/IDs Minter 0ar5en 



times, a straggling line of bellying sails 

 drawing away with the stately grace of 

 wild fowl, each smack trailing behind it a 

 tow-line at the end of which bobs a dark 

 little boat wherefrom the oystermen will 

 let down their tongs to grapple the shells 

 in the muddy sea-floor. A twinge of 

 chilliness, a nipping edge on the air, sug- 

 gests frost; but there is none. All this 

 shivering does no more than brace one's 

 appetite for breakfast — that fragrant 

 morning function of our fat black cook, 

 who speaks gumbo French, and brews a 

 coffee delightful beyond praise. If you 

 are educated to the altitude of taste which 

 brooks a Bordelais steak piping hot and 

 overtopped with onion, garlic, red pepper, 

 and bacon-drip, move lively when the bell 

 rings, or you may have but a savory and 

 fragrant bone to pick for your share, 

 which would be a notable loss in our 

 climate, where trencher delights seem more 

 vivid than in colder surroundings. 



Speaking of mensal attractions, a part 

 of our garden, lying far in the rear, is 

 given over to an Italian master who knows 

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