So Puppet and the guitar live with John and the gray-haired lady.
Mary B. Harris.
“Mike rolled over and over to the foot of the steps.” See p. [169].
MERRY CHRISTMAS.
ALL the hill-side was green with maples, and birches, and pines. The meadows at its foot were green, too, with the tufted salt grass, and glittering with the silver threads of tide braided among its winding creeks. Beyond was the city, misty and gray, stretching its wan arms to the phantom ships flitting along the horizon.
From the green hill-side you could hear the city’s muffled hum and roar, and sometimes the far-off clanging of the bells from its hundred belfries. But the maples and birches seemed to hear and see nothing beyond the sunshine over their heads and the winds which went frolicking by. Life was one long dance with them, through the budding spring and the leafy summer, and on through the grand gala days of autumn, till the frost came down on the hills, and whispered,—
“Your dancing days are all over.”