I have put my name on the title-page of this trifle from principle. My pen-children are all mine, and I cannot think of disowning one, though it may happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, gentlest of unfortunate readers, not to take DAISY'S NECKLACE as a serious exponent of my skill at story-telling. It is _not_ printed at the "urgent request of numerous friends"--I am so fortunate as not to have many--but a seductive little argument in the shape of a _cheque_ is the sole cause of its present form; otherwise, I should be content to let it die an easy death in the columns of the journal which first had the temerity to publish it. If the world could always know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in muslin. It would say, with honest Sancho Panza: "Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth." When the sunshine of this dear old world has reddened the wine in my heart--melted down its sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a richer draught--mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene. Till then, may God's blessing be on us both, though neither of us deserve it. CLINTON PLACE, 1856. PROLOGUE. _It hath beene sayed, and it seemeth soe untoe me, that ye man who writes a booke maist have much vanitie and vexation of spirite._ YE TWO POORE AUTHORS. PROLOGUE. "Mrs. Muggins!" "Yes, sir." "Say that I am sick. Say I am dead--buried--out of town. In short, say anything you will; but deny my existence to every one who calls, with the exception of Mr. Barescythe." "Yes, sir." "I am going to write a novel, Mrs. Muggins!" That lady did not exhibit much emotion. "Yes, sir." And Mrs. Muggins ambled out of the room-door, to which she had been summoned by some peremptory appeals of my bell. I was somewhat shocked at the cool manner with which Mrs. Muggins received the literary intelligence; but she, poor, simple soul, did not know that my greatness was a-ripening. "Some of these days," said I to myself, turning toward the window, "some of these days, mayhap a hundred years hence, as the stranger passes through Washington Parade Ground, this house--wrinkled and old then--will be pointed out to his wonder-loving eyes as the one in which my novel was written; and the curious stranger will cut his name on the walls of the room which I never occupied, and carry away a slice of the door-step!" I immediately fell in love with this fascinating thought, and followed it up.