told her story, which was, I guess, what the sailors call a long
yarn, that she put me into such a sound sleep, that I could no
longer hear any thing distinctly, and lost her story altogether."

"But, dear mother," said Frank, "I hope you woke up so as to hear
the history of the old cloak, and the comical coat, and the wig."

"I will see," she answered, "what more I can remember of those
dreamy times which I passed in my dear mother's attic, the palace of
my early days."

One very rainy Sunday, the noise of the children was too much for
the older and graver part of the family, who wished to read and be
quiet; and my mother advised me to take my book, and go up to my
parlor.

I always liked to be there, and to be by myself, with only the
society of my friend the cat who was perfectly docile and obedient
to me. I took Pilgrim's Progress, my favorite book, and was soon
very comfortably seated in my great old-fashioned arm chair. Puss
was by my side in the chair, for there was plenty of room for us
both.

O, that Puss, a famous cat she was. She was of a beautiful Maltese
blue, with a very nice white handkerchief on her breast, a white
ring for a necklace, and four white feet. She once met with an
adventure worth relating.

A young harum scarum Italian was a friend of my mother's, and was
often at our house. A young lady, to whom he was much devoted, had a