I hearn remarked by a few hundred female wimmen that day.
And like as not it is jest like my incoherence in revery that from that little baby my mind would spring right on to the French exhibit to that noble statute of Jennie D. Ark, kneelin' there with her clasped hands and her eyes lifted as if she wuz a-sayin': "I did hear the voices!"
And so she did hear the language of Heaven, and the dull souls around her wuz too earthly to comprehend the divine harmonies, and so they burnt her up for it.
Lots of folks are burnt up in different fires to-day, for the same thing.
Then mebby my mind will jest jump to the "Age of Iron" or to the "Secrets of the Tomb," or "The Eagle and the Vulture," or "Washington and Lafayette," or "Charity"—a good-lookin' creeter she wuz—she could think of other children besides her own; or mebby it will jump right over onto the "Indian Buffalo Hunt"—a horse a-rarin' right up to git rid of a buffalo that wuz a-pressin' right in under its forelegs.