But Aunt Henshaw, I must confess, won my heart less by her own
individual merits than a present she once made me, which actually
appeared to me like a windfall from the skies. I was always
inordinately fond of reading, and my predelictions for fairy tales
amounted to an actual passion. When Mammy and Jane's ingenuity had been
exhausted in framing instances of the marvellous for my special
gratification, I would often fold my hands before my face, to shut out
all actual scenes, and thus sit and dream of wonderful adventures with
fairies, witches, and enchanted princesses. I was always happier in a
reverie than in the company of others--my own ideals I could make as I
chose--the real I must take as I found it. Castle-building is a pleasant
but dangerous occupation; had I not been so much of an enthusiast, a
day-dreamer, it would have been better for my happiness.

But to return to Aunt Henshaw and her present. Some school-mate one day
told me of the varied wonders contained in the "Arabian Kights." My
imagination, always excitable, became worked up to a high pitch by tales
of diamond caverns, flying horses, and mysterious Baloons under ground.
If I went to sleep, it was to dream of gardens more beautiful than
Paradise itself--of cooling fountains springing up at every step--of
all sorts of impossible fruits growing just where you wanted them--and
lamps and songs that gratified every wish. At length I could bear these
tantalizing visions of unattainable pleasure no longer; I put on my
bonnet and determined to go the whole rounds of the village until I met
with some success. People wondered what ailed me that afternoon; I
bolted directly into a room--asked if they had the Arabian Nights--and,
on being answered in the negative, went out as expeditiously as I had
gone in, and tried another acquaintance. I was not easily daunted, and
took each one in succession, but all to no purpose; I returned home,
fairly sick with disappointment, and hope delayed.