think, how queer it must seem, for her to look back on all
the fashions that have come up since her first ball dress.

And now, I will tell you something very interesting, indeed, about Aunt
Mary. She has seen the great General Washington, alive; and I would be
willing to be just as old, if I could say the same.

Yes, my dear old aunt is of another and past century. It always seems to
me, as though she should be dressed with the powder, high-heeled shoes,
and ruffles of real lace that she wore long ago.

But in any dress we shall always love her dearly; for she is to us a
kind monitor, a sincere friend, and a simple, earnest Christian. God
bless dear Aunt Mary.

LITTLE PETER.

Of all the funny little fellows that I ever knew, little Peter, at six
years of age, was the quaintest and funniest.

Now, as this, like all the rest of my stories, is a "_real true_" story,
I dare say you would like to know who Peter was, and where he
lived--and, as I did not promise to keep it a secret, I will tell you.
In the very first place, it will give you the most delightful feeling of
interest in the world, and convince you that he was, or ought to have
been, the happiest child possible, when you read that he lived on a
beautiful island, very near New York, and in a beautiful place that was
called "Clear Comfort."

You may be sure that "Clear Comfort" was not one of those grand, gloomy
places, with forty cross old gardeners trotting about continually, and
scratching at the walks with their rakes, and counting every flower in
the beds, so that, if you happened to pick a lady's ear-drop, or a
lady's slipper, or a white lily, or a red rose, as Peter often did, they
would find it out immediately, and be ready to cut your head off. Not at
all.

With occasional assistance for the rough work, Peter's _mother_ was the
gardener in this charming spot, and it really seemed as if the flowers
loved her as much as she loved them, and grew up, under her beautiful
hands and dainty care, in such profusion and splendor, as the cross old
gardeners in the neighboring places would have given all their eyes and
elbows to have beaten; but, unfortunately, they did not happen to have
the winsome, coaxing ways, and sweet smile of Peter's mother; and I
suppose the flowers knew it, and that was the reason why every thing in
her garden was nine times handsomer than anywhere else.

The house Peter lived in was a long, low, one storied cottage, with