LETTER I.


THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION.

FROM PIDGIE TO HIS COUSIN BENNIE.

Marblehead, July 1st, 1846.

Do you remember, my dear cousin, how scornfully we used to look at
"little crooked Massachusetts," as we called it, on the map, while
comparing the other States with good old Virginia? I don't believe that
we ever even noticed such a town in it as Marblehead; and yet here I am,
in that very place; and though I love our noble State as well as ever, I
am beginning to think that there are some other places in the world fit
to live in. I don't mean, though, that I have the smallest inclination
to take up my abode in this town, but I should like to have you see it,
for it is the funniest place you can imagine. The old, queer-looking
houses seem to be placed cornerwise on the most crooked of streets, all
up hill and down, and winding around so that I begin to think they have
lost themselves and will come to a stop, when out they start, from
behind some red or green house which they had run around just for fun.
Then there are _heaps_, as we Southerners say, of droll little children
running about, some of them quite nicely dressed, with no servant to
take care of them; and yesterday, on the rocks that look out upon the
ocean, I met a little boy who could scarcely walk tottling along beside
one but little older, as independent and happy as if he might not at any