"Why, Phœmie," says Cousin Dempster, "don't get so excited; do you know that you are talking like a book?"
"It must be an English book if any American takes much notice of it," says I; "but rile me up on this subject, and I don't know or care how I talk. In our part of the country we are Americans to the backbone, and we mean to keep so."
"Well, but this statue of Shakespeare was first thought of by the actors who have been living over his plays years and years—Booth, Wallack, Wheatley, and your dead and gone Halleck, set it a-going.
"What Shakespeare did for theatres, theatre people know how to acknowledge. They have some spirit; but what author ever comes forward and asks a place for his fellow-author? How can they expect the country to be generous to them when they do nothing for each other?"
It kind of took me down when Cousin Dempster said this, and not having anything to observe, I said nothing, but got right up, and says I:
"If we mean to start for New York, it's time to be getting ready."
LXV.
THE STATUE OF SHAKESPEARE.
WELL, sisters, we got to New York in time, and went right up to Central Park, which was just one garden of flowers, all in full bloom. The trees, too, were of a bright, lovely green, and the little lakes blue as a baby's eye, sparkled and rippled wherever the sun shone and the wind swept over them. A wide green circle, with lots of trees shading it, and great heaps of bushes heavy with pink and white flowers everywhere around it, was just alive with men and women. They were all in their Sunday go-to-meeting best, some on the grass, some in carriages, and all chatting, laughing, and enjoying themselves mightily, but crowding toward one spot.