“It’s impressively warm here.”
“Kick the clo’es off, then.”
There was a refreshing briskness in the tones that went straight to Ef May’s heart and she “took to” the stranger on the spot.
“Who is that old gentleman with such a big tassel in his night-cap?”
The little girl rubbed her eyes and looked in the direction indicated.
“Oh, that’s old Dr. Opiamus. He gives all the babies paragoric, and the old folks laudanum, so that they can die and not know it.”
Ef May shuddered. There was something in the idea that even to her childish fancy was horrible.
“Don’t you want another blanket?” asked her new friend; but Ef May shook her head.
“I hear some music?” she exclaimed, and just then began the funniest medley of sound that was ever heard:
First, a low, soft, half-frightened strain as of some wandering night-bird calling to his mate to set her glow-worm lamp in the window to light him home; then the quick, cheery note of the cricket chimed in; the owl’s solemn “too-whit! too-whit! too-whoo!” broke in at stately intervals; and the “rain-call” of the loon burst forth like a wild, weird laugh in the midst of the softer sounds, until the dancers, who had tried in vain to keep time with the strange music, faltered, hesitated, and at last stopped entirely, and dropped off to sleep upon the couches and easy chairs with which the rooms were filled, to a low, monotonous march that sounded exactly like the patter of raindrops upon the roof.