“My two most prominent faults,” said she, “were vanity and curiosity, and these both led me into a great many scrapes, which I shall endeavor to relate for your edification.  I shall represent them just as they really were, and if I do not make especial comments on each separate piece of misconduct, it is because I leave you to judge for yourselves, by placing them in their true light.  I shall not tell you the year I was born in,” she continued, “for then there would be a counting on certain little fingers to see how old grandmamma is now.  When I was a child—­a very young one—­I used to say that I remembered very well the day on which I was born, for mother was down stairs frying dough-nuts.  This nondescript kind of cake was then much more fashionable for the tea-table than it is at the present day.  My mother was quite famous for her skill in manufacturing them, and my great delight was to superintend her operations, and be rewarded for good behavior with a limited quantity of dough, which I manufactured into certain uncouth images, called ‘dough-nut babies.’  Sometimes these beloved creations of genius performed rather curious gymnastics on being placed in the boiling grease—­such as twisting on one side, throwing a limb entirely over their heads, &c.; while not unfrequently a leg or an arm was found missing when boiled to the requisite degree of hardness.  But sometimes, oh, sad to relate! my fingers committed such unheard-of depredations in the large bowl or tray appropriated by my mother, that I was sentenced to be tied in a high chair drawn close to her side, whence I could quietly watch her proceedings without being able to assist her.

I know that our home was situated in a pleasant village which has long since disappeared in the flourishing city; the house was of white brick, three stories high, with rooms on each side of the front entrance.  A large and beautiful flower-garden was visible from the back windows; and beyond this was a still larger fruit-garden, the gate of which was generally locked, while a formidable row of nails with the points up, repelled all attempts at climbing over the fence.  The peaches, and plums, apricots, nectarines, grapes, cherries, and apples were such as I have seldom, if ever, seen since.  My lather was wealthy, and my earliest recollections are connected with large, handsomely-furnished rooms, numerous servants, massive plate, and a constant succession of dinner-parties and visitors.  How often have I watched the servants as they filled the decanters, rubbed the silver, and made other preparations for company, while I drew comparisons between the lot of the favored beings for whom these preparations were made, and my own, on being condemned to the unvarying routine of the nursery.  Childhood then appeared to me a kind of penance which we were doomed to undergo—­a sort of imprisonment or chrysalis, which, like the butterfly, left us in a fairy-like and beautiful existence.  Little did I then dream of the cares, and toils, and