"Not on the street, dears. Some time, during the holidays, I may turn story-teller, if you wish it; but here we are at the ferry; now look out for the mud."
"O, what a place," cried Fly, clinging to Horace, and trying to walk on his boots. "Just like where grampa keeps his pig!"
"How true, little sister! but you needn't use my feet for a sidewalk. I'll take you up in my arms. It snowed in the night; but that makes it all the muddier."
"Yes, it doesn't do snow any good to fall into New York mud," said Aunt Madge; "it is like touching pitch."
"I thought it felt like pitch," remarked Dotty; "sticks to your boots so."
"But, then, overhead how beautiful it is!" said Prudy. "I should think the dirty earth would be ashamed to look up at such a clear sky."
"But the sky don't mind," returned Horace; "it always overlooks dirt."
"How very sharp we are getting!" laughed auntie; "we have begun the day brilliantly. Any more remarks from anybody?"
"I should like to know," said Dotty, "what all those great wooden things are made for? I never saw such big hen-houses before!"
"Hear her talk!" exclaimed auntie. "Hen-houses, indeed! Why, that is Fulton Market. I shall take you through it when we come back. You can buy anything in there, from a live eel to a book of poetry."