alico dresses, most of them in the shape of sacks and skirts.
These were the contents of one or two boxes recently arrived from Boston.
Some of them were recognized by me as the work of a hive of busy bees who used to gather weekly in my own New England parlor, summoned thither by my daughter Florence, now Mrs. David P. Hall.
And what stress there was at those meetings, and what hurrying!
And how the little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and dainty gloves, wielding the heavy implemes of their parents.
Some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give only underclothing.
Others have but the rag of a gown—a few strips of stuff over their coarse chemises.
These we make haste to cover with the beneficent growth of New England factories.
They are admitted in groups of three or four at a time.
As many of us fly to the heaps of clothing, and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual.
A papa, or priest, keeps order among them.
He wears his bl