waters?"

"In it now. Oh, mercy!"

I fell down upon my seat, and buried my face in my shawl, shaking from head to foot.

Sisters, that cruel man laughed. O, how hardened he must have got, going through that sulphurious gate.

"I say, madam, there is no danger, we are almost through now."

"Is he there? Have you seen anything of his blasting hosts?" says I under my breath. "Do they mean to fire up just yet?"

"No, no, we are all safe. Quite through—New York is in sight."

I let my shawl drop a little, and peeped out. There was no sign of a gale; the water was a little bubbly and rough, as if it had been rushing through a race-way, but that was all. That captain of ours must have been on good terms with the old serpent that keeps the gate, or he never could have got through so easy. Now that it was over, I almost wished I had found grit enough to see how it was done. As it was, my eyes were hid, and I did not even see the awful old gate.

Well, at last I rose up slowly and looked forward. There was New York City, right before me; just one pile of roofs and walls with cupolas, pointed fronts, and steeples; looking through the smoky haze acres and acres of houses, miles and miles—a whole island laid down with stone. All around it, just as far as I could see, the water was thick with ships, steamboats, and small boats, all flying up and down and across, like living things, each with an errand of its own. There, along the edges of the city, was what seemed to me like a forest of dead trees, without a leaf or a sign of greenness upon them.

"Well," says the captain, "you see that we have run the gate. Never been here before, I reckon?"

"No, never," says I, "and hope I never shall be again."

"I thought things seemed a little green," says he.

"From the Green Mountains," says I.

"Exactly," says he. "Well, how do you like the looks of the city?"

"Hazy," says I; "dry as tinder. All stone walls, and too many dead trees about for my notion."

"Dead trees? I have never seen any," says he, a-looking around.

"Must be awful short-sighted," says I. "Just look down there; it is like a burnt faller."

He looked ahead where my finger was pointing, and laughed right out.

"Why, that is the shipping," says he.

"Shipping," says I. "Don't tell me that! I wasn't brought up in the woods not to know tree trunks when I see them, dead or alive."

"But I assure you those are the masts of vessels. You can see the hulls now."

I did see the hulls, and felt dreadfully; what would the captain think of me! At once I looked up.

"Yes," says I. "There is no question about it. Those are the hulls of ships, and the others are masts; but I was right."

He laughed: "But you said they were dead trees."

"Just so. Isn't a mast made out of a tree?"

"Certainly."

"And isn't the tree dead before it can be made into a mast?"

"Why, yes," says he, and now it was his turn to be down in the mouth.

"Well, then, isn't the edge of the water there chuck full of dead trees?"

At first the captain sort of choked a little; but the next minute he burst out a laughing.

"Do you want to know my opinion?" says he.

"Well, rather," says I.

"Well, it's this: Green Mountain or not, if anybody buys a certain lady I know of for a fool, he'll get awfully taken in."

"Shouldn't wonder," says I.

With that, I picked up my umbrella, tied my bonnet a little tighter, took my bandbox in one hand, and followed the crowd across a plank bridge, and got into about the dirtiest road that my foot ever trod on.

"Want a carriage? Want a carriage?" I never saw men more polite than the drivers with whips were. It seemed as if they couldn't do enough for me. It really was a strife which should take me in his carriage. Their attentions really were flattering. It was like a welcome in this strange place.

It was like being in a little room all cushioned seats and windows when I got into the great double carriage so kindly offered me.

The cushions were soft as down, and gave so, when I seated myself, that I couldn't help catching my breath. "Where to," says the driver, a-leaning through the window.

"First," says I, "if it won't be too much trouble, I will go somewhere and buy a new satchel; I really don't feel at home without one. Then you may take me to a boarding-house in Bleecker Street. You'll know where it is by inquiring about a little. The name is Smith, and they come from Vermont. Their daughter married and settled on Sprucehill. Smith. You can't help but find them."

"Have you got a number?" says the man.

"No," answers I, "only one family."

"But the house."

"No," says I again. "I haven't got any house, but the old homestead on Sprucehill."

"But Bleecker is a long street."

"Is it?"

"And I must have a number."

"Why, isn't one street of a name enough?" says I, getting out of patience. "What on earth do you want?"

"I want the name of the people."

"Smith."

"And the number of the house they live in."

"Oh, then, houses go by numbers, not names, here in York, do they? Stop a minute!"

Here I took a slip of paper from my pocket-book which Smith's daughter had written, and gave it to him.

"All right," says he, hopping up the wheel, and going to his seat. Then away we rolled, genteel as could be.

I bought the satchel at a store we drove by, and then we went on and on and on, till at last he stopped before a brick house with a good deal of iron about it.

The driver jumped down, ran up the steps, pulled a rusty knob fastened to the door stone, and faced round towards his horses.

A girl I should consider as hired help opened the door.

"Is Mrs. Smith at home?" says I, a-putting my head out of the window.

"Yes," says she.

"I'll get out," says I.

The driver unfolded a lot of steps that had been hid away under the windows. I went down them with a genteel trip. The man had been so polite, I stopped to thank him.

"Three dollars," says he, a holding out his hand.

"Three dollars? What for?" says I, all in a flutter.

"For bringing you here," says he. "Stopping on the way, and so on."

"But you invited me."

The fellow grinned, and held out his hand harder than ever. The help on top of the steps giggled.

"Come, look sharp, I can't wait all day," says he, as pert as a fox.

"Well," says I; "being an unprotected female in a strange place, I can't help myself, I guess; but they do sell politeness awful dear in York. It must be scarce."

I gave him three dollars without another word, feeling like a robbed princess as I did it. Then I took the bandbox and new satchel in my hand, and walked into Smith's boarding-house, about the homesickest creature that ever bore a cross.

II.

PHŒMIE'S FIRST VISIT.