Every Morning Bore Testimony To The Ravages Of The Preceding Night In
Cabbages Of All Ages And Conditions, From The Tender Sprout To The
Full-Grown Head, Piteously Rooted From Their Quiet Beds Like Worthless
Weeds, And Left To Wither In The Sunshine.
It was in vain Wolfert's
wife remonstrated; it was in vain his darling daughter wept over the
destruction of some favorite marygold.
"Thou shalt have gold of another
guess-sort," he would cry, chucking her under the chin; "thou shalt
have a string of crooked ducats for thy wedding-necklace, my child."
His family began really to fear that the poor man's wits were diseased.
He muttered in his sleep at night of mines of wealth, of pearls and
diamonds and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody and abstracted,
and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber held frequent councils
with all the old women of the neighborhood, not omitting the parish
dominie; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them might be seen
wagging their white caps together round her door, while the poor woman
made some piteous recital. The daughter, too, was fain to seek for more
frequent consolation from the stolen interviews of her favored swain,
Dirk Waldron. The delectable little Dutch songs with which she used to
dulcify the house grew less and less frequent, and she would forget her
sewing and look wistfully in her father's face as he sat pondering by
the fireside.
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