request I am sorry to answer nay; for I feel it would be the greatest presumption in me to think of writing for a magazine like that.  I do not wish to publish anything, anywhere, though it would be quite as wise as to entrust my scraps to your care.  My mother often urges me to send little things which she happens to fancy, to this and that periodical.  Without her interference nothing of mine would ever have found its way into print.  But mammas look with rose-colored spectacles on the actions and performances of their offspring.  Have you laughed over the Pickwick Papers?  We have almost laughed ourselves to death over them.  I have not seen Lizzy D. for a long time, but hear she is getting along rapidly.  If I could go to school two years more, I should be glad, but of course that is out of the question....  It is easier for you to write often than it is for me.  You have not three tearing, growing brothers to mend and make for.  I am become quite expert in the arts of patching and darning.  I am going to get some pies and cake and raisins and other goodies to send to our girl’s sick brother.  If I had not so dear and happy a home, I should envy you yours.  You say you do not remember whether I love music or not.  I love it extravagantly sometimes—­but have not the knowledge to enjoy scientific performances.  The simple melody of a single voice is my delight.  Mrs. French, the Episcopal minister’s wife, who is a great friend of ours and lives next door (so near that she and sister talk together out of their windows), has a baby two days old with black curly hair and black eyes, and I shall have a nice time with it this winter.  Do you love babies?

The question with which this letter closes, suggests one of Lizzy’s most striking and loveliest traits.  She had a perfect passion for babies, and reveled in tending, kissing, and playing with them.  Here are some pretty lines in one of her girlish contributions to “The Youth’s Companion,” which express her feeling about them: 

  What are little babies for? 
    Say! say! say! 
  Are they good-for-nothing things? 
    Nay! nay! nay!

  Can they speak a single word? 
    Say! say! say! 
  Can they help their mothers sew? 
    Nay! nay! nay!

  Can they walk upon their feet? 
    Say! say! say! 
  Can they even hold themselves? 
    Nay! nay! nay!

  What are little babies for? 
    Say! say! say! 
  Are they made for us to love?
    Yea!  YEA!!  YEA!!!

In the fall of 1838 Mrs. Payson purchased a house in Cumberland street, which continued to be her residence until the family was broken up.  You remember the charming little room Lizzy had fitted up over the hall in this house, how nicely she kept it, and how happy she was in it.  One of the windows looked out on a little flower garden and at the close of the long summer days the sunset could be enjoyed from the west window.  She had had some fine books given her, which, added to the previous store, made a somewhat rare collection for a young girl in those days.