A soft wind blows upon us as we stand, listening and looking. Cuba and
the Tropics are in the air. The drowsy tune of a hand-organ rises
from the square, and Italy comes singing in upon the sound. My
triumphant eyes meet Prue's. They are full of sweetness and spring.
"What do you think of the summer-wardrobe now?" I ask, and we go down
to breakfast.
But the air has magic in it, and I do not cease to dream. If I meet
Charles, who is bound for Alabama, or John, who sails for Savannah,
with a trunk full of white jackets, I do not say to them, as their
other friends say,--
"Happy travellers, who cut March and April out of the dismal year!"
I do not envy them. They will be sea-sick on the way. The southern
winds will blow all the water out of the rivers, and, desolately
stranded upon mud, they will relieve the tedium of the interval by
tying with large ropes a young gentleman raving with delirium
tremens. They will hurry along, appalled by forests blazing in the
windy night; and, housed in a bad inn, they will find themselves
anxiously asking, "Are the cars punctual in leaving?"--grimly sure
that impatient travellers find all conveyances too slow.
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