One clear soft autumn evening, in the beginning of October, just after dinner, Aunt Fanny went up into her bedroom, and put on her bonnet and sack. They were both black, and trimmed with crape, for she had lately lost a relative she dearly loved. Then opening a drawer in her precious little library-table, upon which she wrote all her stories, she took out a manuscript, and tried to get it into her pocket.

But it was written on such wide paper that the end would stick out, so she had to return to the dining-room with a quarter of the roll in full view.

“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Alice, “where are you going? and what is that sticking out of your pocket?”

“I am going to see my new children, and this is the but-end of a pop-gun.”

“Oh, mamma, take me! I want to go.”

“But, darling, I thought Lizzie Lyman was coming to help you make a new Spanish waist for Ginevra.”

“So she is; I forgot;” and Alice pulled out Miss Ginevra, who was a lovely little porcelain doll, and who lived in the top of her own trunk, and kissed her fondly.

So Aunt Fanny and her tall husband, after a dozen kisses or so from Sarah and Alice, trotted off.

If you will promise never to tell, I will mention that the new children lived in Twenty-third street, in the very middle of a long row of brown-stone houses. It was not a very long walk, and soon Aunt Fanny had pulled the bell, which was one of those funny spring bells which give one loud “tching,” as if they had jumped out of their skins with a jerk and a scream; and jumped in again with another, the next time anybody pulled them. As the door was opened, she saw a bright little face peeping from the dining-room, and the very next instant she heard the joyous exclamation, “If it isn’t Aunt Fanny!”—and then came a rushing, and a tumbling, and a racing, and a laughing! and all the six children fell lovingly upon her, and knocked down—not Aunt Fanny, not a bit of it, or of her, but two hats, three umbrellas, a great-coat, a whisk-broom, and a paper parcel marked “From A. T. Stewart,”—all of which had been peacefully hanging or resting upon the hat-stand; and when papa and mamma came out to see who was creating such a riot, there was Aunt Fanny with the whisk-broom perched like a flower on top of her bonnet, Peter and Fred rushing after the hats which had rolled off in different corners; all the rest of the articles scattered on the floor; Bob and the three little girls jumping straight up and down, kissing Aunt Fanny, and begging pardon for upsetting so many things over her; while the waiter and Aunt Fanny’s husband were standing near, laughing as hard as ever they could at the fun.

They got into the parlor at last, and sat down—the children with their bright eyes fastened upon their welcome guest, who, trying to look grave, asked, the very first thing, if the children had had any dinner that day.

“Why yes, plenty, Aunt Fanny; dessert too—flower-pot pudding.”

“Flower-pot pudding! who ever heard of such a pudding! Is it any thing like dirt-pies?”

“Why no, Aunt Fanny!” cried all the children; “it is cooked in flower-pots; at any rate, we call them so; but there are no holes in the bottoms of them. Mamma brought ever so many of these funny little brown earthen pots from Boston. The cook puts them in the oven only half full of the pudding, but when they come out, oh my! how funny they look! for each one has swelled up twice as high as the pot, and some of them hang over on one side, as if they were perfectly tipsy; and when you come to cut them, pop! goes the knife into a great hole inside, and there’s where you must put the sauce, and that makes them taste so nice! but—why do you ask?”

Aunt Fanny laughed, and said—

“When you came at me so furiously, I thought you might have been living on a slice or two of buttered paper and a teacup or so of sunbeams to-day, and meant to eat me up for supper.”

“Oh, Aunt Fanny! we love you dearly, but we wouldn’t eat you up for all the world.”

“But what’s that sticking out of your pocket?” asked Sophie, spying the end of the roll of manuscript, for the first time.

“A Pop-gun. Bang!” she answered, pulling it out and pointing it at them. “Come, sit down, for I have brought it on purpose to read to you.”

With a great many “hushes,” and flourishes, and skirmishes, to get the seats on either side of her, Aunt Fanny unrolled her story, and began as follows: