ybody lives in
this city; so it's no use to ask. For what do they care? They'd tell you
to look in the Dictionary. There's nobody in Portland ever told me to
look in a Dictionary. Here they are, sitting round here, just as happy,
all but me. They all live in a number, and they know what it is; but
they keep it to themselves,--they don't tell. It always makes people
feel better to know where they're going to. When I'm in Portland I know
how to get to Park Street, and how to get to Munjoy, and how to get to
Back Cove, with my eyes shut. But they don't make things as they ought
to in New York. You can't find out what to do."

So the stage rumbled, and Dotty grumbled. Presently a lady in an ermine
cloak got out, and Dotty did not know of anything better to do than to
follow. She certainly was on Fifth Avenue, and perhaps, if she walked
on, she should come to the number.

"There isn't any house along here that looks like auntie's," said she,
anxiously; "only they all look like it some. I never saw such a place as
this city, So many same things right over, and over; and then, when you
go into 'em, its just as different, and not the place you s'posed it
was."

Here Dotty ran up some steps, and rang a bell. She thought the damask
curtains looked familiar.

"No, no," cried she, running down again, as fast as the mouse ran down
the clock; "my auntie don't keep onions in her bay window, I hope!"

It was hyacinth bulbs, in glass vases, which had excited Dotty's
disgust.

"O, I guess I'm on the wrong side of the street; no wonder I can't find
the house. There, I see a chamber window open; _our_ chamber window was
open. I'm going to cross over and get near enough to see if there's a
little clock on the shelf that ticks like a dog wagging his tail."

No, there was no clock of any sort, and where the shelf ought to be was
a baby's crib.

"Well, any way, here's that beautiful church, with ivy round it; it's
ever so near auntie's; so I'll keep walking."

Dotty was right when she said the church was near auntie's--it was
within three doors; but she was wrong when she kept walking precisely
the wrong way. She crossed over to Sixth Avenue. Now, where were the
brown houses? She saw the horse-cars plodding along, and tried to read
the words on them.

"'Sixth Ave. and Fifty-Ninth Street.' Why, what's an _ave_? I never heard
of such a thing before; we don't have 'aves' in Portland. There are ever
so many people getting out of that