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The girls were as light as soap-bubbles; even stout Miss Trampel, the baker's daughter, and the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musiëlak, the stationmaster's daughter, danced like feathers; still, they were not in very much request.
Considering the fatal truth of that, is it any wonder that, on contemplateing the events that folowed, I am ready to cry, with the great poet Hood: 1835-1874: whose numerous works we studied during the spring term: Alas, I have walked through life To heedless where I trod; Nay, helping to trampel my fellow worm, And fill the burial sod.
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