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‘You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,’ observed the fair artist. ‘I took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must take it again on a snowy winter’s day, and then again on a dark cloudy evening; for I really have nothing else to paint. I have been told that you have a fine view of the sea somewhere in the neighbourhood. Is it true?—and is it within walking distance?’

And it did not make her feel any pleasanter to hear Solomon’s mocking laughter, which grew fainter and fainter as he left the pasture behind him. Then she went inside her house, for she was fast growing sleepy. And she wanted to set things to rights before she began her long winter’s nap. Meanwhile, Solomon Owl roamed restlessly through the woods.

From this apartment might their voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the very bank of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth the burden of a popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a strength and length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above them.

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone.

If one of my readers doubts the assertion that the better classes have ceased to attend our theatres, except on rare occasions, let him inquire about, among the men and women whose opinions he values and respects, how many of last winter’s plays they considered intellectual treats, or what piece tempted them to leave their cosy dinner-tables a second time.

Another circumstance which we noticed about this time, and still more so as the season advanced, was the rapid progress which the warmth had already made in dissolving the last year’s snow, this being always easily known by its dingy colour, and its admixture with the soil. Of the past winter’s snow not a particle could be seen at the close of July on any part of this coast.

Nothing seemed to taste good any more. So at last, one fine fall evening he went to see Aunt Polly Woodchuck, who was an herb doctor; for he had begun to worry about his health. “It’s lucky you came to-day,” said Aunt Polly. “Because to-night I’m going to begin my winter’s nap.

Often he would practice gravely in a corner, without either partner or music, and I remember one cold winter’s night his awakening with the fear that he had forgotten the step so strong upon him that, jumping out of bed, by the scant illumination of the old-fashioned rushlight, and to his own whistling, he diligently rehearsed itsone, two, three, one, two, threeuntil he was once more secure in his knowledge.

The ideas generally held concerning herpersonallyare somewhat incorrect, as the following will show: * It was a cloudy, winter’s afternoon, and the place seemed dull and gloomy. The Boston Music Hall is, at best, bare and vast, and by daylight is particularly unattractive. The great organ pipes appear cold and lustreless, and the light tints on the walls are not very comforting.

Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear Booth and Barrett, who were to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a great success in “A Winter’s Tale,” in London. The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener came in, directing Blind d’Arnault,—he would never consent to be led.