when the coach was a chaise and Gilpin John, on frantic steed, vainly tried to follow.
My young reader, do you know anything about the Providence hill-side streets?
If you do, you will not wonder that Bear winced, Charlotte “oh, oh’d,” the Monkeys screamed, and Artie’s “Pshaw! don’t be foolish,” from the coachman’s box, had a little bit of a quaver in it.
Poor old Roger Williams! your weary spirit is at rest! There’s no more up-hill work for you, but in the steep hill-sides your descendants must daily climb, they may find fitting emblem of your life-work here below.
It was a great relief to Charlotte and her bairns, to see the horses’ heads turned into the pleasant, level Prospect street, with its veteran college buildings, so severely respectable and yet so very shabby, which arrested Artie’s attention, and prompted him to call out:
“Papa, what sort of a manufactory is this one on our right?”
“For making brains, my boy.”
“But where, sir, is the engine kept?”
Papa points with his whip toward a pretty house on the corner.
“But I see no smoke.”