E-Q-U-I--equi, D-O-M-E--dome, “Equidome.” Betty, hand me my dictionary. Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have tripped over a “stable?” That all comes of being “raised” where people persist in calling things by their right names. I’m very certain that it is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There’s the “Hippodrome!” I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked all up trying to pronounce it; and then I couldn’t find out the meaning of it; for Webster didn’t inform me that it was a place where vicious horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of vicious spectators. --“Jim Brown!” What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but I’m positively certain that he’s a monosyllable on legs--crisp as a cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs. “Robert Link--Bird Fancier.” I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o’Link; in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people. Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the “Bowery.” I don’t see but the silks, and satins, and dry goods generally, are quite equal to those in Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are only half the price. What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?--“Superb,” “Tasty,” “Beautiful,” “Desirable,” “Cheap for 1_s._,” “Modest,” “Unique,” “Genteel,” “Grand,” “Gay!” It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one himself. There’s a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner’s shop, trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What a _non compos_! See him poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his indecision, and resolves to make a _coup d’état_; so, perching one of the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says: “Now, I’m sure, you can’t say _that_ isn’t pretty!” Of course he can’t! So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.