The Ebony Box
Early in June, in the spring of 1855, it chanced that while enjoying my customary ride along the eastern shore of Manhattan, in the vicinity of the ferry of Astoria, I turned off through a narrow lane to the left, and came near to a cottage house, standing midway in front of a well-cultivated garden. There were indications of wealth, or at least of competency, about the place, and an air of neatness and elegance which pleased my fancy, prone as it is to look always at the prosperous, the happy, and the fair. My horse, a livery saddle hack, was struck with equal admiration at the greenness of the grass and herbage within the inclosure, and insisted upon looking at it over the paling. The house of wood, painted of a delicate cream color, with white cornices and window-frames, was neatly covered in some parts with sweetbrier, and the white climbing-rose of our grandparents, now so rarely seen.
The green blinds of the windows were open on the eastern side, and at one of these two heads of flaxen-haired children, with pippin cheeks and roguish eyes, attracted me. They leaned too far out of the window, and the mother had just caught each rather roughly behind; as she drew them back, our eyes met, and I recognized the beautiful face of… Read More