day, and who
married a Roman Count; and the little Tudie who died? Did she have that
splendid Christmas and the beautiful wax doll, that seems sacredly alive
to them both; only under some spell of enchantment laid upon her by
Merlin's clan?

Oh, how full the streets are now with their great high tenement-houses,
pouring out their myriads of children all day long, of every
nationality! But you still hear the old plays, "Open the Gates," and
"Scotland's Burning," and "Uncle John is very Sick," and "Ring around a
Rosy." Little Sally Waters still sits in the sun,--

"Crying and sighing for a young man,"

though modern poesy advises her to--

"Rise, Sally, rise,
Wipe your eyes out with your frock."

And the strange Chinatown, with its cabalistic signs, its men in blue
shirts and pigtails, and often snowy white stockings and queer pointed
slippers!

They wind slowly about Central Park. Was the Crystal Palace here? And no
park? To them it seems as if New York must have been born this way, with
electric lights, and push-buttons, and telephones, and cars, and
telegraphs, and everything. And did grandmamma come up here to the Fair;
and was it anything like the Museum of Art? And wasn't there any
menagerie, or playground, or donkey-riding or bicyclers?

Here is Washington Arch, with its memory of a great anniversary. Over on
the west side there is a curious spot fenced in with wooden palings,
where Alexander Hamilton planted thirteen trees for the Union, when
there were only thirteen States, and named them all. Even before his sad
death, South Carolina was braced to keep her from growing crooked; but
she went awry in spite of it all. They have moved the house in which he
lived, across the street, to save it from destruction; and it is in the
shadow of a church. And here is the old mansion where Aaron Burr lived a
brief while with Madame Jumel for his wedded wife,--a beautiful old
place on a hill.

They go on up to the grand Washington Bridge. They are very fond of the
story of Anthony Woolf swimming across the Harlem that dark night to get
away from the Hessian regiment, and begging shelter of kindly hearts.
They turn into a shaded road, and pass by lovely grounds, where wealth
has made gardens and terraces akin to those of Paradise. And winding
down the old road leading to the vale, they find a little dark-eyed girl
whose great-great-grandfather was this same Anthony Woolf. And the
Revolutionary War