The summer days are coming,
The glorious summer hours,
When Nature decks her gorgeous robe
With sunbeams and with flowers;
And gathers all her choristers
In plumage bright and gay,
Till every vale is echoing with
Their joyous roundelay.
No more shall frosty winter
Hold in its cold embrace
The water; but the river
Shall join again the race;
And down the mountain’s valley,
And o’er its rocky side,
The glistening streams shall rush and leap
In all their bounding pride.
There’s pleasure in the winter,
When o’er the frozen snow
With faithful friend and noble steed
Right merrily we go!
But give to me the summer,
The pleasant summer days,
When blooming flowers and sparkling streams
Enliven all our ways.
Sansecrat is one of that class of persons who think they know everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will interrupt you by saying that he knows it all,—that he was on the spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was an eye-witness.
Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, is sadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of the former is caused by the great lack of the latter.
Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven.
My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just finished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a few pages of manuscript, when he entered.
“News!” said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be seated.
The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me.
“Have you heard the news?” was the first interrogatory of my friend Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half an hour previous,—was at the railroad station when the express arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers.
In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that he had the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proof of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and-sixpence.