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Then she went back to the parlor, where she and her husband laughed heartily and long over Polly's grand dinner party. It was still in the early days of the cooking club, and February's snows lay soft over the mountain sides, the smooth, open places throwing into bold relief the long rows of trees, which looked blue and hazy against their dazzling background.
Did April follow her, she could make the joys of that wonderful month even keener for us by the contrast, but she is followed by March. What can one do with March? One does not wear a hair-shirt merely to enjoy the pleasure of following it by one slightly less hairy. Well, we may agree that February is no good. "Oh, to be out of England now that February's here," is what Browning should have said.
At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February's snow.
It was one of February's freaks. It was hot. The white ghost of noon lay over shore and sea. Beneath her the city seemed to sleep gray and glistening. The tops of hills that rose above the up-creeping houses were misted green. Across the bay, along the northern shore, there was a pale green coast of hills dividing blue and blue.
At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February's snow.
The aspect was not uninviting, seen under the charitable cloak of February's snow, sun-touched by the freshly risen luminary, the white expanses glinting; all the rocks and ledges and the barren shapes were covered. But under summer's frank sunlight Egypt was as disheartening a spectacle as a racked old horse, ribs and hip bones outthrust, waiting for the knacker's offices.
From what I had heard I supposed you must have some dreadful gales here, but there has been none so far." "We'll git 'em yit. February's jist the time. Git a good no'theaster goin', and you'll think the whole house is comin' down. Nothin' to what they used to have, though, 'cordin' to tell.
"Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; February hath twenty-eight alone, All the rest have thirty-one; Except in Leap Year, at which time February's days are twenty-nine." This is called the Old Style of reckoning.
Passing through the gate, they drove to the inn immortalized by Lawrence Sterne and Beau Brummel, where they found English comfort with French cooking and French taste. One of February's fine days they left the Hotel Dessein to embark for England.
January reveals a rich man at his table, dining alone, with his servitors and dogs about him; February's scene is white with snow a small farm with the wife at the spinning-wheel, seen through the door, and various indications of cold, without; March shows the revival of field labours; April, a love scene among lords and ladies; May, a courtly festival; June, haymaking outside a fascinating city; July, sheep-shearing and reaping; August, the departure for the chase; September, grape-picking for the vintage; October, sowing seeds in a field near another fascinating city a busy scene of various activities; November, beating oak-trees to bring down acorns for the pigs; and December, a boar hunt the death.
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