"Exactly," says he. "Well, how do you like the looks of the city?" "Hazy," says I; "dry as tinder. All stone walls, and too many dead trees about for my notion." "Dead trees? I have never seen any," says he, a-looking around. "Must be awful short-sighted," says I. "Just look down there; it is like a burnt faller." He looked ahead where my finger was pointing, and laughed right out. "Why, that is the shipping," says he. "Shipping," says I. "Don't tell me that! I wasn't brought up in the woods not to know tree trunks when I see them, dead or alive." "But I assure you those are the masts of vessels. You can see the hulls now." I did see the hulls, and felt dreadfully; what would the captain think of me! At once I looked up. "Yes," says I. "There is no question about it. Those are the hulls of ships, and the others are masts; but I was right." He laughed: "But you said they were dead trees." "Just so. Isn't a mast made out of a tree?" "Certainly." "And isn't the tree dead before it can be made into a mast?" "Why, yes," says he, and now it was his turn to be down in the mouth. "Well, then, isn't the edge of the water there chuck full of dead trees?" At first the captain sort of choked a little; but the next minute he burst out a laughing. "Do you want to know my opinion?" says he. "Well, rather," says I. "Well, it's this: Green Mountain or not, if anybody buys a certain lady I know of for a fool, he'll get awfully taken in." "Shouldn't wonder," says I. With that, I picked up my umbrella, tied my bonnet a little tighter, took my bandbox in one hand, and followed the crowd across a plank bridge, and got into about the dirtiest road that my foot ever trod on. "Want a carriage? Want a carriage?" I never saw men more polite than the drivers with whips were. It seemed as if they couldn't do enough for me. It really was a strife which should take me in his carriage. Their attentions really were flattering. It was like a welcome in this strange place. It was like being in a little room all cushioned seats and windows when I got into the great double carriage so kindly offered me. The cushions were soft as down, and gave so, when I seated myself, that I couldn't help catching my breath. "Where to," says the driver, a-leaning through the window. "First," says I, "if it won't be too much trouble, I will go somewhere and buy a new satchel; I really don't feel at home without one. Then you may take me to a boarding-house in Bleecker Street. You'll know where it is by inquiring about a little. The name is Smith, and they come from Vermont. Their daughter married and settled on Sprucehill. Smith. You can't help but find them." "Have you got a number?" says the man. "No," answers I, "only one family." "But the house." "No," says I again. "I haven't got any house, but the old homestead on Sprucehill." "But Bleecker is a long street." "Is it?" "And I must have a number."