The Fortunes of Oliver HornSmith, Francis Hopkinson
General
The Fortunes of Oliver Horn
Smith, Francis Hopkinson
Baltimore (Md.) -- Fiction; Bildungsromans; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Painters -- Fiction; Young men -- Fiction
The music ceased; Nathan laid his flute on the piano; Unger rose from
his seat, and Richard turned to talk to Miss Clendenning. But she was
unmindful of it all--she still sat in her chair, her eyes searching the
blazing logs, her hands in her lap.
Only Malachi with his silver tray recalled her to consciousness.
CHAPTER III
THE OPEN-AIR DRAWING-ROOMS OF KENNIDY SQUARE
If in the long summer days Kennedy Square was haunted by the idle and
the weary, in the cool summer nights its dimly lighted paths were alive
with the tread of flying feet, and its shadowy benches gay with the
music of laughter and merry greetings.
With the going down of the sun, the sidewalks were sprinkled, and the
whole street about the Square watered from curb to curb, to cool its
sun-baked cobbles. The doors and windows of all the houses were thrown
wide to welcome the fresh night-air, laden with the perfume of
magnolia, jasmine, and sweet-smelling box. Easy-chairs and cushions
were brought out and placed on the clean steps of the porches, and the
wide piazzas covered with squares of china-matting to make ready for
the guests of the evening.
These guests would begin to gather as soon as the twilight settled; the
young girls in their pretty muslin frocks and ribbons, the young men in
white duck suits and straw hats. They thronged the cool, well-swept
paths, chattered in bunches under the big trees, or settled like birds
on the stone seats and benches. Every few minutes some new group, fresh
from their tea-tables, would emerge from one of the houses, poise like
a flock of pigeons on the top step, listen to the guiding sound of the
distant laughter, and then swoop down in mad frolic, settling in the
midst of the main covey, under the big sycamores until roused at the
signal of some male bird in a straw hat, or in answer to the call of
some bare-headed songstress from across the Square, the whole covey
would dash out one of the rickety gates, only to alight again on the
stone steps of a neighbor's porch, where their chatter and pipings
would last far into the night.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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