degree of order and system, but I can't here. I must allegore and
meditate on 'em jest as they come, and truly a-thinkin' on these
picters, I feel as Hosey Bigelow ust to say:

"I can't tell what's comin'--gall or honey."

But some of them picters and statutes made perfect dents in my memory,
and can't be smoothed out agin nohow.

There wuz one little figger jest at the entrance where we went in, "The
Young Acrobat," that impressed me dretfully.

It wuz a man's hand and arm that wuz a-risin' up out of a pedestal, and
on the hand wuz set the cutest little baby you ever see. I guess it wuz
the first time that he'd ever sot up anywhere out of the cradle or his
ma's arms.

He looked some skairt, and some proud, and too cunnin' for anything, as
I hearn remarked by a few hundred female wimmen that day.

And like as not it is jest like my incoherence in revery that from that
little baby my mind would spring right on to the French exhibit to that
noble statute of Jennie D. Ark, kneelin' there with her clasped hands
and her eyes lifted as if she wuz a-sayin': "I _did_ hear the voices!"

And so she did hear the language of Heaven, and the dull souls around
her wuz too earthly to comprehend the divine harmonies, and so they
burnt her up for it.

Lots of folks are burnt up in different fires to-day, for the same