denly draws back, steps again, and draws back: then with long leaps gains the shelter of the kitchen-threshold, and applies her soothing lips, to her maltreated paws.
But what exultation among the boys, who rushing from school discover it. How it clings with a humid tenacity to their caps and shoulders, for the careful mother to brush off, when they reach home. With what zeal they gather it in their hands, the merry urchins. How eagerly they anticipate their winter-sports, which suit so well the quick flowing blood of the young. Often have I watched the bright-browed throngs of Boston boys, gliding with swift sled over their noble Common, and rejoiced in their joy, and blessed the wisdom of those law-givers, who protect the happiness of children.
Wednesday, November 29th.
The beautiful Indian-summer, which our poor aborigines used to call "the smile of the Great Spirit," hath been among us. With its elastic breath, it quickened all the springs of life. Between the storms, it stole hither, touching the faded leaf with its early hues, and the skies with their cloudless azure, rekindling the scarlet of the woodbine and hardy rose, and whimpering to our hearts of the cheerful patience that should arm them for winter's adversity. It wrapped the distant landscape in soft mists, like a dream of Paradise. Then, foreseeing the evil time, it vanished, while