I Have Told
How I Was There In The Sleighing Time, And How Pleasant Were The
Mingled Slush And Frost Of The Snowy Winter.
In the morning the
streets would be hard and crisp and the stranger would surely fall
if he were not prepared to walk on glaciers.
In the afternoon he
would be wading through rivers, and, if properly armed at all points
with India-rubber, would enjoy the rivers as he waded. But the air
would be always kindly, and the east wind there, if it was east as I
was told, had none of that power of dominion which makes us all so
submissive to its behests in London. For myself, I do not believe
that the real east wind blows elsewhere.
And when the snow went in Boston I went with it. The evening before
I left I watched them as they carted away the dirty uncouth blocks
which had been broken up with pickaxes in Washington Street, and was
melancholy as I reflected that I too should no longer be known in
the streets. My weeks in Boston had not been very many, but
nevertheless there were haunts there which I knew as though my feet
had trodden them for years. There were houses to which I could have
gone with my eyes blindfold; doors of which the latches were
familiar to my hands; faces which I knew so well that they had
ceased to put on for me the fictitious smiles of courtesy.
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