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quiring look. Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a profound silence. "My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?" "Eighteen, _ma mere_ says." "Who's _mommer_, pray?" "Mother." "Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your pronunciation--but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life without making love to some lady." Verty looked bewildered, but smiled. Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his companion;--he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty, in vain. At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said, mysteriously: "Do you see me?" "Yes," replied Verty. "Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six." Verty looked interested. "At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my addresses--yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,' namely,--once, at least, a year." Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow. "I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods." And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street. He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face. Verty gazed up into the sky and mused--the full sunlight of the bright October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements. By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds, ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;--and passing perforce of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer. Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often, while gazi
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