Wed., May 18th.—­Papa is packing his trunk for Philadelphia, and I am sitting at my new library table to write on my letter.  I went yesterday to see that lady who has fits.  She had one in the morning that lasted over an hour and a half.  She is a very bright, animated creature and does not look older than you.

Thursday.—­Papa got off yesterday at eleven for the General Assembly and I went to Mrs. D.’s and stayed four hours.  She sent for Mr. S.’s baby, who does not creep, but walks in the quaintest little way.  I shall write a note to Mr. S., who feels anxious at its not creeping, fearing its limbs will not be strong, to tell him that I hitched along exactly so.

Now let me give you the history of this busy day.  We got up early and Miss F. called with M.’s two dresses.  After prayers and breakfast I wrote to papa, went to school with H., and marketed.  Came home and found a letter from Cincinnati, urging for two hymns right away for a new hymn-book.  They had several of mine already.  I said, “Go to, let us make a hymn” (Prof.  Smith in his Review) and made and sent them.  Then I wrote to Mr. S. and to Mrs. Charles W——. [8] Then Mrs. C. came and stayed till nearly four, when she left and I went down to Twenty-second street to call on a lady at the Water Cure.  Then I went to see Mrs. C. (the wife of the Rev. Mr. C.).  I think I told you she had lost her little Florence.  I do not remember ever seeing a person so broken down by grief; she seemed absolutely heart-broken.  I could not get away till five, and then I took two stages and got home as soon as I could, knowing the children would be famishing.  So now count up my various professions, chaplain, marketer, hymnist, consoler of Mr. S., Mrs. W., Mrs. C., and let me add, of Dr. B., who came and made a long call.  I am now going to lie down and read till I get rested, for my brain has been on the steady stretch for thirteen hours, one thing stepping on the heels of another. [9]

May 23d.—­If your eyes were bright enough you might have seen me and my cousin George P——­ tearing down Broadway this afternoon, as if mad dogs were after us.  He wanted me to have a fountain pen, and the only way to accomplish it was to take me down to the place where they are sold, below the Astor House.  I wanted to walk, and so did he, but he had got to be on a boat for Norwich at five P.M. and pack up between while; however, he concluded to risk it, hence the way we raced was a caution.  I have just written him a long letter in rhyme with my new pen, and now begin one in prose to you.  I have just got a letter from an anonymous admirer of Stepping Heavenward, enclosing ten dollars to give away; I wish it was a thousand!  The children are in tribulation about their kitten, who committed suicide by knocking the ironing-board on to herself.  H. made a diagram of the position of the board that I might fully comprehend the situation, and then showed me how the corpse lay.  They were not willing to part with the remains, and buried them in the yard.