You put
your hands in your pockets, and look out upon the tossing sea.
It is a fine sight--very fine. There are few finer bays in the world
than New York Bay,--either to look at, or, for that matter, to sleep in.
The ships ride up thickly, dashing about the cold spray delightfully;
the little cutters gleam in the November sunshine like white flowers
shivering in the wind.
The sky is rich--all mottled with cold, gray streaks of cloud. The old
apple-women, with their noses frostbitten, look cheerful and blue. The
ragged immigrants, in short trousers and bell-crowned hats, stalk about
with a very happy expression, and very short-stemmed pipes; their
yellow-haired babies look comfortably red and glowing. And the trees
with their scant, pinched foliage have a charming, summer-like effect!
Amid it all the thoughts of the boudoir, and harpsichord, and
goldfinches, and Axminster carpets, and sunshine, and Laura, are so
very, very pleasant! How delighted you would be to see her married to
the stout man in the red cravat, who gave her bouquets, and strolled
with her on the deck of the steamer upon the St. Lawrence! What a
jaunty, self-satisfied air he wore; and with what considerate
forbearance he treated you--calling you once or twice Master Clarence!
It never occurred to you before, how much you must be indebted to that
pleasant, stout man.
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