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WITHOUT PICTURES.
107
TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING.
It was yesterday, in the morning twilight,—these were the Moon’s own words,—not a chimney was yet smoking in the whole city, and it was precisely the chimneys that I was looking at. From one of these chimneys at that very moment came forth a little head, and then a half body, the arms of which rested on the coping stone of the chimney. “Hurrah!” It was a little chimney-sweeper lad, who, for the first time in his life, had mounted a chimney, and had thus put forth his head. “Hurrah!” Yes, there was some difference between this and creeping upwards in the narrow chimney! The air blew so fresh; he could look out over the whole city to the green wood. The sun had just risen;
