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"Keep hold of that," whispered Crene, and a yoke of oxen could not have drawn it from me. "You are sure you had it marked for Fontdale," says Mr. Baggage-master. I hold the impracticable check before his eyes in silence. "Yes, well, it must have gone on to Albany." "But it went away on that track," says Crene. "Couldn't have gone on that track.
And while the question is yet trembling on my lips, lo! a Spirit breathes upon the earth, and beauty thrills into bloom. Who shall lack faith in man's redemption, when every year the earth is redeemed by unseen hands, and death is lost in resurrection? To Fontdale sitting among her beautiful meadows we are borne swiftly on.
"Keep hold of that," whispered Crene, and a yoke of oxen could not have drawn it from me. "You are sure you had it marked for Fontdale," says Mr. Baggage-master. I hold the impracticable check before his eyes in silence. "Yes, well, it must have gone on to Albany." "But it went away on that track," says Crene. "Couldn't have gone on that track.
My veil is gone, my ample, historic, heroic veil. There is a woman in Fontdale who breathes air filtered through I will not say stolen tissue, but certainly through tissue which was obtained without rendering its owner any fair equivalent. Does not every breeze that softly stirs its fluttering folds say to her, "O friend, this veil is not yours, not yours," and still sighingly, "not yours!
But with the frightful and not remote possibility of bringing up in a crash and being buried under a general huddle, one prefers daylight. You may not be able to get out of the huddle even by daylight; but you will at least know where you are, if there is anything of you left. So at Fontdale Halicarnassus branches off temporarily on a business errand, and I stop for the night a-cousining.
We stopped at Fontdale a-cousining. I have a veil, a beautiful HAVE, did I say? Alas! Troy WAS. But I must not anticipate a beautiful veil of brown tissue, none of your woolleny, gruff fabrics, fit only for penance, but a silken, gossamery cloud, soft as a baby's cheek. Yet everybody fleers at it. Everybody has a joke about it.
Boston is called the Athens of America. Its men are solid. Its women wear their bonnets to bed, their nightcaps to breakfast, and talk Greek at dinner. I spent two hours and a half in Boston, and I know. We had a royal progress from Boston to Fontdale. Summer lay on the shining hills and scattered benedictions. Plenty smiled up from a thousand fertile fields.
But, alas! few people understand the art of living. They strive after system, wholeness, buttons, and neglect the weightier matters of the higher law. I wonder how I got here, or how I am to get back again. I started for Fontdale, and I find myself in a mending-basket. As I know no good in tracing the same road back, we may as well strike a bee-line and begin new at Fontdale.
Boston is called the Athens of America. Its men are solid. Its women wear their bonnets to bed, their nightcaps to breakfast, and talk Greek at dinner. I spent two hours and half in Boston, and I know. We had a royal progress from Boston to Fontdale. Summer lay on the shining hills, and scattered benedictions. Plenty smiled up from a thousand fertile fields.
We stopped at Fontdale a-cousining. I have a veil, a beautiful have, did I say? Alas! Troy was. But I must not anticipate a beautiful veil of brown tissue, none of your woolleny, gruff fabrics, fit only for penance, but a silken gossamery cloud, soft as a baby's check. Yet everybody fleers at it. Everybody has a joke about it.
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