“Now, there’s that draft from the hall-window. John, you’ll have to shut the door.”
John shut it, and read on.
“Oh, dear me!” said Lillie, throwing herself down with a portentous yawn. “I do think this is dreadful!”
“What is dreadful?” said John, looking up.
“It is dreadful to be buried alive here in this gloomy town of Springdale, where there is nothing to see, and nowhere to go, and nothing going on.”
“We have always flattered ourselves that Springdale was a most attractive place,” said John. “I don’t know of any place where there are more beautiful walks and rambles.”
“But I detest walking in the country. What is there to see? And you get your shoes muddy, and burrs on your clothes, and don’t meet a creature! I got so tired the other day when Grace and Rose Ferguson would drag me off to what they call ‘the glen.’ They kept oh-ing and ah-ing and exclaiming to each other about some stupid thing every step of the way,—old pokey nutgalls, bare twigs of trees, and red and yellow leaves, and ferns! I do wish you could have seen the armful of trash that those two girls carried into their respective houses. I would not have such stuff in mine for any thing. I am tired of all this talk about Nature. I am free to confess that I don’t like Nature, and do like art; and I wish we only lived in New York, where there is something to amuse one.”
“But I detest walking in the country.”
“Well, Lillie dear, I am sorry; but we don’t live in New York, and are not likely to,” said John.