“Pray, let me off to smell the smell of the New York breeze!” I exclaimed.
When I was stationed on the third floor of an edifice on Riverside Drive—what a brisk name in the world!—which was Mr. Consul’s home, my bubbling fancies hastened down with the waters of the Hudson River under my window.
Hudson River?
It is my dear old acquaintance, introduced by the ever so pleasing Mr. Irving.
See its classical profundity before my face!
Where’s “Sleepy Hollow,” I wonder!
The spectacle of the river reminded me of the Sumida Gawa of Tokio, mirroring the clouds of affectionate cherry blossoms which border its bank. It would be a remarkable idea, I thought, to petition the Mayor of New York for the Japanese cherry-trees to parade on this side of the Hudson. When they are in flower, I will open a tea-house under them, of course. My attire as a mistress should be a little red crape apron to begin with. My head will be wound with a Japanese towel to endow my Oriental eyes with certain better results. I will raise my voice, calling, “Honourable rest! Honourable tea plucked by the choicest musumes!” What a novel!
Romance!
How can I live without it!
In that case I must entreat the removal of the characters on the other side, which are: