A WINTER TRIP TO TRENTON FALLS.
IN THREE SCENES.
SCENE FIRST.
Morning; eight on the clock. Billing’s Hotel, Trenton. Outside, a clear bright sun glancing down through an atmosphere sparkling with frost, upon as fine a road for a sleigh-ride as ever tempted green-mountain boys and girls for a moonlight flit. Inside, a well-furnished breakfast-table, beef-steak, coffee, toast, etc., etc. On the one side of it your correspondent; serious, as if he considered breakfast a thing to be attended to. He is somewhat, as the lady on the other side of the table says, somewhat in the ‘sear leaf,’ by which name indeed she is pleased to call him; but there is enough of spring in her, to suffice for all deficiencies in him. Like the morning, she is a little icy, but sunshiny, sparkling, exhilarating, thoughtful, youthful—and decided. She takes no marked interest in the breakfast.
‘Sear leaf!’ Madam, say on.
‘I wish to go to the Falls.’
‘To what!’
‘To the Falls—to Trenton Falls.’
He drops his knife and fork. ‘Whew! what! in winter?—in the snow?—on the ice?’