Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me--“Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.”
“Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”
Dismayed now, in her turn, aunt put in numberless disclaimers, which amounted to this--Why, she has heard, to be sure, that he does sometimes write very pretty poetry, and that some of it comes out in the “Tribune;” that, in fact, she has seen one piece with her own eyes--Paulina had it, she cut it out of the Tribune. But, for all that, he has as much energy and manliness as those have who never touch a pen but in keeping their accounts. She wouldn’t have me think, for a thousand worlds, that he is an effeminate, moon-struck young man. She hopes he will come up: she has no doubt he will while I am here, and then I shall see with my own eyes!
Yes, then I shall see, Edith mine, and then you shall hear about it. One thing troubles me--I fear aunt will be bumping our heads together every five minutes, in the way of making us like each other; that is, if he comes, as I presume he will by some device of aunt’s. If she does manœuvre in a way the least bit gross, I foresee--that I can live through it, to be sure, as one can live through every sort of vexation and grievance if one will. But I shall be very still, and very tall; and, moreover, so repulsive in various ways, that he will be propelled with something of a shock to the far corners of the room, as often as he meditates approach to me.
You should see how I thrive. The hardiest imp out at the red school-house on the corner, who does not once cease to turn sommersets, snow-ball, make pyramids and snow-images, and beat the snow from his iron-like boots, is hardly stronger, browner, hungrier than I am. For you see, I ride out often with uncle and aunt to call on substantial families, where are warm fires in two or three rooms, where great red and green apples and snapped-corn go round, if we can stay no more than fifteen minutes, and where, at any rate, a few lively jokes fly right and left, and a few earnest, friendly things are spoken, and promises of an early “visit” interchanged. We meet other sleighs, we pass them; they pass us, like lightning, with young village gents in them, and I am ready to go over the moon at the sound of the merry bells. Kate and I go up hill and down, let the weather be as it will. Yesterday, as if we were one feature of the storm, we went on and on, chasing the snow-clouds that were trooping over the fields and roads, and the snow-clouds that were trooping, chasing us. This morning it was still and splendid for a feathery hoar-frost clung to every branch and spray, and glittered in the early sun. It was stinging cold, as aunt forwarned me, the air “cut like a knife.” But I liked it--I felt it invigorate me every moment and prepare me for the rest of the day--for the rest of life; for I see it plainer and plainer, that every wholesome pleasure, and every wholesome sorrow, not the less, is such a preparation. Therefore, welcome all experiences, I will accept them as the loving child of Him who metes them out.