_Wetherbee._ Oh, there is nothing mean About your early friend. That deer and autumn scene Were kind of you! And, say, I think you like Afternoon teas when good. I have chanced to strike Some of the best of late, where people said They had sent you cards, but thought you must be dead. I told them I left you down there by the sea, And then they sort of looked askance at me, As if it were a joke, and bade me get Myself some bouillon or some chocolate, And turned the subject--did not even give Me time to prove it is not life to live In town as long as you can keep from freezing Beside the autumn sea. A little sneezing, At Clamhurst Shortsands, since the frosts set in? _Morrison._ Well, not enough to make a true friend grin. Slight colds, mere nothings. With our open fires We've all the warmth and cheer that heart desires. Next year we'll have a furnace in, and stay Not till Thanksgiving, but till Christmas Day. It's glorious in these roomy autumn nights To sit between the firelight and the lights Of our big lamps, and read aloud by turns As long as kerosene or hickory burns. We hate to go to bed. _Wetherbee._ Of course you do! And hate to get up in the morning, too-- To pull the coverlet from your frost-bit nose, And touch the glary matting with your toes! Are you beginning yet to break the ice In your wash-pitchers? No? Well, that is nice. I always hate to do it--seems as if Summer was going; but when your hand is stiff With cold, it can be done. Still, I prefer To wash and dress beside my register, When summer gets a little on, like this. But some folks find the other thing pure bliss-- Lusty young chaps, like you. _Morrison._ And some folks find A sizzling radiator to their mind. What else have you, there, you could recommend To the attention of a country friend? _Wetherbee._ Well, you know how it is in Madison Square, Late afternoons, now, if the day's been fair-- How all the western sidewalk ebbs and flows With pretty women in their pretty clo'es: I've never seen them prettier than this year. Of course, I know a dear is not a deer, But still, I think that if I had to meet One or the other in the road, or street, All by myself, I am not sure but that I'd choose the dear that wears the fetching hat. _Morrison._ Get out! What else? _Wetherbee._ Well, it is not so bad, If you are feeling a little down, or sad, To walk along Fifth Avenue to the Park, When the day thinks perhaps of getting dark, And meet that mighty flood of vehicles Laden with all the different kinds of swells, Homing to dinner, in their carriages-- Victorias, landaus, chariots, coupés-- There's nothing like it to lift up the heart And make you realize yourself a part, Sure, of the greatest show on earth.