My wife is tying on her cap at the glass, and, not quite disentangled
from her dreams, thinks I am speaking of a street-brawl, and replies
that I had better take care of my own head.
"Since you have charge of my heart, I suppose," I answer gaily,
turning round to make her one of Titbottom's bows.
"But seriously, Prue, how is it about my summer wardrobe?"
Prue smiles, and tells me we shall have two months of winter yet, and
I had better stop and order some more coal as I go down town.
"Winter--coal!"
Then I step back, and taking her by the arm, lead her to the window. I
throw it open even wider than before. The sunlight streams on the
great church-towers opposite, and the trees in the neighboring square
glisten, and wave their boughs gently, as if they would burst into
leaf before dinner. Cages are hung at the open chamber-windows in the
street, and the birds, touched into song by the sun, make Memnon
true. Prue's purple and white hyacinths are in full blossom, and
perfume the warm air, so that the canaries and the mocking birds are
no longer aliens in the city streets, but are once more swinging in
their spicy native groves.
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