“Hard-hearted things will soften,” said auntie, kissing the baby’s puzzled face.  “Little bits of green apples, how hard they are! but they keep growing mellow.”

“O, you little green apple,” cried Dotty, pinching Fly’s cheek.

“I was rather hard-hearted, if I remember, when I was an apple of that size,” continued Aunt Madge.  “I could tell you of a few cruel things I said and did.”

“Tell them,” said Horace; “please ’fess.”

“Yes, auntie, naughty things are so interesting.  Do begin and tell all about it.”

“Not on the street, dears.  Some time, during the holidays, I may turn story-teller, if you wish it; but here we are at the ferry; now look out for the mud.”

“O, what a place,” cried Fly, clinging to Horace, and trying to walk on his boots.  “Just like where grampa keeps his pig!”

“How true, little sister! but you needn’t use my feet for a sidewalk.  I’ll take you up in my arms.  It snowed in the night; but that makes it all the muddier.”

“Yes, it doesn’t do snow any good to fall into New York mud,” said Aunt Madge; “it is like touching pitch.”

“I thought it felt like pitch,” remarked Dotty; “sticks to your boots so.”

“But, then, overhead how beautiful it is!” said Prudy.  “I should think the dirty earth would be ashamed to look up at such a clear sky.”

“But the sky don’t mind,” returned Horace; “it always overlooks dirt.”

“How very sharp we are getting!” laughed auntie; “we have begun the day brilliantly.  Any more remarks from anybody?”

“I should like to know,” said Dotty, “what all those great wooden things are made for?  I never saw such big hen-houses before!”

“Hear her talk!” exclaimed auntie.  “Hen-houses, indeed!  Why, that is Fulton Market.  I shall take you through it when we come back.  You can buy anything in there, from a live eel to a book of poetry.”

“‘In mud eel is,’” quoted Horace.  “Reckon I’ll buy one, auntie, and carry it home in a piece of brown paper.  I believe Dotty is fond of eels.”

“Fond of eels!  Why, Horace Clifford, you know I can’t bear ’em, any more’n a snake.  If you do such a thing, Horace Clifford!”

Here Prudy gave her talkative sister a pinch; for they were surrounded by people, and Aunt Madge was giving ferry-tickets to a man who stood in a stall, and brushed them towards him into a drawer.

“Does he stay in it all night?” whispered Fly; “he can’t lie down, no more’n a hossy can.”

“Here, child, don’t try to get down out of my arms.  I must carry you into the boat.  Do you suppose I’d trust those wee, wee feet to go flying over East River?”

“For don’t we know she has wings on her heels?” said Aunt Madge.

Fly twisted around one of her little rubbers, and looked at it.  She understood the joke, but thought it too silly to laugh at.  East River lay smiling in the sun, white with sails.