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Far away seaward you may see the low golden glare of Coney Island. But there was beauty in the view that morning, also, half an hour after sunrise. New York, always the cleanest and least smoky of cities, lay asleep in a queer, pearly, hourless light. A thin mist softened the further outlines.
You shall taste of my bounty, Messire Noel," and he began to improvise derisively: "To Messire Noel, named the neat By those who love him, I bequeath A helmless ship, a houseless street, A wordless book, a swordless sheath, An hourless clock, a leafless wreath, A bed sans sheet, a board sans meat, A bell sans tongue, a saw sans teeth, To make his nothingness complete."
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