If in
the later, summer months you find the grass marked with footsteps around
that grave on Copp's Hill I told you of, and flowers scattered over it,
you may be sure that Iris is here on her annual visit to the home of her
childhood and that excellent lady whose only fault was, that Nature had
written out her list of virtues an ruled paper, and forgotten to rub out
the lines.
One thing more I must mention. Being on the Common, last Sunday, I was
attracted by the cheerful spectacle of a well-dressed and somewhat
youthful papa wheeling a very elegant little carriage containing a stout
baby. A buxom young lady watched them from one of the stone seats, with
an interest which could be nothing less than maternal. I at once
recognized my old friend, the young fellow whom we called John. He was
delighted to see me, introduced me to "Madam," and would have the lusty
infant out of the carriage, and hold him up for me to look at.
Now, then,--he said to the two-year-old,--show the gentleman how you hit
from the shoulder.
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