her mind.
âHowever that may be, here is the tale. The sequel to it is that the bay mare has really gone to board at a first-class stable,â concluded Miss Belinda. âI call occasionally and leave my card in the shape of an apple, finding Madam Rosa living like an independent lady, her large box and private yard on the sunny side of the barn, a kind ostler to wait upon her, and much genteel society from the city when she is inclined for company.
âWhat more could any reasonable horse desire?â
Mrs. Podgersâ Teapot
âA H, DEAR ME, DEAR ME; IâM A DEAL TOO comfortable!â Judging from appearances, Mrs. Podgers certainly had some cause for that unusual exclamation. To begin with, the room was comfortable. It was tidy, bright, and warmâfull of cozy corners and capital contrivances for quiet enjoyment. The chairs seemed to extend their plump arms invitingly; the old-fashioned sofa was so hospitable that whoever sat down upon it was slow to get up; the pictures, though portraits, did not stare one out of countenance but surveyed the scene with an air of tranquil enjoyment; and the unshuttered windows allowed the cheery light to shine out into the snowy street through blooming screens of Christmas roses and white chrysanthemums.
The fire was comfortable; for it was neither hidden in a stove nor imprisoned behind bars, but went rollicking up the wide chimney with a jovial roar. It flickered over the supper table as if curious to discover what savory foods were concealed under the shining covers. It touched up the old portraits till they seemed to wink; it covered the walls with comical shadows, as if the portly chairs had set their arms akimbo and were dancing a jig. The fire flashed out into the street with a voiceless greeting to every passerby; it kindled mimic fires in the brass andirons and the teapot simmering on the hob, and best of all, it shone its brightest on Mrs. Podgers, as if conscious that it couldnât do a better thing.
Mrs. Podgers was comfortable as she sat there, buxom, blooming, and brisk, in spite of her forty years and her widowâs cap. Her black gown was illuminated to such an extent that it couldnât look sombre. Her cap had given up trying to be prim long ago, and cherry ribbons wouldnât have made it more becoming as it set off her crisp, black hair and met in a coquettish bow under her plump chin. Her white apron encircled her trim waist, as if conscious of its advantages, and the mourning pin upon her bosom actually seemed to twinkle with satisfaction at the enviable post it occupied.
The sleek cat, purring on the hearth, was comfortable; so was the agreeable fragrance of muffins that pervaded the air, so was the drowsy tick of the clock in the corner. And if anything was needed to give a finishing touch to the general comfort of the scene, the figure pausing in the doorway supplied the want most successfully.
Heroes are always expected to be young and comely, also fierce, melancholy, or at least what novel readers call âinterestingâ; but I am forced to own that Mrs. Podger was none of these. Half the real beauty, virtue, and romance of the world gets put into humble souls, hidden in plain bodies. Mr. Jerusalem Turner was an example of this; and, at the risk of shocking sentimental readers, I must frankly state that he was fifty, stout, and bald, also that he used bad grammar, had a double chin, and was only the clerk in a prosperous grocery store. A hale and hearty old gentleman with cheerful brown eyes, a ruddy countenance, and curly gray hair sticking up all round his head, he had an air of energy and independence that was pleasant to behold. There he stood, beaming upon the unconscious Mrs. Podgers, softly rubbing his hands and smiling to himself with the air of a man enjoying the chief satisfaction of his life, as he was.
âAh, dear me, dear me, Iâm a deal too comfortable!â sighed Mrs. Podgers, addressing the
âHowever that may be, here is the tale. The sequel to it is that the bay mare has really gone to board at a first-class stable,â concluded Miss Belinda. âI call occasionally and leave my card in the shape of an apple, finding Madam Rosa living like an independent lady, her large box and private yard on the sunny side of the barn, a kind ostler to wait upon her, and much genteel society from the city when she is inclined for company.
âWhat more could any reasonable horse desire?â
Mrs. Podgersâ Teapot
âA H, DEAR ME, DEAR ME; IâM A DEAL TOO comfortable!â Judging from appearances, Mrs. Podgers certainly had some cause for that unusual exclamation. To begin with, the room was comfortable. It was tidy, bright, and warmâfull of cozy corners and capital contrivances for quiet enjoyment. The chairs seemed to extend their plump arms invitingly; the old-fashioned sofa was so hospitable that whoever sat down upon it was slow to get up; the pictures, though portraits, did not stare one out of countenance but surveyed the scene with an air of tranquil enjoyment; and the unshuttered windows allowed the cheery light to shine out into the snowy street through blooming screens of Christmas roses and white chrysanthemums.
The fire was comfortable; for it was neither hidden in a stove nor imprisoned behind bars, but went rollicking up the wide chimney with a jovial roar. It flickered over the supper table as if curious to discover what savory foods were concealed under the shining covers. It touched up the old portraits till they seemed to wink; it covered the walls with comical shadows, as if the portly chairs had set their arms akimbo and were dancing a jig. The fire flashed out into the street with a voiceless greeting to every passerby; it kindled mimic fires in the brass andirons and the teapot simmering on the hob, and best of all, it shone its brightest on Mrs. Podgers, as if conscious that it couldnât do a better thing.
Mrs. Podgers was comfortable as she sat there, buxom, blooming, and brisk, in spite of her forty years and her widowâs cap. Her black gown was illuminated to such an extent that it couldnât look sombre. Her cap had given up trying to be prim long ago, and cherry ribbons wouldnât have made it more becoming as it set off her crisp, black hair and met in a coquettish bow under her plump chin. Her white apron encircled her trim waist, as if conscious of its advantages, and the mourning pin upon her bosom actually seemed to twinkle with satisfaction at the enviable post it occupied.
The sleek cat, purring on the hearth, was comfortable; so was the agreeable fragrance of muffins that pervaded the air, so was the drowsy tick of the clock in the corner. And if anything was needed to give a finishing touch to the general comfort of the scene, the figure pausing in the doorway supplied the want most successfully.
Heroes are always expected to be young and comely, also fierce, melancholy, or at least what novel readers call âinterestingâ; but I am forced to own that Mrs. Podger was none of these. Half the real beauty, virtue, and romance of the world gets put into humble souls, hidden in plain bodies. Mr. Jerusalem Turner was an example of this; and, at the risk of shocking sentimental readers, I must frankly state that he was fifty, stout, and bald, also that he used bad grammar, had a double chin, and was only the clerk in a prosperous grocery store. A hale and hearty old gentleman with cheerful brown eyes, a ruddy countenance, and curly gray hair sticking up all round his head, he had an air of energy and independence that was pleasant to behold. There he stood, beaming upon the unconscious Mrs. Podgers, softly rubbing his hands and smiling to himself with the air of a man enjoying the chief satisfaction of his life, as he was.
âAh, dear me, dear me, Iâm a deal too comfortable!â sighed Mrs. Podgers, addressing the
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