Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my new
surroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartment
that had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the front
door.

I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, about
twice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of
neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and a
patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the little
truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in
that line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlike
any that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched a
yellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from
a severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did
not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and
sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two where
the paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up with
a fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the whole
flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time I
was never able to regard them as merely inanimate objects.

A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, a
looking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with
brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of
the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books--among which
were Theodore, or The Peruvians; Robinson Crusoe; an odd volume of
Tristram Shandy; Baxter's Saints' Rest, and a fine English edition of
the Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey.

Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books? I do